Some one, however, must break the silence, and he gave a sigh of relief when the girl came up to him and asked him, in a voice so husky as to give him a fresh shock: 

“Is it true that a Scythian, one of the nightwatch, has been here already?”

Then he broke out, and it really did him good to give vent to his repressed feelings in an angry speech: 

“There again—­the wisdom of slaves!  The so-called Scythian brought a message from his master.

“The captain of the night-watch—­you will see—­wishes to honor Alexander with a commission.”

“No, no,” interrupted the girl.  “They are hunting my brother down.  I thank the gods that the Scythian should have come; it shows that Alexander is still free.”

The gem-cutter clasped his bushy hair in both hands, for it seemed to him that the room was whirling round.  But his old habits still got the better of him; he roared out with all the power of his mighty lungs:  “What is that?  What do you say?  What has Alexander done?  Where have you—­both of you-been?” With two long strides the angry man came close up to the terrified girl; the birds fluttered in their cages, and the starling repeated his cries in melancholy tones.  Heron stood still, pushing his fingers through his thick gray hair, and with a sharp laugh exclaimed:  “I came away from her grave full of fresh hopes for better days, and this is how they are fulfilled!  I looked for fame, and I find disgrace!  And you, hussy! where have you spent this night—­where have you come from?  I ask you once more!”

He raised his fist and shook it close in front of Melissa’s eyes.

She stood before him as pale as death, and with wide-open eyes, from which the heavy tears dropped slowly, one by one, trickling down her cheeks as if they were tired.  Heron saw them, and his rage melted.  He staggered to a seat like a drunken man, and, hiding his face in his hands, moaned aloud, “Wretch, wretch that I am!” But his child’s soft hand was laid on his head; warm, girlish lips kissed his brow; and Melissa whispered beseechingly:  “Peace, father, peace.  All may yet be well.  I have something to tell you that will make you glad too; yes, I am sure it will make you glad.”

Her father shrugged his shoulders incredulously, but wanted to know immediately what the miracle was that could smooth his brow.  Melissa, however, would not tell him till it came in its place in her story.  So he had to submit; he drew his seat up to the table, and took up a lump of modeling-wax to keep his restless fingers employed while he listened.  She, too, sat down; she could scarcely stand.

At first he listened calmly to her narrative; and when she told him of Alexander’s jest at Caesar’s expense his face brightened.  His Alexandrian blood and his relish for a biting speech got the upper hand; he gave a sounding slap on his mighty leg, and exclaimed:  “A cursed good thought!  But the boy forgot that when Zeus only lamed his son it was because he is immortal; while Caesar’s brother was as feeble a mortal as Caracalla himself is said to be at this day.”