"So that wretch, Theocritus, has really carried out his intention of
ruining the honest Titianus?" asked Melissa, horrified.

"Not only of ruining him," answered the chamberlain; "Titianus is by this
time beheaded."

The old man bowed and left the room; but Melissa remained behind, feeling
as if the floor had opened in front of her. He, whose ardent assurance
she had just now believed, that he had been forced to shed the blood of
an impious wretch, in obedience to an overpowering fate, was capable of
allowing the noblest of men to be beheaded, unjudged, merely to please
a mercenary favorite! His confession, then, had been nothing but a
revolting piece of acting! He had endeavored to vanquish the disgust she
felt for him merely to ensnare her and her healing hand more surely--as
his plaything, his physic, his sleeping draught. And she had entered the
trap, and acquitted him of the most horrible blood-guiltiness.

He had that very day rejected, without pity, a noble Roman lady who
petitioned for her husband's life, and with the same breath he had
afterwards befooled her!

She started up, indignant and deeply wounded. Was it not ignominious
even to wait here like a prisoner in obedience to the command of this
wretch? And she had dared for one moment to compare this monster with
Diodoros, the handsomest, the best, and most amiable of youths!

It seemed to her inconceivable. If only he had not the power to destroy
all that was dearest to her heart, what pleasure it would have been to
shout in his face: