He spoke vehemently, with a quivering of his eyelids; but feeling her hand tremble in his own, he collected himself, and went on in a lower tone, but with urgent emphasis: 

“I will let you glance into this bosom, closed to every other eye; for my desolate heart is inspired by you to fresh energy and life; I am as grateful to you as a drowning man to his deliverer.  I shall suffocate and die if I repress the impulse to open my heart to you!”

What change was this that had come over this mysterious being?  Melissa felt as though she was gazing on the face of a stranger, for, though his eyelids still quivered, his eyes were bright with ecstatic fire and his features looked more youthful.  On that noble brow the laurel wreath he wore looked well.  Also, as she now observed, he was magnificently attired; he wore a close-fitting tunic, or breast-plate made of thick woolen stuff, and over it a purple mantle, while from his bare throat hung a precious medallion, shield-shaped, and set in gold and gems, the center formed by a large head of Medusa, with beautiful though terrible features.  The lion-heads of gold attached to each corner of the short cloak he wore over the sham coat of mail, were exquisite works of art, and sandals embroidered with gold and gems covered his feet and ankles.  He was dressed to-day like the heir of a lordly house, anxious to charm; nay, indeed, like an emperor, as he was; and with what care had his body-slave arranged his thin curls!

He passed his hand over his brow and cast a glance at a silver mirror on the low table at the head of his couch.  When he turned to her again his amorous eyes met Melissa’s.

She looked down in startled alarm.  Was it for her sake that Caesar had thus decked himself and looked in the mirror?  It seemed scarcely possible, and yet it flattered and pleased her.  But in the next instant she longed more fervently than she ever had before for a magic charm by which she might vanish and be borne far, far away from this dreadful man.  In fancy she saw the vessel which the lady Berenike had in readiness.  She would, she must fly hence, even if it should part her for a time from Diodoros.

Did Caracalla read her thought?  Nay, he could not see through her; so she endured his gaze, tempting him to speak; and his heart beat high with hope as he fancied he saw that she was beginning to be affected by his intense agitation.  At this moment he felt convinced, as he often had been, that the most atrocious of his crimes had been necessary and inevitable.  There was something grand and vast in his deeds of blood, and that—­for he flattered himself he knew the female heart—­must win her admiration, besides the awe and love she already felt.

During the night, at his waking, and in his bath, he had felt that she was as necessary to him as the breath of life and hope.  What he experienced was love as the poets had sung it.  How often had he laughed it to scorn, and boasted that he was armed against the arrows of Eros!  Now, for the first time, he was aware of the anxious rapture, the ardent longing of which he had read in so many songs.  There stood the object of his passion.  She must hear him, must be his—­not by compulsion, not by imperial command, but of the free impulse of her heart.