In one of the few rooms of his vast palace which the chief priest had
reserved for the accommodation of the members of his own household, the
youth was received by Melissa, Timotheus’s wife Euryale, and the lady
Berenike.
This lady was pleased to see the artist again to whom she was indebted
for the portrait of her daughter. She had it now in her possession once
more, for Philostratus had had it taken back to her house while the
emperor was at his meal.
She rested on a sofa, quite worn out. She had passed through hours of
torment; for her concern about Melissa, who had become very dear to
her, had given her much more anxiety than even the loss of her
beloved picture. Besides, the young girl was to her for the moment the
representative of her sex, and the danger of seeing this pure, sweet
creature exposed to the will of a licentious tyrant drove her out of
her senses, and her lively fancy had resulted in violent outbreaks of
indignation. She now proposed all sorts of schemes, of which Euryale,
the more prudent but not less warm-hearted wife of the chief priest,
demonstrated the impossibility.
Like Berenike, a tender-hearted woman, whose smooth, brown hair had
already begun to turn gray, she had also lost her only child. But years
had passed since then, and she had accustomed herself to seek comfort in
the care of the sick and wretched. She was regarded all over the city as
the providence of all in need, whatever their condition and faith. Where
charity was to be bestowed on a large scale--if hospitals or almshouses
were to be erected or endowed--she was appealed to first, and if she
promised her quiet but valuable assistance, the result was at once
secured. For, besides her own and her husband’s great riches, this lady
of high position, who was honored by all, had the purses of all
the heathens and Christians in the city at her disposal; both alike
considered that she belonged to them; and the latter, although she only
held with them in secret, had the better right.
At home, the society of distinguished men afforded her the greatest
pleasure. Her husband allowed her complete freedom; although he, as the
chief Greek priest of the city, would have preferred that she should
not also have had among her most constant visitors so many learned
Christians. But the god whom he served united in his own person most of
the others; and the mysteries which he superintended taught that
even Serapis was only a symbolical embodiment of the universal soul,
fulfilling its eternal existence by perpetually re-creating itself under
constant and immutable laws. A portion of that soul, which dwelt in
all created things, had its abode in each human being, to return to
the divine source after death. Timotheus firmly clung to this pantheist
creed; still, he held the honorable post of head of the Museum--in the
place of the Roman priest of Alexander, a man of less learning--and was
familiar not only with the tenets of his heathen predecessors, but with
the sacred scriptures of the Jews and Christians; and in the ethics of
these last he found much which met his views.
He, who, at the Museum, was counted among the skeptics, liked biblical
sentences, such as “All is vanity,” and “We know but in part.” The
command to love your neighbor, to seek peace, to thirst after truth, the
injunction to judge the tree by its fruit, and to fear more for the soul
than the body, were quite to his mind.
He was so rich that the gifts of the visitors to the temple, which his
predecessors had insisted on, were of no importance to him. Thus he
mingled a great deal that was Christian with the faith of which he was
chief minister and guardian. Only the conviction with which men like
Clemens and Origen, who were friends of his wife, declared that the
doctrine to which they adhered was the only right one--was, in fact, the
truth itself--seemed to the skeptic “foolishness.”
His wife’s friends had converted his brother Zeno to Christianity; but
he had no need to fear lest Euryale should follow them. She loved him
too much, and was too quiet and sensible, to be baptized, and thus
expose him, the heathen high-priest, to the danger of being deprived of
the power which she knew to be necessary to his happiness.
Every Alexandrian was free to belong to any other than the heathen
creeds, and no one had taken offence at his skeptical writings. When
Euryale acted like the best of the Christian women, he could not take
it amiss; and he would have scorned to blame her preference for the
teaching of the crucified God.
As to Caesar’s character he had not yet made up his mind.
He had expected to find him a half-crazy villain, and his rage after
he had heard the epigram against himself, left with the rope, had
strengthened the chief priest’s opinion. But since then he had heard of
much that was good in him; and Timotheus felt sure that his judgment
was unbiased by the high esteem Caesar showed to him, while he treated
others like slaves. His improved opinion had been raised by the
intercourse he had held with Caesar. The much-abused man had on these
occasions shown that he was not only well educated but also thoughtful;
and yesterday evening, before Caracalla had gone to rest exhausted, the
high-priest, with his wise experience, had received exactly the same
impressions as the easily influenced artist; for Caesar had bewailed his
sad fate in pathetic terms, and confessed himself indeed deeply guilty,
but declared that he had intended to act for the best, had sacrificed
fortune, peace of mind, and comfort to the welfare of the state. His
keen eye had marked the evils of the time, and he had acknowledged that
his efforts to extirpate the old maladies in order to make room for
better things had been a failure, and that, instead of earning thanks,
he had drawn down on himself the hatred of millions.
It was for this reason that Timotheus, on rejoining his household,
had assured them that, as he thought over this interview, he expected
something good--yes, perhaps the best--from the young criminal in the
purple.
But the lady Berenike had declared with scornful decision that Caracalla
had deceived her brother-in-law; and when Alexander likewise tried to
say a word for the sufferer, she got into a rage and accused him of
foolish credulity.
Melissa, who had already spoken in favor of the emperor, agreed,
in spite of the matron, with her brother. Yes, Caracalla had sinned
greatly, and his conviction that Alexander’s soul lived in him and
Roxana’s in her was foolish enough; but the marvelous likeness to her
of the portrait on the gem would astonish any one. That good and noble
impulses stirred his soul she was certain. But Berenike only shrugged
her shoulders contemptuously; and when the chief priest remarked that
yesterday evening Caracalla had in fact not been in a position to attend
a feast, and that a portion, at least, of his other offenses might
certainly be put down to the charge of his severe suffering, the lady
exclaimed:
“And is it also his bodily condition that causes him to fill a house of
mourning with festive uproar? I am indifferent as to what makes him a
malefactor. For my part, I would sooner abandon this dear child to the
care of a criminal than to that of a madman.”
But the chief priest and the brother and sister both declared Caesar’s
mind to be as sound and sharp as any one’s; and Timotheus asked who,
at the present time, was without superstition, and the desire of
communicating with departed souls. Still the matron would not allow
herself to be persuaded, and after the chief priest had been called away
to the service of the god, Euryale reproved her sister-in-law for her
too great zeal. When the wisdom of hoary old age and impetuous youth
agree in one opinion, it is commonly the right one.
“And I maintain,” cried Berenike--and her large eyes flamed angrily--“it
is criminal to ignore my advice. Fate has robbed you as well as me of a
dear child. I will not also lose this one, who is as precious to me as a
daughter.”
Melissa bent over the lady’s hands and kissed them gratefully,
exclaiming with tearful eyes, “But he has been very good to me, and has
assured me-”
“Assured!” repeated Berenike disdainfully. She then drew the young girl
impetuously toward her, kissed her on her forehead, placed her hands
on her head as if to protect her, and turned to the artist as she
continued:
“I stand by what I recommended before. This very night Melissa must get
far away from here. You, Alexander, must accompany her. My own ship, the
‘Berenike and Korinna’--Seleukus gave it to me and my daughter--is ready
to start. My sister lives in Carthage. Her husband, the first man in
the city, is my friend. You will find protection and shelter in their
house.”
“And how about our father and Philip?” interrupted Alexander. “If we
follow your advice, it is certain death to them!”
The matron laughed scornfully.
“And that is what you expect from this good, this great and noble
sovereign!”
“He proves himself full of favors to his friends,” answered Alexander,
“but woe betide those who offend him!”
Berenike looked thoughtfully at the ground, and added, more quietly:
“Then try first to release your people, and afterward embark on my ship.
It shall be ready for you. Melissa will use it, I know.--My veil, child!
The chariot waits for me at the Temple of Isis.--You will accompany
me there, Alexander, and we will drive to the harbor. There I will
introduce you to the captain. It will be wise. Your father and brother
are dearer to you than your sister; she is more important to me. If only
I could go away myself--away from here, from the desolate house, and
take her with me!”
And she raised her arm, as if she would throw a stone into the distance.
She impetuously embraced the young girl, took leave of her
sister-in-law, and left the room with Alexander.
Directly Euryale was alone with Melissa, she comforted the girl in her
kind, composed manner; for the unhappy matron’s gloomy presentiments had
filled Melissa with fresh anxieties.
And what had she not gone through during the day!
Soon after her perilous interview with Caracalla, Timotheus, with
the chief of the astrologers from the Serapeum, and the emperor’s
astronomer, had come to her, to ask her on what day and at what hour she
was born. They also inquired concerning the birthdays of her parents,
and other events of her life. Timotheus had informed her that the
emperor had ordered them to cast her nativity.
Soon after dinner she had gone, accompanied by the lady Berenike, who
had found her at the chief priest’s house, to visit her lover in the
sick-rooms of the Serapeum. Thankful and happy, she had found him
with fully recovered consciousness, but the physician and the freedman
Andreas, whom she met at the door of the chamber, had impressed on her
the importance of avoiding all excitement. So it had not been possible
for her to tell him what had happened to her people, or of the perilous
step she had taken in order to save them. But Diodoros had talked of
their wedding, and Andreas could confirm the fact that Polybius wished
to see it celebrated as soon as possible.
Several pleasant subjects were discussed; but between whiles Melissa
had to dissemble and give evasive answers to Diodoros’s questions as to
whether she had already arranged with her brother and friends who should
be the youths and maidens to form the wedding procession, and sing the
hymeneal song.
As the two whispered to one another and looked tenderly at each
other--for Diodoros had insisted on her allowing him to kiss not only
her hands but also her sweet red lips--Berenike had pictured her dead
daughter in Melissa’s place. What a couple they would have been! How
proudly and gladly she would have led them to the lovely villa at
Kanopus, which her husband and she had rebuilt and decorated with the
idea that some day Korinna, her husband, and--if the gods should grant
it--their children, might inhabit it! But even Melissa and Diodoros made
a fine couple, and she tried with all her heart not to grudge her all
the happiness that she had wished for her own child.
When it was time to depart, she joined the hands of the betrothed pair,
and called down a blessing from the gods.
Diodoros accepted this gratefully.
He only knew that this majestic lady had made Melissa’s acquaintance
through Alexander, and had won her affection, and he encouraged the
impression that this woman, whose Juno-like beauty haunted him, had
visited him on his bed of sickness in the place of his long-lost mother.
Outside the sick-room Andreas again met Melissa, and, after she had
told him of her visit to the emperor, he impressed on her eagerly on no
account to obey the tyrant’s call again. Then he had promised to hide
her securely, either on Zeno’s estate or else in the house of another
friend, which was difficult of access. When Dame Berenike had again, and
with particular eagerness, suggested her ship, Andreas had exclaimed:
“In the garden, on the ship, under the earth--only not back to Caesar!”
The last question of the freedman’s, as to whether she had meditated
further on his discourse, had reminded her of the sentence, “The
fullness of the time is come”; and afterward the thought occurred to
her, again and again, that in the course of the next few hours some
decisive event would happen to her, “fulfilling the time,” as Andreas
expressed it.
When, therefore, somewhat later, she was alone with the chief priest’s
wife, who had concluded her comforting, pious exhortations, Melissa
asked the lady Euryale whether she had ever heard the sentence, “When
the fullness of the time is come.”
At this the lady cried, gazing at the girl with surprised inquiry:
“Are you, then, after all, connected with the Christians?”
“Certainly not,” answered the young girl, firmly. “I heard it
accidentally, and Andreas, Polybius’s freedman, explained it to me.”
“A good interpreter,” replied the elder lady. “I am only an ignorant
woman; yet, child, even I have experienced that a day, an hour, comes to
every man in the course of his life in which he afterward sees that the
time was fulfilled. As the drops become mingled with the stream, so at
that moment the things we have done and thought unite to carry us on a
new current, either to salvation or perdition. Any moment may bring the
crisis; for that reason the Christians are right when they call on one
another to watch. You also must keep your eyes open. When the time--who
knows how soon?--is fulfilled for you, it will determine the good or
evil of your whole life.”
“An inward voice tells me that also,” answered Melissa, pressing her
hands on her panting bosom. “Just feel how my heart beats!”
Euryale, smiling, complied with this wish, and as she did so she
shuddered. How pure and lovable was this young creature; and Melissa
looked to her like a lamb that stood ready to hasten trustfully to meet
the wolf!
At last she led her guest into the room where supper was prepared.
The master of the house would not be able to share it, and while the
two women sat opposite one another, saying little, and scarcely touching
either food or drink, Philostratus was announced.
He came as messenger from Caracalla, who wished to speak to Melissa.
“At this hour? Never, never! It is impossible!” exclaimed Euryale,
who was usually so calm; but Philostratus declared, nevertheless, that
denial was useless. The emperor was suffering particularly severely,
and begged to remind Melissa of her promise to serve him gladly if he
required her. Her presence, he assured Euryale, would do the sick man
good, and he guaranteed that, so long as Caesar was tormented by this
unbearable pain, the young woman had nothing to fear.
Melissa, who had risen from her seat when the philosopher had entered,
exclaimed:
“I am not afraid, and will go with you gladly--”
“Quite right, child,” answered Philostratus, affectionately. Euryale,
however, found it difficult to keep back her tears while she stroked the
girl’s hair and arranged the folds of her garment. When at last she
said good-by to Melissa and was embracing her, she was reminded of the
farewell she had taken, many years ago, of a Christian friend before
she was led away by the lictors to martyrdom in the circus. Finally, she
whispered something in the philosopher’s ear, and received from him the
promise to return with Melissa as soon as possible.
Philostratus was, in fact, quite easy. Just before, Caracalla’s helpless
glance had met his sympathizing gaze, and the suffering Caesar had said
nothing to him but:
“O Philostratus, I am in such pain!” and these words still rang in the
ears of this warm-hearted man.
While he was endeavoring to comfort the emperor, Caesar’s eyes had
fallen on the gem, and he asked to see it. He gazed at it attentively
for some time, and when he returned it to the philosopher he had ordered
him to fetch the prototype of Roxana.
Closely enveloped in the veil which Euryale had placed on her head,
Melissa passed from room to room, keeping near to the philosopher.
Wherever she appeared she heard murmuring and whispering that troubled
her, and tittering followed her from several of the rooms as she left
them; even from the large hall where the emperor’s friends awaited his
orders in numbers, she heard a loud laugh that frightened and annoyed
her.
She no longer felt as unconstrained as she had been that morning when
she had come before Caesar. She knew that she would have to be on her
guard; that anything, even the worst, might be expected from him. But as
Philostratus described to her, on the way, how terribly the unfortunate
man suffered, her tender heart was again drawn to him, to whom--as she
now felt--she was bound by an indefinable tie. She, if any one, as she
repeated to herself, was able to help him; and her desire to put the
truth of this conviction to the proof--for she could only regard it
as too amazing to be grounded in fact--was seconded by the less
disinterested hope that, while attending on the sufferer, she might find
an opportunity of effecting the release of her father and brother.
Philostratus went on to announce her arrival, and she, while waiting,
tried to pray to the manes of her mother; but, before she could
sufficiently collect her thoughts, the door opened. Philostratus
silently beckoned to her, and she stepped into the tablinum, which was
but dimly lighted by a few lamps.
Caracalla was still resting here; for every movement increased the pain
that tormented him.
How quiet it was! She thought she could hear her own heart beating.
Philostratus remained standing by the door, but she went on tiptoe
toward the couch, fearing her light footsteps might disturb the emperor.
Yet before she had reached the divan she stopped still, and then she
heard the plaintive rattle in the sufferer’s throat, and from the
background of the room the easy breathing of the burly physician and
of old Adventus, both of whom had fallen asleep; and then a peculiar
tapping. The lion beat the floor with his tail with pleasure at
recognizing her.
This noise attracted the invalid’s attention, and when he opened
his closed eyes and saw Melissa, who was anxiously watching all his
movements, he called to her lightly with his hand on his brow:
“The animal has a good memory, and greets you in my name. You were sure
to come--, I knew it!”
The young girl stepped nearer to him, and answered, kindly, “Since you
needed me, I gladly followed Philostratus.”
“Because I needed you?” asked the emperor.
“Yes,” she replied, “because you require nursing.”
“Then, to keep you, I shall wish to be ill often,” he answered, quickly;
but he added, sadly, “only not so dreadfully ill as I have been to-day.”
One could hear how laborious talking was to him, and the few words he
had sought and found, in order to say something kind to Melissa, had so
hurt his shattered nerves and head that he sank back, gasping, on the
cushions.
Then for some time all was quiet, until Caracalla took his hand from his
forehead and continued, as if in excuse:
“No one seems to know what it is. And if I talk ever so softly, every
word vibrates through my brain.”
“Then you must not speak,” interrupted Melissa, eagerly. “If you want
anything, only make signs. I shall understand you without words, and the
quieter it is here the better.”
“No, no; you must speak,” begged the invalid. “When the others talk,
they make the beating in my head ten times worse, and excite me; but I
like to hear your voice.”
“The beating?” interrupted Melissa, in whom this word awoke old
memories. “Perhaps you feel as if a hammer was hitting you over the left
eye?
“If you move rapidly, does it not pierce your skull, and do you not feel
as sick as if you were on the rocking sea?”
“Then you also know this torment?” asked Caracalla, surprised; but
she answered, quietly, that her mother had suffered several times from
similar headaches, and had described them to her.
Caesar sank back again on the pillows, moved his dry lips, and glanced
toward the drink which Galen had prescribed for him; and Melissa,
who almost as a child had long nursed a dear invalid, guessed what he
wanted, brought him the goblet, and gave him a draught.
Caracalla rewarded her with a grateful look. But the physic only seemed
to increase the pain. He lay there panting and motionless, until, trying
to find a new position, he groaned, lightly:
“It is as if iron was being hammered here. One would think others might
hear it.”
At the same time he seized the girl’s hand and placed it on his burning
brow.
Melissa felt the pulse in the sufferer’s temple throbbing hard and short
against her fingers, as she had her mother’s when she laid her cool hand
on her aching forehead; and then, moved by the wish to comfort and heal,
she let her right hand rest over the sick man’s eyes. As soon as she
felt one hand was hot, she put the other in its place; and it must have
relieved the patient, for his moans ceased by degrees, and he finally
said, gratefully:
“What good that does me! You are--I knew you would help me. It is
already quite quiet in my brain. Once more your hand, dear girl!”
Melissa willingly obeyed him, and as he breathed more and more easily,
she remembered that her mother’s headache had often been relieved when
she had placed her hand on her forehead. Caesar, now opening his eyes
wide, and looking her full in the face, asked why she had not allowed
him sooner to reap the benefit of this remedy.
Melissa slowly withdrew her hand, and with drooping eyes answered
gently:
“You are the emperor, a man... and I...” But Caracalla interrupted her
eagerly, and with a clear voice:
“Not so, Melissa! Do not you feel, like me, that something else draws us
to one another, like what binds a man to his wife?--There lies the
gem. Look at it once again--No, child, no! This resemblance is not
mere accident. The short-sighted, might call it superstition or a vain
illusion; I know better. At least a portion of Alexander’s soul lives in
this breast. A hundred signs--I will tell you about it later--make it
a certainty to me. And yesterday morning.... I see it all again before
me.... You stood above me, on the left, at a window.... I looked up;...
our eyes met, and I felt in the depths of my heart a strange emotion....
I asked myself, silently, where I had seen that lovely face before. And
the answer rang, you have already often met her; you know her!”
“My face reminded you of the gem,” interrupted Melissa, disquieted.
“No, no,” continued Caesar. “It was some thing else. Why had none of
my many gems ever reminded me before of living people? Why did your
picture, I know not how often, recur to my mind? And you? Only recollect
what you have done for me. How marvelously we were brought together! And
all this in the course of a single, short day. And you also.... I ask
you, by all that is holy to you... Did you, after you saw me in the
court of sacrifice, not think of me so often and so vividly that it
astonished you?”
“You are Caesar,” answered Melissa, with increasing anxiety.
“So you thought of my purple robes?” asked Caracalla, and his face
clouded over; “or perhaps only of my power that might be fatal to your
family? I will know. Speak the truth, girl, by the head of your father!”
Then Melissa poured forth this confession from her oppressed heart:
“Yes, I could not help remembering you constantly,... and I never saw
you in purple, but just as you had stood there on the steps;... and
then--ah! I have told you already how sorry I was for your sufferings.
I felt as if... but how can I describe it truly?--as if you stood much
nearer to me than the ruler of the world could to a poor, humble girl.
It was... eternal gods!...”
She stopped short; for she suddenly recollected anxiously that this
confession might prove fatal to her. The sentence about the time which
should be fulfilled for each was ringing in her ears, and it seemed to
her that she heard for the second time the lady Berenike’s warning.
But Caracalla allowed her no time to think; for he interrupted her,
greatly pleased, with the cry:
“It is true, then! The immortals have wrought as great a miracle in you
as in me. We both owe them thanks, and I will show them how grateful
I can be by rich sacrifices. Our souls, which destiny had already once
united, have met again. That portion of the universal soul which of yore
dwelt in Roxana, and now in you, Melissa, has also vanquished the pain
which has embittered my life... You have proved it!--And now... it is
beginning to throb again more violently--now--beloved and restored one,
help me once more!”
Melissa perceived anxiously how the emperor’s face had flushed again
during this last vehement speech, and at the same time the pain had
again contracted his forehead and eyes. And she obeyed his command, but
this time only in shy submission. When she found that he became quieter,
and the movement of her hand once more did him good, she recovered her
presence of mind. She remembered how often the quiet application of her
hand had helped her mother to sleep.
She therefore explained to Caracalla, in a low whisper directly he began
to speak again, that her desire to give him relief would be vain if he
did not keep his eyes and lips closed. And Caracalla yielded, while her
hand moved as lightly over the brow of the terrible man as when years
ago it had soothed her mother to sleep.
When the sufferer, after a little time, murmured, with closed eyes
“Perhaps I could sleep,” she felt as if great happiness had befallen
her.
She listened attentively to every breath, and looked as if spell-bound
into his face, until she was quite sure that sleep had completely
overcome Caesar.
She then crept gently on tiptoe to Philostratus, who had looked on in
silent surprise at all that had passed between his sovereign and the
girl. He, who was always inclined to believe in any miraculous cure, of
which so many had been wrought by his hero Apollonius, thought he had
actually witnessed one, and gazed with an admiration bordering on awe
at the young creature who appeared to him to be a gracious instrument of
the gods.
“Let me go now,” Melissa whispered to her friend. “He sleeps, and will
not wake for some time.”
“At your command,” answered the philosopher, respectfully. At the
same moment a loud voice was heard from the next room, which Melissa
recognized as her brother Alexander’s, who impetuously insisted on his
right of--being allowed at any time to see the emperor.
“He will wake him,” murmured the philosopher, anxiously; but Melissa
with prompt determination threw her veil over her head and went into the
adjoining room.
Philostratus at first heard violent language issuing from the mouth of
Theocritus and the other courtiers, and the artist’s answers were not
less passionate. Then he recognized Melissa’s voice; and when quiet
suddenly reigned on that side of the door, the young girl again crossed
the threshold.
She glanced toward Caracalla to see if he still slept, and then, with a
sigh of relief, beckoned to her friend, and begged him in a whisper to
escort her past the staring men. Alexander followed them.
Anger and surprise were depicted on his countenance, which was usually
so happy. He had come with a report which might very likely induce
Caesar to order the release of his father and brother, and his heart had
stood still with fear and astonishment when the favorite Theocritus had
told him in the anteroom, in a way that made the blood rush into his
face, that his sister had been for some time endeavoring to comfort the
suffering emperor--and it was nearly midnight.
Quite beside himself, he wished to force his way into Caesar’s presence,
but Melissa had at that moment come out and stood in his way, and had
desired him and the noble Romans, in such a decided and commanding tone,
to lower their voices, that they and her brother were speechless.
What had happened to his modest sister during the last few days? Melissa
giving him orders which he feebly obeyed! It seemed impossible! But
there was something reassuring in her manner. She must certainly have
thought it right to act thus, and it must have been worthy of her, or
she would not have carried her charming head so high, or looked him so
freely and calmly in the face.
But how had she dared to come between him and his duty to his father and
brother?
While he followed her closely and silently through the imperial rooms,
the implicit obedience he had shown her became more and more difficult
to comprehend; and when at last they stood in the empty corridor
which divided Caesar’s quarters from those of the high-priest, and
Philostratus had returned to his post at the side of his sovereign, he
could hold out no longer, and cried to her indignantly:
“So far, I have followed you like a boy; I do not myself know why. But
it is not yet too late to turn round; and I ask you, what gave you the
right to prevent my doing my best for our people?”
“Your loud talking, that threatened to wake Caesar,” she replied,
seriously. “His sleeping could alone save me from watching by him the
whole night.”
Alexander then felt sorry he had been so foolishly turbulent, and after
Melissa had told him in a few words what she had gone through in the
last few hours he informed her of what had brought him to visit the
emperor so late.
Johannes the lawyer, Berenike’s Christian freedman, he began, had
visited their father in prison and had heard the order given to place
Heron and Philip as state prisoners and oarsmen on board a galley.
This had taken place in the afternoon, and the Christian had further
learned that the prisoners would be led to the harbor two hours before
sunset. This was the truth, and yet the infamous Zminis had assured the
emperor, at noon, that their father and Philip were already far on their
way to Sardinia. The worthless Egyptian had, then, lied to the emperor;
and it would most likely cost the scoundrel his neck. But for this,
there would have been time enough next day. What had brought him there
at so late an hour was the desire to prevent the departure of the
galley; for John had heard, from the Christian harbor-watch that the
anchor was not yet weighed. The ship could therefore only get out to sea
at sunrise; the chain that closed the harbor would not be opened till
then. If the order to stop the galley came much after daybreak, she
would certainly be by that time well under way, and their father and
Philip might have succumbed to the hard rowing before a swift trireme
could overtake and release them.
Melissa had listened to this information with mixed feelings. She had
perhaps precipitated her father and brother into misery in order to save
herself; for a terrible fate awaited the state-prisoners at the oars.
And what could she do, an ignorant child, who was of so little use?
Andreas had told her that it was the duty of a Christian and of every
good man, if his neighbor’s welfare were concerned, to sacrifice his own
fortunes; and for the happiness and lives of those dearest to her--for
they, of all others, were her “neighbors”--she felt that she could do
so. Perhaps she might yet succeed in repairing the mischief she had done
when she had allowed the emperor to sleep without giving one thought to
her father. Instead of waking him, she had misused her new power over
her brother, and, by preventing his speaking, had perhaps frustrated the
rescue of her people.
But idle lamenting was of as little use here as at any other time; so
she resolutely drew her veil closer round her head and called to her
brother, “Wait here till I return!”
“What are you going to do?” asked Alexander, startled.
“I am going back to the invalid,” she explained, decisively.
On this her brother seized her arm, and, wildly excited, forbade this
step in the name of his father.
But at his vehement shout, “I will not allow it!” she struggled to free
herself, and cried out to him:
“And you? Did not you, whose life is a thousand times more important
than mine, of your own free-will go into captivity and to death in order
to save our father?”
“It was for my sake that he had been robbed of his freedom,” interrupted
Alexander; but she added, quickly:
“And if I had not thought only of myself, the command to release him and
Philip would by this time have been at the harbor. I am going.”
Alexander then took his hand from her arm, and exclaimed, as if urged by
some internal force, “Well, then, go!”
“And you,” continued Melissa, hastily, “go and seek the lady Euryale.
She is expecting me. Tell her all, and beg her in my name to go to
rest. Also tell her I remembered the sentence about the time, which was
fulfilled. ... Mark the words. If I am running again into danger, tell
her that I do it because a voice says to me that it is right. And it is
right, believe me, Alexander!”
The artist drew his sister to him and kissed her; yet she hardly
understood his anxious good wishes; for his voice was choked by emotion.
He had taken it for granted that he should accompany her as far as the
emperor’s room, but she would not allow it. His reappearance would only
lead to fresh quarrels.
He also gave in to this; but he insisted on returning here to wait for
her.
After Melissa had vanished into Caesar’s quarters he immediately
carried out his sister’s wish, and told the lady Euryale of all that had
happened.
Encouraged by the matron, who was not less shocked than he had been at
Melissa’s daring, he returned to the anteroom, where, at first, greatly
excited, he walked up and down, and then sank on a marble seat to wait
for his sister. He was frequently overpowered by sleep. The things that
cast a shadow on his sunny mind vanished from him, and a pleasing dream
showed him, instead of the alarming picture which haunted him before
sleeping, the beautiful Christian Agatha.