He spoke with enthusiastic and firm conviction of the truth of his strange imagining, as though he were delivering a revelation from the gods.  He bade Philostratus approach and compare the features of Roxana, as carved in the onyx, with those of the young supplicant.

The fair Persian stood facing Alexander; they were clasping each other’s hands in pledge of marriage, and a winged Hymen fluttered above their heads with his flaming torch.

Philostratus was, in fact, startled as he looked at the gem, and expressed his surprise in the liveliest terms, for the features of Roxana as carved in the cameo, no larger than a man’s palm, were, line for line, those of the daughter of Heron.  And this sport of chance could not but be amazing to any one who did not know—­as neither of the three who were examining the gem knew—­that it was a work of Heron’s youth, and that he had given Roxana the features of his bride Olympias, whose living image her daughter Melissa had grown to be.

“And how long have you had this work of art?” asked Philostratus.

“I inherited it, as I tell you, from my father,” replied Caracalla.  “Severus sometimes wore it.—­But wait.  After the battle of Issos, in his triumph over Pescennius Niger—­I can see him now—­he wore it on his shoulder, and that was—­”

“Two-and-twenty years ago,” the philosopher put in; and Caracalla, turning to Melissa, asked her: 

“How old are you, child?”

“Eighteen, my lord.”  And the reply delighted Caesar; he laughed aloud, and looked triumphantly at Philostratus.

The philosopher willingly admitted that there was something strange in the incident, and he congratulated Caesar on having met with such strong confirmation of his inward conviction.  The soul of Alexander might now do great things through him.

During this conversation the alarm which had come over Melissa at Caesar’s silence had entirely disappeared.  The despot whose suffering had appealed to her sympathetic soul, now struck her as singular rather than terrible.  The idea that she, the humble artist’s daughter, could harbor the soul of a Persian princess, amused her; and when the lion lifted his head and lashed the floor with his tail at her approach, she felt that she had won his approbation.  Moved by a sudden impulse, she laid her hand on his head and boldly stroked it.  The light, warm touch soothed the fettered prince of the desert, and, rubbing his brow against Melissa’s round arm, he muttered a low, contented growl.

At this Caesar was enchanted; it was to him a further proof of his strange fancy.  The “Sword of Persia” was rarely so friendly to any one; and Theocritus owed much of the favor shown him by Caracalla to the fact that at their first meeting the lion had been on particularly good terms with him.  Still, the brute had never shown so much liking for any stranger as for this young girl, and never responded with such eager swinging of his tail