his pitiable wretch.
His artistic mind was accustomed to apprehend what he saw with his whole
soul and without secondary considerations, as if it stood there to be
painted; and the man that lay before him was to him at that moment only
a victim whom a cruel fate had defrauded of the greatest pleasures in
life. He also remembered how shamelessly he and others had mocked at
Caesar. Perhaps Caracalla had really spilled most of the blood to serve
the welfare and unity of the empire.

He, Alexander, was not his judge.

If Glaukias had seen the object of his derision lying thus, it certainly
would never have occurred to him to represent him as a pygmy monster.
No, no! Alexander's artistic eye knew the difference well between the
beautiful and the ugly--and the exhausted man lying on the divan, was no
hideous dwarf. A dreamy languor spread over his nobly chiselled features
An expression of pain but rarely passed over them, and Caesar's whole
appearance reminded the painter of the fine Ephesian gladiator hallistos
as he lay on the sand, severely wounded after his last fight, awaiting
the death-stroke. He would have liked to hasten home and fetch his
materials to paint the likeness of the misjudged man, and to show it to
the scoffers.

He stood silent, absorbed in studying the quiet face so finely formed
by Nature and so pathetic to look at. No thoroughly depraved miscreant
could look like that. Yet it was like a peaceful sea: when the hurricane
should break loose, what a boiling whirl of gray, hissing, tossing,
foaming waves would disfigure the peaceful, smooth, glittering surface!

And suddenly the emperor's features began to show signs of animation.
His eye, but now so dull, shone more brightly, and he cried out, as if
the long silence had scarcely broken the thread of his ideas, but in a
still husky voice:

"I should like to get up and go with you, but I am still too weak. Do
you go now, my friend, and bring me back fresh news."

Alexander then begged him to consider how dangerous every excitement
would be for him; yet Caracalla exclaimed, eagerly:

"It will strengthen me and dome good! Everything that surrounds me is so
hollow, so insipid, so contemptible--what I hear is so small. A strong,
highly spiced word, even if it is sharp, refreshes me--When you have
finished a picture, do you like to hear nothing but how well your
friends can flatter?"

The artist thought he understood Caesar. True to his nature, always
h