“Not so, not so,” said Melissa, humbly, looking into his eyes with an expression that pierced him to the heart, so that he added, with gentle entreaty: 

“Then show that you are she whom I believe you to be.  I do not compel you.  Go whither you will, stay away even if I send for you; but”—­and here his brow clouded again—­“why should I try to be merciful to her from whom I looked for sympathy and kindliness, when she flees from me like the rest?”

“O my lord!” Melissa sighed distressfully.  “Go!” Caesar went on.  “I do not need you.”

“No, no,” the girl cried, in great trouble.  “Call me, and I will come.  Only shelter me from the others, and from their looks of scorn; only—­O immortal gods!—­If you need me, I will serve you, and willingly, with all my heart.  But if you really care for me, if you desire my presence, why let me suffer the worst?” Here a sudden flood of tears choked her utterance.  A smile of triumph passed over Caesar’s features, and drawing Melissa’s hands away from her tearful face, he said, kindly: 

“Alexander’s soul pines for Roxana’s; that is what makes your presence so dear to me.  Never shall you have cause to rue coming at my call.  I swear it by the manes of my divine father—­you, Philostratus, are witness.”

The philosopher, who thought he knew Caracalla, gave a sigh of relief; and Alexander gladly reflected that the danger he had feared for his sister was averted.  This craze about Roxana, of which Caracalla had just now spoken to him as a certain fact, he regarded as a monstrous illusion of this strange man’s, which would, however, be a better safeguard for Melissa than pledges and oaths.

He clasped her hand, and said with cheerful confidence:  “Only send for her when you are ill, my lord, as long as you remain here.  I know from your own lips that there is no passion which can betray Caesar into perjury.  Will you permit her to come with me for the present?”

“No,” said Caracalla, sharply, and he bade him go about the business he had in hand.  Then, turning to Philostratus, he begged him to conduct Melissa to Euryale, the high-priest’s noble wife, for she had been a kind and never-forgotten friend of his mother’s.

The philosopher gladly escorted the young girl to the matron, who had long been anxiously awaiting her return.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The statue of Serapis, a figure of colossal size, carved by the master-hand of Bryaxis, out of ivory overlaid with gold, sat enthroned in the inner chamber of the great Temple of Serapis, with the kalathos crowning his bearded face, and the three-headed Cerberus at his feet, gazing down in supreme silence on the scene around.  He did not lack for pious votaries and enthusiastic admirers, for, so long as Caesar was his guest, the curtain was withdrawn which usually hid his majestic form from their eyes.  But his most devoted worshipers thought that the god’s