Did the cry, “Stop, wretches!” really break from Melissa’s lips, or had she only intended to shout it down to the people in the stadium?  She did not know; but as she recollected the long rank of Numidians who, quick as lightning, lifted their curved bows and sent a shower of arrows down on the defenseless lads in the arena, she felt as though she had again shrieked out:  “Stop!” Then it seemed as though a storm of wind had torn thousands of straight boughs with metallic leaves that flashed in the sunshine from some huge invisible tree, and flung them into the arena; and, as her eve followed their fall, she could have fancied that she looked on a corn-field beaten down by a terrific hail-storm; but the boughs and leaves were lances and arrows, and each ear of corn cut down was a young and promising human being.

Zminis’s preposterous suggestion had been acted on.  Caracalla was avenged on the youth of Alexandria.

Not a tongue could wag now in abuse; every pair of young lips which had dared utter a scornful cry or purse up to whistle at the sight of Caesar, was silenced forever-and, with the few guilty, a hundred times more who were innocent.  She knew now why the great gate had been barred with beams, and why the troop had entered by the side-doors.  The scene of the brilliant display had become a lake of blood, full of the dead and dying.  Death had invaded the rows of seats; instead of laurel wreaths and prizes, deadly weapons were showered down into the arena.  It seemed now as though the sun, with its blinding radiance, were mercifully fain to hinder the human eye from looking down on the horrible picture.  To avoid the sickening sight.  Melissa closed her eyes and dragged herself to her feet with an effort, to hide herself she knew not where.

But again there was a flourish of trumpets and loud acclamations, and again an irresistible power dragged her to the window.

A splendid quadriga had stopped at the gate of the stadium, surrounded by courtiers and guards.  It was Caracalla’s, for Pandion held the reins.  Could Caracalla approve of this most horrible crime, organized by the wretch Zminis, by appearing on the scene; or might it not be that, in his wrath at the bloodthirsty zeal of his vile tool, he had come to dismiss him?

She hoped it was this; and, at any cost, she must know the truth as to this question, which was not based on mere curiosity.  Holding one hand to her wildly beating heart, she looked across the bloodstained arena to the rows of seats and the dais decorated for Caesar.  There stood Caracalla, with the Egyptian at his side, pointing down at the arena with his finger.  And what was to be seen on the spot he indicated was so horrible that she again shut her eyes, and this time she even covered them with her hands.  But she would and must see, and once more she looked across; and the man whose assurances she had once believed, that it was only his care for the