e shall turn when he happens to be at his
wits' end? While my mother lived, I, like you, could gladly worship and
sacrifice to the immortals; but Philip has spoiled me for all that. As to
the divine Caesars, every one thinks as I do. My mother would sooner have
entered a pesthouse than the banqueting-hall where they feast, on
Olympus. Caracalla among the gods! Why, Father Zeus cast his son
Hephaistos on earth from the height of Olympus, and only broke his leg;
but our Caesar accomplished a more powerful throw, for he cast his
brother through the earth into the nether world--an imperial thrust--and
not merely lamed him but killed him."

"Well done!" said a deep voice, interrupting the young artist. "Is that
you, Alexander? Hear what new titles to fame Heron's son can find for the
imperial guest who is to arrive to-morrow."

"Pray hush!" Melissa besought him, looking up at the bearded man who had
laid his arm on Alexander's shoulder. It was Glaukias the sculptor, her
father's tenant; for his work-room stood on the plot of ground by the
garden of Hermes, which the gem-cutter had inherited from his
father-in-law.

The man's bold, manly features were flushed with wine and revelry; his
twinkling eyes sparkled, and the ivy-leaves still clinging to his curly
hair showed that he had been one in the Dionysiac revellers; but the
Greek blood which ran in his veins preserved his grace even in
drunkenness. He bowed gayly to the young girl, and exclaimed to his
companions:

"The youngest pearl in Alexandria's crown of beauties!" while Bion,
Alexander's now gray-haired master, clapped the youth on the arm, and
added: "Yes, indeed, see what the little thing has grown! Do you
remember, pretty one, how you once--how many years ago, I
wonder?--spotted your little white garments all over with red dots! I can
see you now, your tiny finger plunged into the pot of paint, and then
carefully printing off the round pattern all over the white linen. Why,
the little painter has become a Hebe, a Charis, or, better still, a
sweetly dreaming Psyche."

"Ay, ay!" said Glaukias again. "My worthy landlord has a charming model.
He has not far to seek for a head for his best gems. His son, a Helios,
or the great Macedonian whose name he bears; his daughter--you are right,
Bion--the maid beloved of Eros. Now, if you can make verses, my young
friend of the Muses, give us an epigram in a line or two which we may
bear in mind as a compliment to our imperi