That woman!  Treacherous, shameless, but how lovely and beloved!  That woman, under his eyes, as it were, was swept out of the land of the living; and with her, with Melissa, the only girl for whom his heart had ever throbbed faster, the miracle-worker who had possessed the unique power of exorcising his torments, whose love—­for so he still chose to believe, though he had always refused her petitions that he would show mercy—­whose love would have given him strength to become a benefactor to all mankind, a second Trajan or Titus.  He had quite forgotten that he had intended her to meet a disgraceful end in the arena under fearful torments, if she had been brought to him a prisoner.  He felt as though the fate of Roxana, with whom his most cherished dream had perished, had quite broken his heart; and it was Melissa whom he really bewailed, with the gladiator’s name on his lips and the jewel before his eyes which had been his gift, and which she had worn on her arm even in death.  But he ere long controlled this display of feeling, ashamed to shed tears for her who had cheated him and who had fled from his love.  Only once more did he sob aloud.  Then he raised himself, and while holding his handkerchief to his eyes he addressed the company with theatrical pathos: 

“Yes, my friends, tell whom you will that you have seen Bassianus weep; but add that his tears flowed from grief at the necessity for punishing so many of his subjects with such rigor.  Say, too, that Caesar wept with pity and indignation.  For what good man would not be moved to sorrow at seeing the sick and wounded thus maltreated?  What humane heart could refrain from loud lamentations at the sight of barbarity which is not withheld from laying a murderous hand even on the sacred anguish of the sick and wounded?  Defend me, then, against those Romans who may shrug their shoulders over the weakness of a weeping Caesar—­the Terrible.  My office demands severity; and yet, my friends, I am not ashamed of these tears.”

With this he took leave of his guests and retired to rest, and those who remained were soon agreed that every word of this speech, as well as Caesar’s tears, were rank hypocrisy.  The mime Theocritus admired his sovereign in all sincerity, for how rarely could even the greatest actors succeed in forcing from their eyes, by sheer determination, a flood of real, warm tears—­he had seen them flow.  As Caesar quitted the room, his hand on the lion’s mane, the praetor Priscillianus whispered to Cilo: 

“Your disciple has been taking lessons here of the weeping crocodile.”

.........................

Out on the great square the soldiers were resting after the day’s bloody work.  They had lighted large fires in front of the most sacred sanctuary of a great city, as though they were in the open field.  Round each of these, foot and horse soldiers lay or squatted on the ground, according to their companies;