Melissa remained alone upon the divan.  The picture changed before her, and she saw herself in costly purple raiment, glittering with jewels, and seated by the emperor’s side in a golden chariot.  A thousand voices shouted to her, and beside her stood a horn of plenty, running over with golden solidi and crimson roses, and it never grew empty, however much she took from it.  Her heart was moved; and when, in the crowd which her lively imagination had conjured up before her, she caught sight of the wife of the blacksmith Herophilus, who had been thrown into prison through an accusation from Zminis, she turned to Caracalla whom she still imagined seated beside her, and cried, “Pardon!” and Caracalla nodded a gracious consent, and the next moment Herophilus’s wife lay on her liberated husband’s breast, while the broken fetters still clanked upon his wrists.  Their children were there, too, and stretched up their arms to their parents, offering their happy lips first to them and then to Melissa.

How beautiful it all was, and how it cheered her compassionate heart!

And this, said the newly awakened, meditative spirit within her, need be no dream; no, it lay in her power to impart this happiness to herself and many others, day by day, until the end.

Then she felt that she must arise and cry to her friend, “I will follow your counsel and remain!” But her imagination had already begun to work again, and showed her the widow of Titianus, as she entreated Caesar to spare her noble, innocent husband, while he mercilessly repulsed her.  And it flashed through her mind that her petitions might share the same fate, when at that moment the emperor’s threatening voice sounded from the adjoining room.

How hateful its strident tones were to her ear!  She dropped her eyes and caught sight of a dark stain on the snow-white plumage of the doves in the mosaic pavement at her feet.

That was a last trace of the blood of the young tribune, which the attendants had been unable to remove.  And this indelible mark of the crime which she had witnessed brought the image of the wounded Aurelius before her:  just as he now lay, shaken with fever, so had she seen her lover a few days before.  His pale face rose before her inward sight; would it not be to him a worse blow than that from the stone, when he should learn that she had broken her faith to him in order to gain power and greatness, and to protect others, who were strangers to her, from the fury of the tyrant?

His heart had been hers from childhood’s hour, and it would bleed and break if she were false to the vows in which he placed his faith.  And even if he succeeded at last in recovering from the wound she must deal him, his peace and happiness would be destroyed for many a long day.  How could she have doubted for a moment where her real duty lay?