The rest of the family had meanwhile rushed into agitated discussion of this utterly unexpected departure. They were sitting in one of the larger rooms opening out of the court-yard, not far from the very spot where Aurelius, the night before, had torn himself from his Claudia. Quintus and Cornelia were present, as well as the parents and Lucilia. They had waited till long past midnight for Cinna’s return, and had then parted in the utmost anxiety, for Aurelius' hasty visit, and the mysterious warning he had written, left them to surmise the worst. Thus they met at an early hour at the high-priest’s house, whither each had come hoping for news and good counsel. Titus Claudius had, in fact, been informed of all that was known by Parthenius, and actually before he was up. He received Cornelia, who was in the highest excitement, with a mixture of severity and sympathy. “I do not know all the motives,” he said solemnly, “that may have led to these measures on Caesar’s part. But so much as this seems to me certain: that this step was prompted by necessity for the preservation of the State. As an officer of State myself, and as the father of your betrothed husband, I can only advise you--and I mean it well--to have nothing farther to do with a proscribed man. I promise you I will do my best to induce Caesar to give up all farther pursuit of the fugitives, and to consider banishment from the Empire, or perhaps only from Italy, as sufficient punishment.” So spoke Titus Claudius, and then no more was said about Cinna. In the discussion as to Aurelius, Cornelia could take part more calmly than the others. Her pride had been roused by the Flamen’s speech, and when this was the case, she was mistress of herself in all respects. When Claudia, having recovered such composure as she could, returned to the sitting-room, a single timid glance at her father’s careworn face showed her, that his mind was already made up on the matter. His features revealed all the keen struggle and pain it cost him to inflict suffering on his daughter under the irresistible stress of circumstances; but, at the same time, she saw with perfect certainty that nothing--absolutely nothing--could change his idea of the necessity. His eye, which he kept calmly and immovably fixed on her, was so eloquent, that her cheek tingled, and she could hardly control herself so as not to throw herself sobbing into Lucilia’s arms. “Forget that you ever loved such a man as Aurelius!” was what that sad gaze said to her. “I might have condescended to set aside the glory of my many centuries of ancestors and the dignity of my house, but never my honor as a guardian of the State. I might have sacrificed my pride--but not my duty. I could have borne to give my daughter to a youth of no renown, a mere provincial of obscure origin, hard as that would have been--but to a traitor! No, not if he wore the purple. Caius Aurelius is dead--dead to you, to me, to his country!”