Dreams, dreams, dreams! without end and ever-changing, as for years and years I seemed to toss upon a sea of agony.  And through them a vision of a dark-eyed woman’s tender face and the touch of a white hand soothing me to rest.  Visions, too, of a royal countenance bending at times over my rocking bed—­a countenance that I could not grasp, but whose beauty flowed through my fevered veins and was a part of me—­visions of childhood and of the Temple towers of Abouthis, and of the white-haired Amenemhat, my father—­ay, and an ever-present vision of that dread hall in Amenti, and of the small altar and the Spirits clad in flame!  There I seemed to wander everlastingly, calling on the Holy Mother, whose memory I could not grasp; calling ever and in vain!  For no cloud descended upon the altar, only from time to time the great Voice pealed aloud:  “Strike out the name of Harmachis, child of Earth, from the living Book of Her who Was and Is and Shall Be! Lost! lost! lost!”

And then another voice would answer: 

“Not yet! not yet!  Repentance is at hand; strike not out the name of Harmachis, child of Earth, from the living Book of Her who Was and Is and Shall Be!  By suffering may sin be wiped away!”

I woke to find myself in my own chamber in the tower of the palace.  I was so weak that I scarce could lift my hand, and life seemed but to flutter in my breast as flutters a dying dove.  I could not turn my head; I could not stir; yet in my heart there was a sense of rest and of dark trouble done.  The light from the lamp hurt my eyes:  I shut them, and, as I shut them, heard the sweep of a woman’s robes upon the stair, and a swift, light step that I knew well.  It was that of Cleopatra!

She entered and drew near.  I felt her come!  Every pulse of my poor frame beat an answer to her footfall, and all my mighty love and hate rose from the darkness of my death-like sleep, and rent me in their struggle!  She leaned over me; her ambrosial breath played upon my face:  I could hear the beating of her heart!  Lower she leaned, till at last her lips touched me softly on the brow.

“Poor man!” I heard her murmur.  “Poor, weak, dying Man!  Fate hath been hard to thee!  Thou wert too good to be the sport of such a one as I—­the pawn that I must move in my play of policy!  Ah, Harmachis! thou shouldst have ruled the game!  Those plotting priests could give thee learning; but they could not give thee knowledge of mankind, nor fence thee against the march of Nature’s law.  And thou didst love me with all thy heart—­ah! well I know it!  Manlike, thou didst love the eyes that, as a pirate’s lights, beckoned thee to shipwrecked ruin, and didst hang doting on the lips which lied thy heart away and called thee ‘slave’!  Well; the game was fair, for thou wouldst have slain me; and yet I grieve.  So thou dost die? and this is my farewell to thee!  Never may we meet again on earth; and, perchance, it is well, for who knows,