“I will spare you the pains.  They say that I am ever athirst for fresh bloodshed if only some one is rash enough to suggest it to me.  You were told that Caesar murdered his brother Geta, with many more who did but speak his victim’s name.  My father-in-law, and his daughter Plautilla, my wife, were, it is said, the victims of my fury.  I killed Papinian, the lawyer and prefect, and Cilo—­whom you saw yesterday—­nearly shared the same fate.  What did they conceal?  Nothing.  Your nod confesses it—­ well, and why should they, since speaking ill of others is their greatest delight?  It is all true, and I should never think of denying it.  But did it ever occur to you, or did any one ever suggest to you, to inquire how it came to pass that I perpetrated such horrors; I—­who was brought up in the fear of the gods and the law, like you and other people?”

“No, my lord, never,” replied Melissa, in distress.  “But I beg you, I beseech you, say no more about such dreadful things.  I know full well that you are not wicked; that you are much better than people think.”

“And for that very reason,” cried Caesar, whose cheeks were flushed with pleasure in the hard task he had set himself, “you must hear me.  I am Caesar.  There is no judge over me; I need give account to none for my actions.  Nor do I. Who, besides yourself, is more to me than the flies on that cup?”

“And your conscience?” she timidly put in.

“It raises hideous questions from time to time,” he replied, gloomily.  “It can be obtrusive, but we can teach ourselves not to answer—­besides, what you call conscience knows the motives for every action, and, remembering them, judges leniently.  You, child, should do the same; for you—­”

“O my lord, what can my poor judgment matter?” Melissa panted out; but Caracalla exclaimed, as if the question pained him: 

“Must I explain all that?  The stars, as you know, proclaim to you, as to me, that a higher power has joined us as light and warmth are joined.  Have you forgotten how we both felt only yesterday?  Or am I mistaken?  Has not Roxana’s soul entered into that divinely lovely form because it longed for its lost companion spirit?”

He spoke vehemently, with a quivering of his eyelids; but feeling her hand tremble in his own, he collected himself, and went on in a lower tone, but with urgent emphasis: 

“I will let you glance into this bosom, closed to every other eye; for my desolate heart is inspired by you to fresh energy and life; I am as grateful to you as a drowning man to his deliverer.  I shall suffocate and die if I repress the impulse to open my heart to you!”