In this deserted, shady spot, between these thick marble walls, it was much cooler than outside.  Melissa lifted her hands in prayer before the statue of the god.  She was alone, with the exception of the priest in charge.  The temple-servant was absent, and the priest was asleep, breathing heavily, in an arm-chair in a dark nook behind the marble group.  Thus she was free to follow the impulse of her heart, and pray, first for her sick lover, and then for the sufferer to whom the whole subservient world belonged.

For Diodoros, indeed, as she knew, other hands and hearts were uplifted in loving sympathy.  But who besides herself was praying for the hated sovereign who had at his command the costliest and rarest gifts of fortune, all poisoned by bitter anguish of mind and body?  The world thought only of the sufferings he had inflicted on others; no one dreamed of the pangs he had to endure—­no one but herself, to whom Galenus had spoken of them.  And had not his features and his look betrayed to her that pain was gnawing at his vitals like the vulture at those of Prometheus?  Hapless, pitiable youth, born to the highest fortune, and now a decrepit old man in the flower of his age!  To pray and sacrifice for him must be a pious deed, pleasing to the gods.  Melissa besought the marble images over the altar from the very bottom of her heart, never even asking herself why she was bestowing on this stranger, this cruel tryant, in whose name her own brother was in danger of the law, an emotion which nothing but her care for those dearest to her had ever stirred.  But she did not feel that he was a stranger, and never thought how far apart they were.  Her prayers came easily, too, in this spot; the bonds that linked her to these beautiful marble beings were familiar and dear to her.  While she gazed up into the face of Asklepios, imploring him to be gracious to the imperial youth, and release him from the pain but for which he might have been humane and beneficent, the stony features seemed to live before her eyes, and the majesty and dignity that beamed on the brow assured her that the god’s power and wisdom were great enough to heal every disease.  The tender smile which played on his features filled her soul with the certainty that he would vouchsafe to be gracious; nay, she could believe that he moved those marble lips and promised to grant her prayer.  And when she turned to the statue of Hygeia she fancied the beautiful, kind face nodded to her with a pledge of fulfillment.

She raised her beseeching arms higher still, and addressed her sculptured friends aloud, as though they could hear her: