In his work the day before he had taken occasion to regret the small recognition his hero had met with among those nearest to him.  In this, as in other respects, he seemed to have shared the fate of Jesus Christ, whose name, however, Philostratus purposely avoided mentioning.  Now, to-night, he reflected on the sacrifice offered by Melissa for Caesar whom she knew not, and he wrote the following words as though proceeding from the pen of Apollonius himself:  “I know well how good a thing it is to regard all the world as my home, and all mankind as my brethren and friends; for we are all of the same divine race, and have all one Father.”

Then, looking up from the papyrus, he murmured to himself:  “From such a point of view as this Melissa might see in Caracalla a friend and a brother.  If only now it were possible to rouse the conscience of that imperial criminal!”

He took up the written sheet on which he had begun a dissertation as to what conscience is, as exerting a choice between good and evil.  He had written:  “Understanding governs what we purpose; consciousness governs what our understanding resolves upon.  Hence, if our understanding choose the good, consciousness is satisfied.”

How flat it sounded!  It could have no effect in that form.

Melissa had confessed with far greater warmth what her feelings had been after she had sacrificed for the suffering sinner.  Every one, no doubt, would feel the same who, when called on to choose between good and evil, should prefer the good; so he altered and expanded the last words:  “Thus consciousness sends a man with song and gladness into the sanctuaries and groves, into the roads, and wherever mortals live.  Even in sleep the song makes itself heard, and a happy choir from the land of dreams lift up their voices about his bed.”

That was better!  This pleasing picture might perhaps leave some impression on the soul of the young criminal, in whom a preference for good could still, though rarely, be fanned to a flame.  Caesar read what Philostratus wrote, because he took pleasure in the form of his work; and this sentence would not have been written in vain if only it should prompt Caracalla in some cases, however few, to choose the good.

The philosopher was fully determined to do his utmost for Melissa and her brothers.  He had often brought pictures under Caesar’s notice, for he was the first living authority as a connoisseur of painting, and as having written many descriptions of pictures.  He built some hopes, too, on Melissa’s innocence; and so the worthy man, when he retired to rest, looked forward with confidence to the work of mediation, which was by no means devoid of danger.

But next morning it presented itself in a less promising light.  The clouded sky, the storm, and rain might have a fatal effect on Caesar’s temper; and when he heard that old Galen, after examining his patient and prescribing certain remedies, had yesterday evening taken ship, leaving Caracalla in a frenzy of rage which had culminated in slight convulsions, he almost repented of his promise.  However, he felt himself pledged; so as early as possible he went to Caesar’s rooms, prepared for the worst.