As the wounds of a murdered man are said to bleed afresh when the murderer approaches, Caracalla’s irritable soul was wont to break out in a frenzy of rage when any one was so rash as to allude to this, his foulest crime.  This reference to his brother’s death had as usual stirred his wrath, but he controlled it; for as a torrent of rain extinguishes the fire which a lightning-flash has kindled, the homage to his strength, in Alexander’s satire, had modified his indignation.  The irony which made the artist’s contemptuous words truly witty, would not have escaped Caracalla’s notice if they had applied to any one else; but he either did not feel it, or would not remark it, for the sake of leaving Melissa in the belief that his physical strength was really wonderful.  Besides, he thus could indulge his wish to avoid pronouncing sentence of death on this youth; he only measured him with a severe eye, and said in threatening tones, to repay mockery in kind and to remind the criminal of the fate imperial clemency should spare him: 

“I might be tempted to try my strength on you, but that it is worse to try a fall with a vaporing wag, the sport of the winds, than with the son of Caesar.  And if I do not condescend to the struggle, it is because you are too light for such an arm as this.”  And as he spoke he boastfully grasped the muscles which constant practice had made thick and firm.  “But my hand reaches far.  Every man-at-arms is one of its fingers, and there are thousands of them.  You have made acquaintance already, I fancy, with those which clutched you.”

“Not so,” replied Alexander, with a faint smile, as he bowed humbly.  “I should not dare resist your great strength, but the watch-dogs of the law tried in vain to track me.  I gave myself up.”

“Of your own accord?”

“To procure my father’s release, as he had been put in prison.”

“Most magnanimous!” said Caesar, ironically.  “Such a deed sounds well, but is apt to cost a man his life.  You seem to have overlooked that.”

“No, great Caesar; I expected to die.”

“Then you are a philosopher, a contemner of life.”

“Neither.  I value life above all else; for, if it is taken from me, there is an end of enjoying its best gifts.”

“Best gifts!” echoed Caesar.  “I should like to know which you honor with the epithet.”

“Love and art.”

“Indeed?” said Caracalla, with a swift glance at Melissa.  Then, in an altered voice, he added, “And revenge?”

“That,” said the artist, boldly, “is a pleasure I have not yet tasted.  No one ever did me a real injury till the villain Zminis robbed my guiltless father of his liberty; and he is not worthy to do such mischief, as a finger of your imperial hand.”

At this, Caesar looked at him suspiciously, and said in stern tones: 

“But you have now the opportunity of trying the fine flavor of vengeance.  If I were timid—­since the Egyptian acted only as my instrument—­I should have cause to protect myself against you.”