And then—­she felt as if he must have guessed her thoughts—­while he patted the lion and gently pushed him aside he turned his face full on her, and she knew not whether to be pleased or angry, for the odious, squinting eyes were not now terrible or contemptuous; nay, they had looked kindly on the beast, and with a somewhat suffering expression.  The dreadful face of the murderer was not hideous now, but engaging—­ the face of a youth enduring torments of soul or of body.

She was not mistaken.  On the very next step Caracalla stood still, pressed his right hand to his temples, and set his lips as if to control some acute pain.  Then he sadly shook his head and gazed up at the walls of the court, which had been decorated in his honor with hangings and garlands of flowers.  First he studied the frieze and the festal display on his right, and when he turned his head to look at the side where Melissa stood, an inward voice bade her withdraw, that the gaze of this monster might not blight her.  But an irresistible attraction held her fast; then suddenly she felt as if the ground were sinking from under her feet, and, as a shipwrecked wretch snatches at a floating spar, she clung to the little column at the left of the window, clutching it with her hand; for the dreadful thing had happened-Caracalla’s eye had met hers and had even rested on her for a while!  And that gaze had nothing bloodthirsty in it, nor the vile leer which had sparkled in the eyes of the drunken rioters she had met last night in the streets; he only looked astonished as at some wonderful thing which he had not expected to see in this place.  But presently a fresh attack of pain apparently made him turn away, for his features betrayed acute suffering, as he slowly set his foot on the next step below.

Again, and more closely, he pressed his hand to his brow, and then beckoned to a tall, well-built man with flowing hair, who walked behind him, and accepted the support of his offered arm.

“Theocritus, formerly an actor and dancer,” the priest whispered to Melissa.  “Caesar’s whim made the mimic a senator, a legate, and a favorite.”

But Melissa only knew that he was speaking, and did not take in the purport of his speech; for this man, slowly descending the steps, absorbed her whole sympathy.  She knew well the look of those who suffer and conceal it from the eyes of the world; and some cruel disease was certainly consuming this youth, who ruled the earth, but whose purple robes would be snatched at soon enough by greedy hands if he should cease to seem strong and able.  And now, again, he looked old and worn—­poor wretch, who yet was so young and born to be so abundantly happy!  He was, to be sure, a base and blood-stained tyrant, but not the less a miserable and unhappy man.  The more severe the pain he had to endure, the harder must he find it to hide it from the crowd who were constantly about him.  There is but one antidote