“I love him, assuredly,” said Cornelia, with a little heat.  “And so far as being all my life his slave, I’ve given that never so much as a thought.  Where love is, there slavery cannot be.”

“And where love is not, there slavery must be, doubtless you wish to add?” broke in the queen.

“I should be very miserable if I had nothing to love, which I might love purely, and feel myself the nobler and happier thereby.”

“Then pity us poor mortals who cannot climb up to your Olympus!  Eh, my very noble Cleomenes,” went on the queen, addressing the Greek, “do I not deserve compassion, that I have not been able to find some Tigranes of Armenia, or Parthian prince, who will be all in all to me, and make me forget everything in worshipping him?”

These were the first words that evening that had grated on Cornelia.  A little ruffled, she replied:—­

“I fear, O queen, that if you are awaiting a Tigranes or an Artavasdes to sue for your hand, you will indeed never find a lord to worship.  Quintus Drusus is indeed wealthy at Rome, his family noble, he may rise to great things; but I would not lay down my life for him because of his wealth, his lineage, or his fair prospects.  It is not these things which make a common woman love a man.”

“But I am not a common woman,” responded Cleopatra, with emphasis.  “I am ambitious, not to be led, but to lead.  I must rule or I must die.  I cannot love a master, only fear him.  Why, because I was born a woman, must I give up all my royal aspirations to rise to a great place among princes, to build up a great empire in the East, to make Alexandria a capital with the power of Rome, the culture of Athens, the splendour of Babylon, all in one?  It is because I have these hopes stirring in me that I may love no man, can love no man!  Nothing shall stand in my way; nothing shall oppose me.  Whoever thwarts my ambitions, the worse for him; let him die—­all things must die, but not I, until I have won my power and glory!”

For once, at least, the queen’s emotions had run away with her; she spoke hotly, passionately, as though tearing her words from the recesses of her throbbing heart.  Her wonderful voice was keyed in half-bitter defiance.  For the moment Cornelia was mistress, and not the queen.

“O queen,” broke in the young Roman, “would you know how I feel toward you?”

Cleopatra looked at her with dilated eyes.

“I feel for you a very great sorrow.  I know not whether you will or will not do as you wish—­set your empire over the far East, a rival, friendly, I hope, to our Rome; but this I know, that with your glory, and with your renown among men for all time, you will go down to your grave with an empty heart.  And I know not what may compensate for that.”

Cleomenes was clearly a little disturbed at this turn to the conversation; but Cleopatra bowed her head on her hands.  It was only for an instant.  When she looked up once more there were tears in her eyes, which she made no effort to conceal.  The look of high defiance had faded from her face.