The burden of this question, and all the false aspects of his position, almost crushed the young man to the earth. He returned to the room which had been his till he quitted his father’s house, as dull and indifferent as if he were only half-witted. This room was a pleasing counterpart to Claudia’s pretty room, and, like it, was on the upper floor, and on the same side of the house. The furniture was still as he had left it. Even some of his first books, his playthings as a boy, and other such memorials of the happy past had found an abiding place here, so that--as Octavia said--the son might always recognize his old home in his parents' house. Lately, no doubt, the quiet nook had for months together never been visited but by the slaves, who came to dust it and shake up the pillows on the divans. Quintus thanked the captain of the guard for his considerate treatment, and begged to be allowed to be alone. Norbanus, who regarded his watch over the young man as a mere formality, acceded with pleasure. He posted a centurion at the entrance with three men-at-arms, recommended the utmost courtesy to their prisoner, pressed the young man’s hand with a jesting farewell, and left the house, as urgent business required his presence at the palace. Now, at last, Quintus realized his position. All that he had gone through and done during the last few hours had gone over his head, as it were, not more than half understood. He had walked on like a somnambulist over heights and hollows, without appreciating the danger, and now, waking suddenly, he shuddered to see precipices and yawning gulfs on every side. Wherever he looked, horror stared him in the face--misery, shame, dishonor, and despair. Either way his fate was hopeless. Either he must shatter the existence of the man he loved more than himself--or he must be that mean and cowardly thing, a traitor and a renegade, trailing all he held most sacred in the dust. Had not the Master of Nazareth taught, that no man could have any part in the infinite mercies of God, who fell away from the faith through fear of men? And was it not this which was driving him into denial--base fear of men? It wore, to be sure, the specious aspect, the garb of light of filial love. But ought not the true heir of the Faith patiently to take upon him even that fearful grief? Did not Jesus die on the cross, although he knew that he was breaking his parents' hearts? Aye, He had done this thing, the Just one, the Mighty, Omnipotent; but he--Quintus--was but a feeble and worthless disciple of the Great Teacher. He could not do it, though the joys of heaven and the torments of hell were in the balance. He must lose his soul to all eternity--if only he might spare his father.