vided for thy comfort, sweet Campaspe,” said the monarch. “It is a fancy of mine to furnish a hall with paintings from the pencil of the gifted Apelles. To this end have I bade him wait here to-day that I may ask that thou wilt grant him the favor to paint thy fair self. He lodges in the palace; and if thou consent that he shall put thy shadow on his canvas, he will be prouder than when Aphrodite appeared to his vision, that he might make a picture worthy to represent the goddess to her worshippers.”
To these words Campaspe listened in amazement, mingled with irresistible pleasure, when Alexander beckoned to the elegant youth who still leaned negligently against the column near the entrance. At the monarch’s gesture, he came forward, and bowed low at the sight of Campaspe’s beauty.
“It is our pleasure that thou shouldst paint the lady we present to thee, Campaspe of Thebes,” said Alexander. “Thinkest thou that thy pencil can represent her worthily?”
“Not worthily, my lord king,” answered the artist. “We cannot paint virtues. Our colors can neither speak nor think. But what I can do, I will. When will it please the maiden to visit my poor work-shop?”
“If I may ask that I have a little time to refresh myself after my journey,” said Campaspe,
