“I knew it, King Alexander, and knowing it, I have guarded my lips from any word of love to her,”’ answered the painter.
“You cannot deny that you do love her,” said the monarch fiercely.
“No, I do not wish to deny that. Who could see her daily as I have, and not love her with all his heart? He would either be less than a man, or more than a god.”
“And you, Campaspe,” asked Alexander, turning to where she sat tremblingly watching the interview, “do you love Apelles?”
The maiden turned pale and red by turns. But looking at Apelles, who stood gazing at her as if his soul’s fate hung on her answer, she said in a clear voice, “I love Apelles.”
Alexander’s face grew darker. He raised his arm as if he would strike the two lovers to the earth. His eye met the appealing glance of Campaspe, who waited as if breathlessly expecting her death-blow. A sudden revulsion of feeling overcame him. He took Campaspe’s little cold hand, and placed it in that of Apelles.
“Here, Apelles,’’ he said firmly, “I give her to thee frankly. I see I cannot conquer hearts, though I may subdue nations. She is thine, love her as dearly as thou wilt.”
The two lovers, overcome with joy and gratitude, sank together at the king’s feet.
