“Try to get leave.” The gaoler looked doubtful; the young man’s calm, urgent manner, and his evident high breeding, impressed him greatly.
“I will see what can be done,” he said, hesitatingly. “Take patience till this evening.”
“Till this evening!” cried Quintus, in despair. “Miserable man, do you not understand that you are killing him. Every instant is precious, and you say: till this evening.”
He had hardly ceased speaking, when they heard steps outside the dungeon door. The gaoler rushed out, and Quintus heard the murmur of voices coming nearer and nearer. Suddenly his heart stood still.
“Many thanks,” he heard just outside. “Leave me alone now, worthy Haemon; you know me well enough to feel sure that you run no risk, in admitting me without a witness.”
Quintus gazed anxiously at the door. It was his father’s voice. In an instant the door opened, and Titus Claudius stood before him.
For a long time neither could utter a word; they stood looking at each other as pale and silent as the dead. Their lips quivered, but this was the only outward sign of their cruel suffering. But they understood each other; each was struggling for such composure as might enable him to speak. It was the father, who first succeeded; but it was in a hollow, forced voice that he said, as he clenched his hands convulsively: “It is here—here—that we meet!”
The words conveyed such deep and unspeakable anguish, that Quintus shuddered from head to foot.
“Father ...” he began, and then he broke into sobs. He turned his face to the wall in despair, and pressed his cheek against the cold stone as though entreating its pity.
“Quintus,” the priest went on—and his voice was as gentle and mild as a child’s, “is it true, that you spent the night in the catacomb with the Nazarenes?”