for line, those of the daughter of Heron. And this sport of chance could
not but be amazing to any one who did not know--as neither of the three
who were examining the gem knew--that it was a work of Heron's youth,
and that he had given Roxana the features of his bride Olympias, whose
living image her daughter Melissa had grown to be.

"And how long have you had this work of art?" asked Philostratus.

"I inherited it, as I tell you, from my father," replied Caracalla.
"Severus sometimes wore it.--But wait. After the battle of Issos, in
his triumph over Pescennius Niger--I can see him now--he wore it on his
shoulder, and that was--"

"Two-and-twenty years ago," the philosopher put in; and Caracalla,
turning to Melissa, asked her:

"How old are you, child?"

"Eighteen, my lord." And the reply delighted Caesar; he laughed aloud,
and looked triumphantly at Philostratus.

The philosopher willingly admitted that there was something strange in
the incident, and he congratulated Caesar on having met with such strong
confirmation of his inward conviction. The soul of Alexander might now
do great things through him.

During this conversation the alarm which had come over Melissa at
Caesar's silence had entirely disappeared. The despot whose suffering
had appealed to her sympathetic soul, now struck her as singular rather
than terrible. The idea that she, the humble artist's daughter, could
harbor the soul of a Persian princess, amused her; and when the lion
lifted his head and lashed the floor with his tail at her approach, she
felt that she had won his approbation. Moved by a sudden impulse, she
laid her hand on his head and boldly stroked it. The light, warm touch
soothed the fettered prince of the desert, and, rubbing his brow against
Melissa's round arm, he muttered a low, contented growl.

At this Caesar was enchanted; it was to him a further proof of his
strange fancy. The "Sword of Persia" was rarely so friendly to any one;
and Theocritus owed much of the favor shown him by Caracalla to the fact
that at their first meeting the lion had been on particularly good
terms with him. Still, the brute had never shown so much liking for any
stranger as for this young girl, and never responded with such eager
swinging of his tail excepting to Caesar's own endearments. It must be
instinct which had revealed to the beast the old and singular bond which
linked his master and this new acquaintance. Caracalla, who, in all that