The bellowing of beasts met them on the very threshold.  These were to be slaughtered at this early hour by the special command of Caracalla; and, as Caesar himself had promised to be present at the sacrificial rites, none but the priests or “Caesar’s friends” were admitted to the court-yard.  The litter was therefore carried up a staircase and through a long hall forming part of the library, with large windows looking down on the open place where the beasts were killed and the entrails examined.  Diodoros saw and heard nothing, for the injury to the skull had deprived him of all consciousness; Ptolemaeus, however, to soothe Melissa, assured her that he was sleeping soundly.

As they mounted the stairs she had kept close to her lover’s side; but on this assurance she lingered behind and looked about her.

As the little procession entered the gallery, in which the rolls of manuscript lay in stone or wooden cases on long rows of shelves, the shout was heard of “Hail, Caesar!” mingling with a solemn chant, and announcing the sovereign’s approach.

At this the physician pointed to the court-yard, and said to the girl, whose beauty had greatly attracted him:  “Look down there if you want to see Caesar.  We must wait here, at any rate, till the crowd has gone past in the corridor beyond that door.”  And Melissa, whose feminine curiosity had already tempted her to the window, looked down into the quadrangle and on to the steps down which a maniple of the praetorian guard were marching, with noble Romans in togas or the uniform of legates, augurs wearing wreaths, and priests of various orders.  Then for a few minutes the steps were deserted, and Melissa thought she could hear her own heart beating, when suddenly the cry:  “Hail, Caesar!” was again heard, loud trumpets rang out and echoed from the high stone walls which surrounded the inclosure, and Caracalla appeared on the broad marble steps which led down into the court of sacrifice.

Melissa’s eyes were riveted as if spell-bound on this figure, which was neither handsome nor dignified, and which nevertheless had a strange attraction for her, she knew not why.  What was it in this man, who was short rather than tall, and feeble rather than majestic, which so imperatively forbade all confident advances?  The noble lion which walked by his side, and in whose mane his left hand was buried, was not more unapproachable than he.  He called this terrible creature, which he treated with as much familiarity as if it were a lapdog, his “Persian sword”; and as Melissa looked she remembered what fate might be in store for her brother through this man, and all the crimes of which he was accused by the world—­the murders of his brother, of his wife, and of thousands besides.

For the first time in her life she felt that she could hate; she longed to bring down every evil on that man’s head.  The blood mounted to her cheeks, and her little fists were clinched, but she never took her eyes off him; for everything in his person impressed her, if not as fine, still as exceptional—­if not as great, still as noteworthy.