At this the physician pointed to the court-yard, and said to the girl, whose beauty had greatly attracted him:  “Look down there if you want to see Caesar.  We must wait here, at any rate, till the crowd has gone past in the corridor beyond that door.”  And Melissa, whose feminine curiosity had already tempted her to the window, looked down into the quadrangle and on to the steps down which a maniple of the praetorian guard were marching, with noble Romans in togas or the uniform of legates, augurs wearing wreaths, and priests of various orders.  Then for a few minutes the steps were deserted, and Melissa thought she could hear her own heart beating, when suddenly the cry:  “Hail, Caesar!” was again heard, loud trumpets rang out and echoed from the high stone walls which surrounded the inclosure, and Caracalla appeared on the broad marble steps which led down into the court of sacrifice.

Melissa’s eyes were riveted as if spell-bound on this figure, which was neither handsome nor dignified, and which nevertheless had a strange attraction for her, she knew not why.  What was it in this man, who was short rather than tall, and feeble rather than majestic, which so imperatively forbade all confident advances?  The noble lion which walked by his side, and in whose mane his left hand was buried, was not more unapproachable than he.  He called this terrible creature, which he treated with as much familiarity as if it were a lapdog, his “Persian sword”; and as Melissa looked she remembered what fate might be in store for her brother through this man, and all the crimes of which he was accused by the world—­the murders of his brother, of his wife, and of thousands besides.

For the first time in her life she felt that she could hate; she longed to bring down every evil on that man’s head.  The blood mounted to her cheeks, and her little fists were clinched, but she never took her eyes off him; for everything in his person impressed her, if not as fine, still as exceptional—­if not as great, still as noteworthy.

She knew that he was not yet thirty, but yesterday, as he drove past her, he had looked like a surly misanthropist of more than middle age.  To-day how young he seemed!  Did he owe it to the laurel crown which rested on his head, or to the white toga which fell about him in ample folds, leaving only the sinewy arm bare by which he led the lion?

From where she stood she could only see his side-face as he came down the steps, and indeed it was not ill-favored; brow, nose, and chin were finely and nobly formed; his beard was thin, and a mustache curled over his lips.  His eyes, deeply set under the brows, were not visible to her, but she had not forgotten since yesterday their sinister and terrible scowl.

At this moment the lion crept closer to his master.

If only the brute should spring on that more blood-stained and terrible beast of prey who could kill not only with claws and teeth but with a word from his lips, a wave of his hand!—­the world would be rid of the ferocious curse.  Ay, his eye, which had yesterday scorned to look at the multitudes who had hailed his advent, was that of a cruel tyrant.