yesterday to show one another what we could do as singers and lute-
players. There lies my lyre--give it me, Philostratus. I know what I
shall begin with."

The philosopher brought and tuned the instrument; but Melissa had some
difficulty in keeping back her tears. Caracalla's kiss burned like a
brand of infamy on her brow. A nameless, torturing restlessness had come
over her, and she wished she could dash the lyre to the ground, when
Caracalla began to play, and called out to Philostratus:

"As you are leaving us to-morrow, I will sing the song which you honored
with a place in your heroic tale."

He turned to Melissa, and, as she owned to having read the work of the
philosopher, he went on "You know, then, that I was the model for his
Achilles. The departed spirit of the hero is enjoying in the island of
Leuke, in the Pontus, the rest which he so richly deserves, after a life
full of heroic deeds. Now he finds time to sing to the lyre, and
Philostratus put the following verses--but they are mine--into his
mouth.--I am about to play, Adventus! Open the door!"

The freedman obeyed, and the emperor peered into the antechamber to see
for himself who was waiting there.

He required an audience when he sang. The Circus had accustomed him to
louder applause than his beloved and one skilled musician could award
him. At last he swept the strings, and began singing in a well-trained
tenor, whose sharp, hard quality, however, offended the girl's critical
ear, the song to the echo on the shores of Pontus: