The high-priest looked at the ground in silence. Certainly, if Cornelia persisted in her madness, Caesar was right. “Well, my lord,” he began in a low, hoarse voice, “I confess that I had overlooked that contingency. She must, then, remain in confinement till her excited brain has recovered its balance. But one thing yet I would crave of your grace: remove her at least from the dungeon, and let her be kept in ward elsewhere. She is but a tender creature--deal with her as with a sick child, not as with a criminal.” Domitian glanced meaningly at Parthenius, and he spoke with a sugared smile. “Our clemency,” he said, "is never weary of obliging our friends. When so meritorious an official expresses a wish or a request, his sovereign must grant it--if it can possibly be reconciled with his duties and the prosperity of the State. It is well! I will run the risk of being accused of undue partiality, and have the girl held in custody here, in the Palatium, with all the respect due to her. She will hardly feel her imprisonment even as a check upon her freedom; only she must on no consideration quit the apartments I shall assign to her. You see, my worthy friend, how truly Domitian inclines to leniency.[100] Nay more, I will endeavor to mitigate the severity of Quintus' incarceration. Only, do not ask more than I ought to grant." “I thank you,” said Claudius, drawing himself up. “I am glad you consent to be lenient with Cornelia. But, as regards my son--no, my lord; the horrors of imprisonment are my last hope. Solitude, misery, hunger--by these, if at all, his proud spirit may be broken. If this should be the result, if he repents of his errors and does due penance--then indeed I will advance a claim on the mercy of the Ruler of the world.” Caesar dismissed him, and the high-priest, utterly exhausted by the tension of this brief interview, hurried home, and shut himself up in his own study. There was a bitter distrust lurking in his mind, like the after-taste of some nauseous draught. Caesar had, at last, been gracious. And yet--that first impression was ineffaceable. Here, in the privacy of home, he felt all that was wounding in that reception more keenly than at the moment. A strange spasm in his throat seemed to choke him, a dull headache weighed upon his brow, and the blood throbbed in his temples. He had been pacing the room, but suddenly his knees gave way, he dropped into a chair, and all grew dark before his eyes. But presently he staggered to his feet. “I shall be ill,” he said to himself. “Hold up, miserable body! your task is not yet ended! You must not and shall not give way, till the last resources have been tried, and the last hope is dead.” And the mere will of this man of iron was strong enough at this appeal to seem to work a miracle. Titus Claudius was firmer, calmer, and stronger at once, and a draught of icy-cold water completely restored his powers.