“Your mother?” echoed Caesar, and his brow began to clear.  But suddenly the gleam of satisfaction, which for a moment had embellished his features, vanished, and with a sharp laugh he added:  “And my mother!  Do you suppose that I do not know what she requires of you?  It is solely to please her that you, a free man, remain with me.  For her sake you are bold enough to try now and then to quell the stormy sea of my passions.  You do it with a grace, so I submit.  And now my hand is raised to strike a wretch who mocks at me; he is a painter, of some talent, so, of course, you take him under your protection.  Then, in a moment, your inventive genius devises a praying sister.  Well, there is in that something which might indeed mollify me.  But you would betray Bassianus ten times over to save an artist.  And then, how my mother would fly to show her gratitude to the man who could quell her furious son!  Your mother!—­But I only squint when it suits me.  My eye must become dimmer than it yet is before I fail to see the connection of ideas which led you to swear by your mother.  You were thinking of mine when you spoke.  To please her, you would deceive her son.  But as soon as he touches the lie it vanishes into thin air, for it has no more substance than a soap bubble!” The last words were at once sad, angry, and scornful; but the philosopher, who had listened at first with astonishment and then with indignation, could no longer contain himself.

“Enough!” he cried to the angry potentate, in an imperious tone.  Then, drawing himself up, he went on with offended dignity: 

“I know what the end has been of so many who have aroused your wrath, and yet I have courage enough to tell you to your face, that to injustice, the outcome of distrust, you add the most senseless insult.  Or do you really think that a just man—­for so you have called me more than once—­would outrage the manes of the beloved woman who bore him to please the mother of another man, even though she be Caesar’s?  What I swear to by the head of my mother, friend and foe alike must believe; and he who does not, must hold me to be the vilest wretch on earth; my presence can only be an offense to him.  So I beg you to allow me to return to Rome.”

The words were manly and spoken firmly, and they pleased Caracalla; for the joy of believing in the philosopher’s statement outweighed every other feeling.  And since he regarded Philostratus as the incarnation of goodness—­though he had lost faith in that—­his threat of leaving disturbed him greatly.  He laid his hand on his brave adviser’s arm, and assured him that he was only too happy to believe a thing so incredible.