“In the name of all the gods, from whom?”

“From the gem-cutter’s fair daughter,” replied Macrinus, with a contemptuous shrug.

“From her?” cried the physician, indignantly.  From that light Phryne, who kissed and embraced my rich host’s son down there in his sick-room?

“At this the emperor, who had not lost consciousness for one moment, started as if stung by a serpent, and sprang at the physician’s throat screaming while he threatened to strangle him: 

“What was that?  What did you say?  Cursed babbler!  The truth, villain, and the whole truth, if you love your life!”

The half-choked man, ever prone to talking, had no reason for concealing from Caesar what he had seen with his own eyes, and had subsequently heard in the Serapeum and at the table of Polybius.

When life was at stake a promise to a freedman could be of no account, so he gave free rein to his tongue, and answered the questions Caracalla hoarsely put to him without reserve, and—­being a man used to the ways of a court—­with insinuations that were doubly welcome to a judge so eager for damning evidence.

Yesterday, the day before, and the day before that—­every day on which Melissa had pretended to feel the mysterious ties that bound her heart to his, every day that she had feigned love and led him on to woo her, she had—­as he now learned—­granted to another what she had refused to him with such stern discretion.  Her prayer for him, the sympathy she said she felt, the maidenly sensibility which had charmed him in her—­all, all had been lies, deceit, sham, in order to attain an object.  And that old man and the brothers to serve whom she had dared to approach him—­they all knew the cruel game she was playing with him and his heart’s love.  The lips that had lured him into the vilest trap with lying words had kissed another.  He seemed to hear the Alexandrians laughing at the forsaken bridegroom, to see them pointing the finger of derision at the man whom cunning woman had deceived even before marriage.  What a feast for their ribald wit!

And yet—­he would have willingly borne it all, and more, for the certainty that she had really loved him once; that her heart had been his, if only for one short hour.

On those shreds of papyrus scattered over the floor she confessed she was not able to accede to his wishes, because she had already given her faith to another before she ever saw Caracalla.  It was true she had felt herself drawn to him as to no other but her betrothed; and had he been content to let her be near him as a faithful servant and sicknurse, then indeed . . .  In short, he was informed in so many words that every tie that bound her to him must be broken in favor of another, and the hypocritical regret with which she sought to cover up the hard facts only made him doubly indignant.

Lies, lies—­even in this letter nothing but lies and heartless dissimulation!