On this the lady led him into an adjoining room, where the portrait of her adored daughter was hanging.  It was surrounded by a thick wreath of violets, the dead girl’s favorite flower.  The beautiful picture was lighted up by two three-branched lamps on high stands; and Philostratus, a connoisseur who had described many paintings with great taste and vividness, gazed in absorbed silence at the lovely features, which were represented with rare mastery and the inspired devotion of loving admiration.  At last he turned to the mother, exclaiming: 

“Happy artist, to have such a subject!  It is a work worthy of the early, best period, and of a master of the time of Apelies.  The daughter who has been snatched from you, noble lady, was indeed matchless, and no sorrow is too deep to do her justice.  But the divinity who has taken her knows also how to give; and this portrait has preserved for you a part of what you loved.  This picture, too, may influence Melissa’s fate; for Caesar has a fine taste in art, and one of the wants of our time which has helped to embitter him is the paralyzed state of the imitative arts.  It will be easier to win his favor for the painter who did this portrait than for a man of noble birth.  He needs such painters as this Alexander for the Pinakothek in the splendid baths he has built at Rome.  If you would but lend me this treasure to-morrow—­”

But she interrupted him with a decisive “Never!” and laid her hand on the frame as if to protect it.  Philostratus, however, was not to be put off; he went on in a tone of the deepest disappointment:  “This portrait is yours, and no one can wonder at your refusal.  We must, therefore, consider how to attain our end without this important ally.”  Berenike’s gaze had lingered calmly on the sweet face while he spoke, looking more and more deeply into the beautiful, expressive features.  All was silent.

At last she slowly turned to Melissa, who stood gazing sadly at the ground, and said in a low voice:  “She resembled you in many ways.  The gods had formed her to shed joy and light around her.  Where she could wipe away a tear she always did so.  Her portrait is speechless, and yet it tells me to act as she herself would have acted.  If this work can indeed move Caracalla to clemency, then—­You, Philostratus, really think so?”

“Yes,” he replied, decisively.  “There can be no better mediator for Alexander than this work.”  Berenike drew herself up, and said: 

“Well, then, to-morrow morning early, I will send it to you at the Serapeum.  The portrait of the dead may perish if it may but save the life of him who wrought it so lovingly.”  She turned away her face as she gave the philosopher her hand, and then hastily left the room.

Melissa flew after her and, with overflowing gratitude, besought the sobbing lady not to weep.

“I know something that will bring you greater comfort than my brother’s picture:  I mean the living image of your Korinna—­a young girl; she is here in Alexandria.”