The emperor gazed in astonishment at the counselor, who till now had ever advised him to use moderation, and only yesterday had begged him to ascribe much to Alexandrian manners, which in Rome would have had to be treated with severity.  Had the insolence of these unruly citizens be come unbearable even to this prudent, merciful man?

Yes, that must be it; and the grudge that Macrinus now showed against the Alexandrians hastened the pardon which Caesar silently accorded him.

Caracalla even said to himself that he had underrated the prefect’s intellect, for his eyes flashed and glowed like fire, notwithstanding their smallness, and lending a force to his ignoble face which Caracalla had never noticed before.  Had Caesar no premonition that in the last few hours this man had grown to be such another as himself?—­for in his unyielding mind the firm resolve had been strengthened to hesitate at nothing—­not even at the death of as many as might come between him and his high aim, the throne.

Macrinus knew enough of human nature to observe the miserable disquietude that had seized upon the emperor at his bride’s continued absence, but he took good care not to refer to the subject.  When Caracalla, however, could no longer conceal his anxiety, and asked after her himself, the prefect gave the appointed sign to Epagathos, who then handed Melissa’s freshly re-sealed letter to his master.

“Let me open it, great Caesar,” entreated Macrinus.  “Even Homer called Egypt the land of poison.”

But the emperor did not heed him.  No one had told him, and he had never in his life received a letter in a woman’s hand, except from his mother; and yet he knew that this delicate little roll had come from a woman—­ from Melissa.

It was closed with a silken thread, and the seal with which Epagathos had replaced the one they had broken.  If Caracalla tore it open, the papyrus and the writing might be damaged.  He called impatiently for a knife, and the body physician, who had just entered with other courtiers, handed him his.

“Back again?” asked Caracalla as the physician drew the blade from its sheath.

“At break of day, on somewhat unsteady legs,” was the jovial answer.  Caracalla took the knife from him, cut the silk, hastily broke the seal, and began to read.

Till now his hands had performed their office steadily, but suddenly they began to tremble, and while he ran his eye over Melissa’s refusal—­there were but a few lines-his knees shook, and a sharp, low cry burst from him, like no sound that lies by nature in the throat of man.  Rent in two pieces, the strip of papyrus fluttered to the ground.

The prefect caught the despot, who, seized with giddiness, stretched out his hands as if seeking a support.  The physician hurriedly brought out the drug which Galenus had advised him to use in such cases, and which he always carried with him, and then, pointing to the letter, asked the prefect: