ed her to the window.

A splendid quadriga had stopped at the gate of the stadium, surrounded by
courtiers and guards. It was Caracalla's, for Pandion held the reins.
Could Caracalla approve of this most horrible crime, organized by the
wretch Zminis, by appearing on the scene; or might it not be that, in his
wrath at the bloodthirsty zeal of his vile tool, he had come to dismiss
him?

She hoped it was this; and, at any cost, she must know the truth as to
this question, which was not based on mere curiosity. Holding one hand to
her wildly beating heart, she looked across the bloodstained arena to the
rows of seats and the dais decorated for Caesar. There stood Caracalla,
with the Egyptian at his side, pointing down at the arena with his
finger. And what was to be seen on the spot he indicated was so horrible
that she again shut her eyes, and this time she even covered them with
her hands. But she would and must see, and once more she looked across;
and the man whose assurances she had once believed, that it was only his
care for the throne and state and the compulsion of cruel fate which had
ever made him shed blood--that man was standing side by side with the
vile, ruthless spy whose tall figure towered far above his master's. His
hand lay on the villain's arm, his eye rested on the corpse-strewn arena
beneath; and now he raised his head, he turned his face, whose look of
suffering had once moved her soul, toward her--and he laughed--she could
see every feature--laughed so loud, so heartily, so gleefully, as she had
never before seen him laugh. He laughed till his whole body and shoulders
shook. Now he took his hand from the Egyptian's arm and pointed to the
dead lying at his feet.

As she saw that laugh, of which she could not hear a sound, Melissa felt
as though a hyena had yelled in her ear, and, yielding to an irresistible
impulse, she looked down once more at the destruction of youthful life
and happiness which had been wrought in one short hour--at the stream of
blood after which so many bitter tears must flow. The sight indeed cut
her to the heart, and yet she was thankful for it; for the first time the
reckless cruelty of that laughing monster was evident in all its naked
atrocity. Horror, aversion, loathing for that man to whom everything but
power, cruelty, and cunning, was as nothing, left no room for fear or
pity, or even the least shade of self-reproach for having aroused in him
a desire which she could