If she followed Philostratus’s advice—­if she acceded to Caracalla’s wishes—­Diodoros would have every right to condemn and curse her.  And could she then feel so entirely blameless?  A voice within her instantly said no; for there had been moments in which her pity had grown so strong that she felt more warmly toward the sick Caesar than was justifiable.  She could not deny it, for she could not without a blush have described to her lover what she felt when that mysterious, inexplicable power had drawn her to the emperor.

And now the conviction rapidly grew strong in her that she must not only preserve her lover from further trouble, but strive to make good to him her past errors.  The idea of renouncing her love in order to intercede for others, most likely in vain, and lighten their lot by sacrificing herself for strangers, while rendering her own and her lover’s life miserable, now seemed to her unnatural, criminal, impossible; and with a sigh of relief she remembered her promise to Andreas.  Now she could once more look freely into the grave and earnest face of him who had ever guided her in the right way.

This alone was right—­this she would do!

But after the first quick step toward Philostratus, she stood still, once more hesitating.  The saying about the fulfilling of the time recurred to her as she thought of the Christian, and she said to herself that the critical moment which comes in every life was before her now.  The weal or woe of her whole future depended on the answer she should give to Philostratus.  The thought struck terror to her heart, but only for a moment.  Then she drew herself up proudly, and, as she approached her friend, felt with joy that she had chosen the better part; yea, that it would cost her but little to lay down her life for it.

Though apparently absorbed in his conversation with the Thracian, Philostratus had not ceased to observe the girl, and his knowledge of human nature showed him quickly to what decision she had come.  Firmly persuaded that he had won her over to Caracalla’s side, he had left her to her own reflections.  He was certain that the seed he had sown in her mind would take root; she could now clearly picture to herself what pleasures she would enjoy as empress, and from what she could preserve others.  For she was shrewd and capable of reasoning, and above all—­and from this he hoped the most—­she was but a woman.  But just because she was a woman he could not be surprised at her disappointing him in his expectations.  For the sake of Caracalla and those who surrounded him he would have wished it to be otherwise; but he had become too fond of her, and had too good a heart, not to be distressed at the thought of seeing her fettered to the unbridled young tyrant.

Before she could address him, he took his leave of the Thracian.  Then, as he led her back to the divan, he whispered:  “Well, I have gained one more experience.  The next time I leave a woman to come to a decision, I shall anticipate from the first that she will come to an opposite conclusion to that which, as a philosopher and logical thinker, I should expect of her.  You are determined to keep faith with your betrothed and stab the heart of this highest of all wooers—­after death he will be ranked among the gods—­for such will be the effect of your flight.”