He was here interrupted, for Epagathos announced a deputation from the Museum, and, at the same time, the painter Alexander, who had been brought from prison.  At this Caracalla exclaimed with disgust: 

“Spare me the hair-splitting logicians!—­Do you, Philostratus, receive them in my name.  If they make any impudent demands, you may tell them my opinion of them and their Museum.  Go, but come back quickly.  Bring in the painter.  I will speak with him alone.—­You, my friends, withdraw with our idiologos, the priest of Alexander, who is well known here, and visit the city.  I shall not require you at present.”

The whole troop hastened to obey.  Caracalla now turned to Melissa once more, and his eye brightened as he again discerned the dimple in her cheeks, which had recovered their roses.  Her imploring eyes met his, and the happy expectation of seeing her brother lent them a light which brought joy to the friendless sovereign.  During his last speech he had looked at her from time to time; but in the presence of so many strangers she had avoided meeting his gaze.  Now she thought that she might freely show him that his favor was a happiness to her.  Her soul, as Roxana, must of course feel drawn to his; in that he firmly believed.  Her prayer and sacrifice for him sufficiently proved it—­as he told himself once more.

When Alexander was brought in, it did not anger him to see that the brother, who held out his arms to Melissa in his habitual eager way, had to be reminded by her of the imperial presence.  Every homage was due to this fair being, and he was, besides, much struck by Alexander’s splendid appearance.  It was long since any youthful figure had so vividly reminded him of the marble statues of the great Athenian masters.  Melissa’s brother stood before him, the very embodiment of the ideal of Greek strength and manly beauty.  His mantle had been taken from him in prison, and he wore only the short chiton, which also left bare his powerful but softly modeled arms.  He had been allowed no time to arrange and anoint his hair, and the light-brown curls were tossed in disorderly abundance about his shapely head.  This favorite of the gods appeared in Caesar’s eyes as an Olympic victor, who had come to claim the wreath with all the traces of the struggle upon him.

No sign of fear, either of Caesar or his lion, marred this impression.  His bow, as he approached the potentate, was neither abject nor awkward, and Caesar felt bitter wrath at the thought that this splendid youth, of all men, should have selected him as the butt of his irony.  He would have regarded it as a peculiar gift of fortune if this man—­such a brother of such a sister—­could but love him, and, with the eye of an artist, discern in the despot the great qualities which, in spite of his many crimes, he believed he could detect in himself.  And he hoped, with an admixture of anxiety such as he had never known before, that the painter’s demeanor would be such as should allow him to show mercy.