While Caracalla was receiving the thanks of the astrologers, he caught sight of Alexander, and at once graciously inquired how Melissa had got back to her fathers house.  He then asked, laughingly, if the wits of Alexandria were going to treat him to another offering like the one on his arrival.  The youth, who had determined in the Circus to risk his life, if need be, in order to clear himself of the taint of suspicion, judged that the moment had come to make good the mistake which had robbed him of his fellow-citizens’ esteem.

The presence of so many witnesses strengthened his courage; and fully expecting that, like the consul Vindex, his speech would cost him his head, he drew himself up and answered gravely, “It is true, great Caesar, that in a weak moment and without considering the results, I repeated some of those witticisms to you—­”

“I commanded, and you had to obey,” retorted Caesar, and added, coldly, “But what does this mean?”

“It means,” began Alexander—­who already saw the sword of execution leap from its scabbard—­with pathetic dignity, which astonished the emperor as coming from him, “it means that I herewith declare before you, and my Alexandrian fellow-citizens here present, that I bitterly repent my indiscretion; nay, I curse it, since I heard from your own lips how their ready wit has set you against the sons of my beloved native city.”

“Ah, indeed!  Hence these tears?” interposed Caesar, adopting a well-known Latin phrase.  He nodded to the painter, and continued, in a tone of amused superiority:  “Go on performing as an orator, if you like; only moderate the tragic tone, which does not become you, and make it short, for before the sun rises we all—­these worthy citizens and myself—­desire to be in bed.”

Blushes and pallor alternated on the young man’s face.  Sentence of death would have been more welcome to him than this supercilious check to a hazardous attempt, which he had looked upon as daring and heroic.  Among the Romans he caught sight of some laughing faces, and hurt, humiliated, confused, scarcely capable of speaking a word, and yet moved by the desire to justify himself, he stammered out:  “I have—­I meant to assure—­No, I am no spy!  May my tongue wither before I—­You can, of course—­It is in your power to take my life!”

“Most certainly it is,” interposed Caracalla, and his tone was more contemptuous than angry.  He could see how deeply excited the artist was, and to save him—­Melissa’s brother-from committing a folly which he would be obliged to punish, he went on with gracious consideration:  “But I much prefer to see you live and wield the brush for a long time to come.  You are dismissed.”

The young man bent his head, and then turned his back upon the emperor, for he felt that he was threatened now with what, to an Alexandrian, was the most unbearable fate-to appear ridiculous before so many.

Caracalla allowed him to go, but, as he stepped across the threshold, he called after him:  “Tomorrow, then, with your sister, after the bath!  Tell her the stars and the spirits are propitious to our union.”