irit arise and burst asunder the bonds that
fetter and cripple it."

At this a groan of pain escaped the philosopher, and, turning again to
the girl, he answered, with a mournful smile:

"Bid the cushion in that arm-chair do so. It will succeed better than I!"
Then crying out impatiently and as loudly as he could, "Now go--you know
not how you torture me!" he turned away from her and buried his face in
the pillows.

But Melissa, as if beside herself, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and,
shaking him gently, exclaimed: "And even if it vexes you, I will not be
driven away thus. The misfortunes that have befallen you in these days
will end by destroying you, if you will not pull yourself together. We
must have patience, and it can only come about slowly, but you must make
an effort. The least thing that pains you hurts us too, and you, in
return, may not remain indifferent to what we feel. See, Philip, our
mother and Andrew taught us often not to think only of ourselves, but of
others. We ask so little of you; but if you--"

At this the philosopher shook himself free of her hand, and cried in a
voice of anguish:

"Away, I say! Leave me alone! One word more, and I die!" With this he hid
his head in the coverlet, and Melissa could see how his limbs quivered
convulsively as if shaken by an ague.

To see a being so dear to her thus utterly broken down cut her to the
heart. Oh, that she could help him! If she did not succeed, or if he
never found strength to rouse himself, he, too, would be one of Caesar's
victims. Corrupted and ruined lives marked the path of this terrible
being, and, with a shudder, she asked herself when her turn would come.

Her hair had become disordered, and as she smoothed it she looked in the
mirror, and could not but observe that in the simple but costly white
robe of the dead Korinna she looked like a maiden of noble birth rather
than the lowly daughter of an artist. She would have liked to tear it off
and replace it by another, but her one modest festival robe had been left
behind at the house of the lady Berenike. To appear in broad daylight
before the neighbors or to walk in the streets clad in this fashion
seemed to her impossible after her brother's unjust suspicion, and she
bade Argutis fetch her a litter.

When they parted, Dido could see distinctly that Philip had wounded her.
And she could guess how, so she withheld any questions, that she might
not hurt her. Over the fire, however,