What had happened to the girl?  What could it be which made her seem so strange and unlike her self?  He gazed at her, speechless, and alarmed by a hundred fearful suspicions.  He felt as a mother might who has kissed her child’s fresh, healthy lips at night, and in the morning finds them burning with fever.

Melissa had never been ill from the day of her birth; since she had donned the dress of a full-grown maiden she had never altered; day after day and at all hours she had been the same in her quiet, useful, patient way, always thinking of her brothers, and caring for him rather than for herself.

It had never entered into his head to suppose that she could alter; and now, instead of the gentle, contented face with faintly rosy cheeks, he saw a pallid countenance and quivering lips.  What mysterious fire had this night kindled in those calm eyes, which Alexander was fond of comparing to those of a gazelle?  They were sunk, and the dark shadows that encircled them were a shock to his artistic eye.  These were the eyes of a girl who had raved like a maenad the night through.  Had she not slept in her quiet little room; had she been rushing with Alexander in the wild Bacchic rout; or had something dreadful happened to his son?

Nothing could have been so great a relief to him as to rave and rage as was his wont, and he felt strongly prompted to do so; but there was something in her which moved him to pity or shyness, he knew not which, and kept him quiet.  He silently followed her with his eyes while she folded her mantle and kerchief in her orderly way, and hastily gathered together the stray, curly locks of her hair, smoothed them, and bound them round her head.

Some one, however, must break the silence, and he gave a sigh of relief when the girl came up to him and asked him, in a voice so husky as to give him a fresh shock: 

“Is it true that a Scythian, one of the nightwatch, has been here already?”

Then he broke out, and it really did him good to give vent to his repressed feelings in an angry speech: 

“There again—­the wisdom of slaves!  The so-called Scythian brought a message from his master.

“The captain of the night-watch—­you will see—­wishes to honor Alexander with a commission.”

“No, no,” interrupted the girl.  “They are hunting my brother down.  I thank the gods that the Scythian should have come; it shows that Alexander is still free.”

The gem-cutter clasped his bushy hair in both hands, for it seemed to him that the room was whirling round.  But his old habits still got the better of him; he roared out with all the power of his mighty lungs:  “What is that?  What do you say?  What has Alexander done?  Where have you—­both of you-been?” With two long strides the angry man came close up to the terrified girl; the birds fluttered in their cages, and the starling repeated his cries in melancholy tones.  Heron stood still, pushing his fingers through his thick gray hair, and with a sharp laugh exclaimed:  “I came away from her grave full of fresh hopes for better days, and this is how they are fulfilled!  I looked for fame, and I find disgrace!  And you, hussy! where have you spent this night—­where have you come from?  I ask you once more!”