Again Clodianus made some remark, in an undertone, to the wrathful sovereign, and once more the herald commanded silence. “I am merciful and kind,” said Caesar. “I am always glad to fulfil the desires of my beloved Romans, so far as it is possible. But here I am bound by duty. The utmost I can grant is a reprieve. For this day the criminal is respited from carrying on the struggle. He may have time to recover himself and collect his strength; then victory may crown his efforts a second and a third time. Then, my faithful Romans, your heart’s desire will be fulfilled, and the object of your sympathy will be free!” A murmur of discontent rose from the disappointed people; however, they felt that any farther insistence would be useless, if not rash. They had not failed to observe that, at the very beginning of the tumult, Domitian had beckoned the commander of the body-guard to his side, and when he was in this frame of mind some violent measures on the Emperor’s part were only too probable.[158] “Good counsel prevails over revenge,” said the voice from the upper circle. The master of the ceremonies hastened to lead Quintus and Cornelia away. The dead lion, which lay with its long blue-black tongue hanging out of its foaming jaws, was dragged off through one of the gates, and the arena hastily strewn with fresh sand. A fight between a little girl of thirteen and a dwarf[159] soon put the incidents of Quintus' struggle out of the heads of the spectators, and by the end of the day, when the whole arena was flooded with water and a magnificent naval fight was performed,[160] few indeed remembered the brave youth and his pale, beautiful companion. Few--but still some did. First of these was Caesar, who swore that he never would consent to save the life of a man, whom Cornelia would follow to death rather than enjoy the favors of Caesar. All the emptiness and nothingness of his existence had come home to his conscience, as he looked on at that life and death fight. He, who was only hated and feared, felt at that moment a wild hunger for love and constancy; but this impulse, in itself so purely human, at once assumed, in his degraded soul, the form of aggravated vindictiveness. Then, there was Domitia. Her hatred, which had long been dying out, broke down altogether under the impression of what she had just witnessed--even her hatred for Cornelia, her happy and envied rival, over whose death in lingering torment the rancorous Empress had so long gloated in fancy. Shortly after the beginning of the naumachia Domitia quitted the amphitheatre and returned to the palace, where her steward met her. “Is my Lady and Mistress content?” he inquired in abject tones. “Content?” repeated Domitia. “And is it any merit of yours if he won the victory in an unequal fight?”