“Now thou art changed—­somewhat for the worse, Harmachis,” she said, with a dreary laugh, “scarce myself should I know thee.  Stay, there is one more thing,” and, going to a chest of garments, she drew thence a heavy bag of gold.

“Take thou this,” she said; “thou wilt have need of money.”

“I cannot take thy gold, Charmion.”

“Yes, take it.  It was Sepa who gave it to me for the furtherance of our cause, and therefore it is fitting that thou shouldst spend it.  Moreover, if I want money, doubtless Antony, who is henceforth my master, will give me more; he is much beholden to me, and this he knows well.  There, waste not the precious time in haggling o’er the pelf—­not yet art thou all a merchant, Harmachis;” and, without more words, she thrust the pieces into the leather bag that hung across my shoulders.  Then she made fast the sack containing the spare garments, and, so womanly thoughtful was she, placed in it an alabaster jar of pigment, with which I might stain my countenance afresh, and, taking the broidered robes of my office that I had cast off, hid them in the secret passage.  And so at last all was made ready.

“Is it time that I should go,” I asked.

“Not yet a while.  Be patient, Harmachis, for but one little hour more must thou endure my presence, and then, perchance, farewell for ever.”

I made a gesture signifying that this was no time for sharp words.

“Forgive me my quick tongue,” she said; “but from a salt spring bitter waters well.  Be seated, Harmachis; I have heavier words to speak to thee before thou goest.”

“Say on,” I answered; “words, however heavy, can move me no more.”

She stood before me with folded hands, and the lamp-light shone upon her beauteous face.  I noticed idly how great was its pallor and how wide and dark were the rings about the deep black eyes.  Twice she lifted her white face and strove to speak, twice her voice failed her; and when at last it came it was in a hoarse whisper.

“I cannot let thee go,” she said—­“I cannot let thee go unwitting of the truth.

“Harmachis, ’twas I who did betray thee!”

I sprang to my feet, an oath upon my lips; but she caught me by the hand.

“Oh, be seated,” she said—­“be seated and hear me; then, when thou hast heart, do to me as thou wilt.  Listen.  From that evil moment when, in the presence of thy uncle Sepa, for the second time I set eyes upon thy face, I loved thee—­how much, thou canst little guess.  Think upon thine own love for Cleopatra, and double it, and double it again, and perchance thou mayst come near to my love’s mighty sum.  I loved thee, day by day I loved thee more, till in thee and for thee alone I seemed to live.  But thou wast cold—­thou wast worse than cold! thou didst deal with me not as a breathing woman, but rather as the instrument to an end—­as a tool with which to grave thy fortunes.  And then I saw—­yes,