In the silence of her chamber Claudia had thought out the course of events and the issues they must lead to; she had questioned her own heart, and taken stock of her duties. The tangle had come straight, light had dawned in the darkness. It was useless to weep and puzzle herself over what could not be altered; it mattered not now to wonder whether Aurelius had acted wisely in taking part in the rash attempt of the conspirators. Nay, the right or wrong of the attempt itself was of secondary importance. One thing only Claudia was sure of: she loved him, and she was pledged to him. This had sealed her fate. As soon as this certainty stood forth clear and confessed in the midst of her sorrow, her peace of mind returned as if sent from heaven. She knew now how she must act, come what might now or in the future; she saw the goal towards which her whole existence strove, and she could wait in all submission, till the gods might point out a way in which she could walk. But that she would never look aside from that goal, that no power on earth could tear that love from her heart--that was as clear to her as her belief in love itself. Every blow, which could now fall on this hapless heart, would be the inevitable dealing of Fate, which neither gods nor men could evade. Claudia still hoped for some happy issue, even with her father; for the hopefulness of love is inexhaustible. But, if Fate would have it otherwise, it was quite clear to her that the issue must be worked out without her father--nay, if it came to the worst, against her father; and the sense of this possibility gave a melancholy undercurrent to her confident resolve. Titus Claudius misunderstood the signs of her face and manner; her calm decisiveness he took for the submission of an obedient daughter; her silent melancholy for the anguish of resignation. He went up to Claudia with an impulse of deep tenderness, took her in his arms, kissed her, and loaded her with tender commendation; she, ashamed and feeling almost guilty, submitted to his embrace. Then she raised her eyes in tearful entreaty to his face. “Let us speak no more of all this,” she said in a low voice. “Time will show, whether he is guilty or not. You shall never hear a word of murmur from me. I will command myself; I will be just what I have always been--a little graver perhaps, but not lackadaisical and pining. Only never speak of him, do not speak harshly of him! I cannot bear it, Father!”