“The past must stand; it is like a scar which no water will wash out.  What have you not heard of my past?  What did they feel, in their self-conscious virtue, when they talked of my crimes?  Did it ever occur to any one, I wonder, that with the purple I assumed the sword, to protect my empire and throne?  And when I have used the blade, how eagerly have fingers pointed at me, how gladly slanderous tongues have wagged!  Who has ever thought of asking what compulsion led me to shed blood, or how much it cost me to do it?  You, fair child—­and the stars confirm it—­you were sent by fate to share the burden that oppresses me, and to you I will ease my heart, to you I will confide all, unasked, because my heart prompts me to do so.  But first you must tell me with what tales they taught you to hate the man to whom, as you yourself confessed, you nevertheless felt drawn.”

At this Melissa raised her hands in entreaty and remonstrance, and Caesar went on: 

“I will spare you the pains.  They say that I am ever athirst for fresh bloodshed if only some one is rash enough to suggest it to me.  You were told that Caesar murdered his brother Geta, with many more who did but speak his victim’s name.  My father-in-law, and his daughter Plautilla, my wife, were, it is said, the victims of my fury.  I killed Papinian, the lawyer and prefect, and Cilo—­whom you saw yesterday—­nearly shared the same fate.  What did they conceal?  Nothing.  Your nod confesses it—­well, and why should they, since speaking ill of others is their greatest delight?  It is all true, and I should never think of denying it.  But did it ever occur to you, or did any one ever suggest to you, to inquire how it came to pass that I perpetrated such horrors; I—­who was brought up in the fear of the gods and the law, like you and other people?”

“No, my lord, never,” replied Melissa, in distress.  “But I beg you, I beseech you, say no more about such dreadful things.  I know full well that you are not wicked; that you are much better than people think.”

“And for that very reason,” cried Caesar, whose cheeks were flushed with pleasure in the hard task he had set himself, “you must hear me.  I am Caesar.  There is no judge over me; I need give account to none for my actions.  Nor do I. Who, besides yourself, is more to me than the flies on that cup?”

“And your conscience?” she timidly put in.

“It raises hideous questions from time to time,” he replied, gloomily.  “It can be obtrusive, but we can teach ourselves not to answer—­besides, what you call conscience knows the motives for every action, and, remembering them, judges leniently.  You, child, should do the same; for you—­”

“O my lord, what can my poor judgment matter?” Melissa panted out; but Caracalla exclaimed, as if the question pained him: 

“Must I explain all that?  The stars, as you know, proclaim to you, as to me, that a higher power has joined us as light and warmth are joined.  Have you forgotten how we both felt only yesterday?  Or am I mistaken?  Has not Roxana’s soul entered into that divinely lovely form because it longed for its lost companion spirit?”