She sat there with the zithern, letting her fingers glide gently over the strings.
On his entering, she drew back hastily; but he cried to her brightly: “Do not disturb yourself. I love that instrument. I am having a statue erected to Mesomedes, the great zithern-player—you perhaps know his songs. This evening, when the feast and the press of work are over, I will hear how you play. I will also playa few airs to you.”
Melissa then plucked up courage and said, decidedly: “No, my lord; I am about to bid you farewell for to-day.”
“That sounds very determined,” he answered, half surprised and half amused. “But may I be allowed to know what has made you decide on this step?”
“There is a great deal of work waiting for you,” she replied, quietly.
“That is my affair, not yours,” was the crushing answer.
“It is also mine,” she said, endeavoring to keep calm; “for you have not yet completely recovered, and, should you require my help again this evening, I could not attend to your call.”
“No?” he asked, wrathfully, and his eyelids began to twitch.
“No, my lord; for it would not be seemly in a maiden to visit you by night, unless you were ill and needed nursing. As it is, I shall meet your friends—my heart stands still only to think of it—”
“I will teach them what is due to you!” Caracalla bellowed out, and his brow was knit once more.