“And whither can she go?” asked Euryale, sadly and with tearful eyes, for there was no gainsaying so definite an order from her lord and master.  “The moment she is missed, they will search her father’s house; and, if she takes advantage of Berenike’s ship, it will soon be discovered that it was your brother’s wife who helped her to escape from Caracalla.”

“Berenike will know what to do,” answered Timotheus, composedly.  “She, if any one, knows how to take care of herself.  She has the protection of her influential brother-in-law, Coeranus; and just now there is nothing she would not do to strike a blow at her hated enemy.”

“How sorrow and revenge have worked upon that strange woman!” exclaimed the lady, sadly.  “Caracalla has injured her, it is true—­”

“He has, and to-day he has added a further, deeper insult, for he forces her to appear in the Amphitheater, with the wives of the other citizens who bear the cost of this performance.  I was there, and heard him say to Seleukus, who was acting as spokesman, that he counted on seeing his wife, of whom he had heard so much, in her appointed place this evening.

“This will add fuel to the fire of her hatred.  If she only does not allow her anger to carry her away, and to show it in a manner that she will afterward regret!—­But my time is short.  I have to walk before the sacred images in full ceremonial vestments, and accompanied by the priest of Alexander.  You, unfortunately, take no pleasure in such spectacles.  Once more, then—­if the girl is determined to fly, she must not return here.  I repeat, if any one can help her to get away, it is Berenike.  Our sister-in-law must take the consequences.  Caesar can not accuse her of treason, at any rate, and her interference in the matter will clear us of all suspicion of complicity.”

No word of this conversation had escaped Melissa.  She learned nothing new from it, but it affected her deeply.

Warm-hearted as she was, she fully realized the debt of gratitude she owed to the lady Euryale; and she could not blame the high-priest, whom prudence certainly compelled to close his doors against her.  And yet she was wounded by his words.  She had struggled so hard in these last days to banish all thought of her own happiness, and shield her dear ones from harm, that such selfishness appeared doubly cruel to her.  Did it not seem as if this priest of the great Deity to whom she had been taught to pray, cared little what became of his nearest relatives, so long as he and his wife were unmolested?  That was the opposite of what Andreas had praised as the highest duty, the last time she had walked with him to the ferry; and since then Johanna had told her the story of Christ’s sufferings, and she understood the fervor with which the freedman had spoken of the crucified Son of God—­the great example of all unselfishness.

In the enthusiasm of her warm young heart she felt that what she had heard of the Christians’ teacher was beautiful, and that she too would not find it hard to die for those she loved.