When at length Melissa quitted the house, deeply veiled, with Argutis to escort her, she took his arm; and he, wearing his master’s mantle, and exempted long since from keeping his hair cropped, was so proud of this that he walked with all the dignity of a freeman, and no one could have guessed that he was a slave.  Melissa’s face was completely hidden, and she, like her companion, was safe from recognition.  Argutis, nevertheless, led her through the quietest and darkest lanes to the Kanopic way.  Both were silent, and looked straight before them.  Melissa, as she walked on, could not think with her usual calm.  Like a suffering man who goes to the physician’s house to die or be cured by the knife, she felt that she was on her way to something terrible in itself, to remedy, if possible, something still more dreadful.  Her father—­Alexander, so reckless and so good-hearted—­Philip, whom she pitied—­and her sick lover, came in turn before her fancy.  But she could not control her mind to dwell on either for long.  Nor could she, as usual, when she had any serious purpose in hand, put up a prayer to her mother’s manes or the immortals; and all the while an inner voice made itself heard, confidently promising her that Caesar, for whom she had sacrificed, and who might be kinder and more merciful than others fancied, would at once grant all she should ask.  But she would not listen; and when she nevertheless ventured to consider how she could make her way into Caesar’s presence, a cold shiver ran down her back, and again Philip’s last words sounded in her ears, “Death rather than dishonor!”

Other thoughts and feelings filled the slave’s soul.  He, who had always watched over his master’s children with far more anxious care than Heron himself, had not said a word to dissuade Melissa from her perilous expedition.  Her plan had, indeed, seemed to him the only one which promised any success.  He was a man of sixty years, and a shrewd fellow, who might easily have found a better master than Heron had been; but he gave not a thought to his own prospects—­only to Melissa’s, whom he loved as a child of his own.  She had placed herself under his protection, and he felt responsible for her fate.  Thus he regarded it as great good fortune that he could be of use in procuring her admission to the house of Seleukus, for the door-keeper was a fellow-countryman of his, whom Fate had brought hither from the banks of the Moselle.  At every festival, which secured a few hours’ liberty to all the slaves, they had for years been boon companions, and Argutis knew that his friend would do for him and his young mistress all that lay in his power.  It would, of course, be difficult to get an audience of the mistress of a house where Caesar was a guest, but the door-keeper was clever and ingenious, and would do anything short of the impossible.

So he walked with his head high and his heart full of pride, and it confirmed his courage when one of Zminis’s men, whom they passed in the brightly illuminated Kanopic street, and who had helped to secure Philip, looked at him without recognizing him.