Melissa raised both voice and hands in entreaty, but in vain. Caracalla
cut her short, saying in authoritative tones:

"I have arranged everything. You will go to the Circus. Not alone with
me-that would give welcome work to scandalous tongues. Your father shall
accompany you--your brothers, too, if you wish it. I shall not join you
till after the performance has begun. Your fellow-citizens will divine
the meaning of this visit. Besides, Theocritus and the rest have orders
to acquaint the people with the distinction that awaits you and the
Alexandrians. But why so pale? Your cheeks will regain their color
in the Circus. I know I am right--you will leave it delighted and
enthralled. You have only to learn for the first time how the
acclamations of tens of thousands take hold upon the heart and intoxicate
the senses. Courage, courage, Macedonian maiden! Everything grand and
unexpected, even unforeseen happiness, is alarming and bewildering. But
we become accustomed even to the impossible. A strong spirit like yours
soon gets over anything of the kind. But the time is running on. One
word more: You must be in the Circus by sunset. In any case, you must be
in your place before I come. Adventus will see that you have a chariot
or a litter, whichever you please. Theocritus will be waiting at the
entrance to lead you to your seats."

Melissa could restrain herself no longer, and, carried away by the wild
conflict of passions in her breast, she threw control and prudence to the
winds, and cried:

"I will not!" Then throwing back her head as if to call the heavens to
witness, she raised her great, wide-open eyes and gazed above.