He laughed softly but scornfully, and continued:  “But I!  I am the sovereign of the universe.  I have so much—­oh yes, so much!—­and for that reason more shall be given to me, and my wildest wishes shall be satisfied!”

“Yes, my liege!” interrupted Alexander, eagerly.  “After pain comes pleasure!

       ’Live, love, drink, and rejoice,
        And wreath thyself with me!’

sings Sappho, and it is not a bad plan to follow Anakreon’s advice, even at the present day.  Think of the short suffering which now and then embitters for you the sweet cup of life, as being the ring of Polykrates, with which you appease the envy of the gods who have given you so much.  In your place, eternal gods! how I would enjoy the happy hours of health, and show the immortals and mortals alike how much true and real pleasure power and riches can procure!”

The emperor’s weary eyes brightened, and with the cry—­

“So will I!  I am still young, and I have the power!” he started suddenly to his feet.  But he sank back again directly on the couch, shaking his head as if to say, “There, you see what a state I am in!” The fate of this unhappy man touched Alexander’s heart even more deeply than before.

His youthful mind, which easily received fresh impressions, forgot the deeds of blood and shame which stained the soul of this pitiable wretch.  His artistic mind was accustomed to apprehend what he saw with his whole soul and without secondary considerations, as if it stood there to be painted; and the man that lay before him was to him at that moment only a victim whom a cruel fate had defrauded of the greatest pleasures in life.  He also remembered how shamelessly he and others had mocked at Caesar.  Perhaps Caracalla had really spilled most of the blood to serve the welfare and unity of the empire.

He, Alexander, was not his judge.

If Glaukias had seen the object of his derision lying thus, it certainly would never have occurred to him to represent him as a pygmy monster.  No, no!  Alexander’s artistic eye knew the difference well between the beautiful and the ugly—­and the exhausted man lying on the divan, was no hideous dwarf.  A dreamy languor spread over his nobly chiselled features An expression of pain but rarely passed over them, and Caesar’s whole appearance reminded the painter of the fine Ephesian gladiator hallistos as he lay on the sand, severely wounded after his last fight, awaiting the death-stroke.  He would have liked to hasten home and fetch his materials to paint the likeness of the misjudged man, and to show it to the scoffers.

He stood silent, absorbed in studying the quiet face so finely formed by Nature and so pathetic to look at.  No thoroughly depraved miscreant could look like that.  Yet it was like a peaceful sea:  when the hurricane should break loose, what a boiling whirl of gray, hissing, tossing, foaming waves would disfigure the peaceful, smooth, glittering surface!