“Most magnanimous!” said Caesar, ironically. “Such a deed sounds well, but is apt to cost a man his life. You seem to have overlooked that.”
“No, great Caesar; I expected to die.”
“Then you are a philosopher, a contemner of life.”
“Neither. I value life above all else; for, if it is taken from me, there is an end of enjoying its best gifts.”
“Best gifts!” echoed Caesar. “I should like to know which you honor with the epithet.”
“Love and art.”
“Indeed?” said Caracalla, with a swift glance at Melissa. Then, in an altered voice, he added, “And revenge?”
“That,” said the artist, boldly, “is a pleasure I have not yet tasted. No one ever did me a real injury till the villain Zminis robbed my guiltless father of his liberty; and he is not worthy to do such mischief, as a finger of your imperial hand.”
At this, Caesar looked at him suspiciously, and said in stern tones:
“But you have now the opportunity of trying the fine flavor of vengeance. If I were timid—since the Egyptian acted only as my instrument—I should have cause to protect myself against you.”