“Perchance thou art tired of endeavoring my portrait,” said Campaspe, “and would fain give up the task.”
“Campaspe, how much you wrong me in such a thought! To paint Aphrodite was a pleasure, but to paint thee is heaven.”
As the painter said this, he half reclined upon the dais on which her couch was placed, and looked up into her face so ardently, that the color there deepened and deepened under his gaze.
“In truth, Apelles,” she said half reproachfully, “you forget your art. I thought you were to paint with your hand, and not to gloze my poor face with flattering tongue.”
What he would have answered cannot be known, for again the entrance curtains opened, and Alexander entered, with Hephæstion. The monarch’s keen eye took in at a glance the maiden’s blushes, the attitude of Apelles, the brush thrown down, and the neglected portrait. His eye flashed lightnings, and he towered to his full height above the offending pair. Apelles rose to his feet, and met his anger with a steady glance.
“I have been but a foolish wooer, Apelles,” said the monarch, gravely, “and you a false friend. You knew well that I loved this maiden, when I intrusted her to thee to be put on thy canvas.”
