“Do so at once,” begged Melissa, with raised, petitioning hands; but the old man replied:  “I should then reward you but ill for having warmed my feet for me.  Remember the crocodile under the sand!  Patience, child!  There is Caesar’s zithern.  If you can play, amuse yourself with that.  The door shuts closely and the curtains are thick.  My old ears just now were listening to no purpose.”

But Caracalla was so far from forgetting Melissa that although he had attended to the communication brought to him by the ambassadors, and the various dispatches from the senate, he asked for her even at the door of the tablinum.  He had seen her from the balcony looking out on the square; so she had witnessed the reception his soldiers had given him.  The magnificent spectacle must have impressed her and filled her with joy.  He was anxious to hear all this from her own lips, before he settled down to work.

Adverntus whispered to him where he had taken her, to avoid the persecuting glances of the numerous strangers, and Caracalla nodded to him approvingly and went into the next room.

She sat there with the zithern, letting her fingers glide gently over the strings.

On his entering, she drew back hastily; but he cried to her brightly:  “Do not disturb yourself.  I love that instrument.  I am having a statue erected to Mesomedes, the great zithern-player—­you perhaps know his songs.  This evening, when the feast and the press of work are over, I will hear how you play.  I will also playa few airs to you.”

Melissa then plucked up courage and said, decidedly:  “No, my lord; I am about to bid you farewell for to-day.”

“That sounds very determined,” he answered, half surprised and half amused.  “But may I be allowed to know what has made you decide on this step?”

“There is a great deal of work waiting for you,” she replied, quietly.

“That is my affair, not yours,” was the crushing answer.

“It is also mine,” she said, endeavoring to keep calm; “for you have not yet completely recovered, and, should you require my help again this evening, I could not attend to your call.”

“No?” he asked, wrathfully, and his eyelids began to twitch.

“No, my lord; for it would not be seemly in a maiden to visit you by night, unless you were ill and needed nursing.  As it is, I shall meet your friends—­my heart stands still only to think of it—­”

“I will teach them what is due to you!” Caracalla bellowed out, and his brow was knit once more.

“But you can not compel me,” she replied, firmly, “to change my mind as to what is seemly,” and the courage which failed her if she met a spider, but which stood by her in serious danger as a faithful ally, made her perfectly steadfast as she eagerly added:  “Not an hour since you promised me that so long as I remained with you I should need no other protector, and might count on your gratitude.  But those were mere words, for, when I besought you to grant me some repose, you scorned my very reasonable request, and roughly ordered me to remain and attend on you.”