The high-priest took his place in front of the altar; he was as pale as death. Raising his hands, he spoke in a deep voice, audible in every corner:
“Jupiter, the merciful and mighty one! Save and defend this city, that thou hast made great!”
“Defend this city, that thou hast made great!” echoed from the chorus; and Quintus too moved his lips in a faint whisper.
“Blast the foes of the Roman name with the lightnings of thy wrath!” Titus Claudius went on, and again the choir repeated the words.
“More especially destroy all reprobates and traitors, who hoist the standard of superstition and plot the ruin of society. Crush the foul brood of rebellious Nazarenes!”
“No—a thousand times no!” shouted a voice of thunder, that echoed from the stone walls. “Tear me in pieces, but spare me so base a lie!”
Titus Claudius staggered; he had to support himself by clinging to the altar.
“My son, my son, what have you done?” he muttered in a husky voice.
“What I had to do,” cried Quintus vehemently. “Lead me back to my cell, kill me—I die a Nazarene!”
An unexampled tumult arose on this unexpected incident. Titus Claudius, with a faint scream, sank senseless into the arms of a temple-servant. The mob, who took up the young man’s words as a note of defiance, forgot all the respect due to the sanctuary, and pressed forward, shouting for prompt vengeance. Indeed any faith in the doctrines of the State religion survived in very few, it was Roman arrogance, which had taken the place of the old Roman pride, which demanded its rights. The crime, that Quintus had now committed, was contempt of the majesty of the people, an insult to the Roman name—a crime a thousand times more unpardonable than the folly of those poor wretches, who gathered in a catacomb to worship in secret round the cross. Norbanus tried in vain to restore order; even his nearest allies seemed paralyzed and helpless.