Presently they heard a deep sigh from Titus Claudius, who was sitting up in bed, and gazing at the assembled family with wide and eager eyes. “It is you!” he said, trembling with excitement “You, Quintus, my son, my adored son.” “Father!” was all Quintus could say, and he fell sobbing aloud into those trembling, wasted arms. “Was it delirium?” asked the high-priest, “or is it true? Was it you, Caius Aurelius, who saved my son?” “As you say, my lord,” replied the Batavian. “How did you do it? Did you procure his pardon? Did you succeed, when we had all failed, in touching Caesar’s heart?” “Domitian is dead,” said the Batavian, solemnly. “Before his rule was wrenched from him, he died by the hand of an assassin. But Nerva, our new Emperor, is innocent of blood; he, mild and just, ordered me to strike off the chains of the Nazarenes. We hurried at our utmost speed from the shores of Gaul to Rome, and the gods willed it, that I should arrive just in time to rescue Quintus and the noble Cornelia. The decree, which pronounced them guilty, is abrogated.” The high-priest had listened to him, motionless and silent; Palaemon went forward to interrupt the conversation. “Not yet, my good friend,” said Titus Claudius with a grateful smile. “You need fear nothing for me. New life is dancing in every vein. Suspense alone was crushing me to death; the truth will restore me to life. Let our young friend tell us what has happened. Domitian dead! Nerva Emperor! The Nazarenes released...! I feel as if it were all a dream!” Aurelius told his tale, and Titus Claudius listened, clinging to his son’s hands with both his own. The one feeling that he had been preserved from the last, worst horror, without having to reproach himself with any breach of his duty as a statesman and an official, triumphed over all the other various emotions, that Aurelius' narrative might have roused in him. Again and again his eye turned to rest on the radiant face of the son he had believed to be lost beyond recall, and whom he now saw and held in the flesh. Every other consideration was swept away in the current of a father’s love, so long held in unnatural check. “The gods have willed it so!” he said sadly, when Aurelius ceased speaking. “I cannot hold the office, conferred on me by Domitian, under the enemy of the murdered Caesar. But I yield to the force of circumstances; what till now was treason is now law. I am but a weak mortal; I do not pretend to judge the case. I can but marvel and be silent. Justice is perhaps on the side of the stronger conviction, the stronger will and the greater vigor--such mysteries can only be solved by the gods. So the first words I address to you, after these days of terror and torment, shall be words of conciliation. Cains Aurelius, my daughter’s heart is yours--then she shall be your wife. I will not destroy your happiness; you have all suffered enough on my account.”