The storm had silenced the music.  Only a few stanch trumpeters had remained in their places; and when they saw by the lanterns that Caesar had left the Circus, they sounded a fanfare after him, which followed the ruler of the world with a dull, hoarse echo.

Outside, the streets were still crowded with people pouring out of the amphitheatre.  Those of the commoner sort sought shelter under the archways of the building, or else hurried boldly home through the rain.  Heron stood waiting at the entrance for his daughter, though the purple-hemmed toga was wet, through and through.  But she had, in fact, hurried out while he was pushing forward to speak to Caesar, and in his excitement overlooked everything else.  The behavior of his fellow-citizens had annoyed him, and he had an obscure impression that it would be a blunder to claim Caesar’s approval of anything they had done; still, he had not self-control enough to suppress the question which had fluttered on his lips all through the performance.  At last, in high dudgeon at the inconsiderateness of young people and at the rebuff he had met with—­with the prospect, too, of a cold for his pains—­he made his way homeward on foot.

To Caracalla the bad weather was for once really an advantage, for it put a stop to the unpleasant demonstrations which the “Green” party had prepared for him on his way home.

Alexander soon found the closed carruca intended for Melissa, and placed her in it as soon as he had helped Euryale into her harmamaxa.  He was astonished to find a man inside it, waiting for his sister.  This was Diodoros, who, while Alexander was giving his directions to the charioteer, had, under cover of the darkness, sprung into the vehicle from the opposite side.  An exclamation of surprise was followed by explanations and excuses, and the three young people, each with a heart full almost to bursting, drove off toward Heron’s house.  Their conveyance was already rolling over the pavement, while most of the magnates of the town were still waiting for their slaves to find their chariots or litters.

For the lovers this was a very different scene from the terrible one they had just witnessed in the Circus, for, in spite of the narrow space and total darkness in which they sat, and the rain rattling and splashing on the dripping black leather hood which sheltered them, in their hearts they did not lack for sunshine.  Caracalla’s saying that the lightning, too, was light, proved true more than once in the course of their drive, for the vivid flashes which still followed in quick succession enabled the reunited lovers to exchange many confidences with their eyes, for which it would have been hard to find words.  When both parties to a quarrel are conscious of blame, it is more quickly made up than when one only needs forgiveness; and the pair in the carruca were so fully prepared to think the best of each other that there was no need for Alexander’s good offices to