He was in a hurry; for preparations had to be made in the dining-hall for the reception of the ambassadors.  But when at his appearance Melissa rose from the divan he begged her good-naturedly to continue resting.  No one could tell what humor Caracalla might be in when he returned.  She had often seen how rapidly that chameleon could change color.  Who that had seen him just now, going to meet his soldiers, would believe that he had a few hours before sent away, with hard words, the widow of the Egyptian governor, who had come to beg mercy for her husband?

“So that wretch, Theocritus, has really carried out his intention of ruining the honest Titianus?” asked Melissa, horrified.

“Not only of ruining him,” answered the chamberlain; “Titianus is by this time beheaded.”

The old man bowed and left the room; but Melissa remained behind, feeling as if the floor had opened in front of her.  He, whose ardent assurance she had just now believed, that he had been forced to shed the blood of an impious wretch, in obedience to an overpowering fate, was capable of allowing the noblest of men to be beheaded, unjudged, merely to please a mercenary favorite!  His confession, then, had been nothing but a revolting piece of acting!  He had endeavored to vanquish the disgust she felt for him merely to ensnare her and her healing hand more surely—­as his plaything, his physic, his sleeping draught.  And she had entered the trap, and acquitted him of the most horrible blood-guiltiness.

He had that very day rejected, without pity, a noble Roman lady who petitioned for her husband’s life, and with the same breath he had afterwards befooled her!

She started up, indignant and deeply wounded.  Was it not ignominious even to wait here like a prisoner in obedience to the command of this wretch?  And she had dared for one moment to compare this monster with Diodoros, the handsomest, the best, and most amiable of youths!

It seemed to her inconceivable.  If only he had not the power to destroy all that was dearest to her heart, what pleasure it would have been to shout in his face: 

“I detest you, murderer, and I am the betrothed of another, who is as good and beautiful as you are vile and odious!”

Then the question occurred to her whether it was only for the sake of her healing hands that he had felt attracted to her, and had made her an avowal as if she were his equal.

The blood mounted to her face at this thought, and with a burning brow she walked to the open window.

A crowd of presentiments rushed into her innocent and, till then, unsuspecting heart, and they were all so alarming that it was a relief to her when a shout of joy from the panoplied breasts of several thousand armed men rent the air.  Mingling with this overpowering demonstration of united rejoicing from such huge masses, came the blare of the trumpets and horns of the assembled legions.  What a maddening noise!