long before thou knewest it thyself—­thy heart’s tide was setting strong towards that ruinous shore whereon to-day thy life is broken.  And at last that night came, that dreadful night when, hid within the chamber, I saw thee cast my kerchief to the winds, and with sweet words cherish my royal Rival’s gift.  Then—­oh, thou knowest—­in my pain I betrayed the secret that thou wouldst not see, and thou didst make a mock of me, Harmachis!  Oh! the shame of it—­thou in thy foolishness didst make a mock of me!  I went thence, and within me were rising all the torments which can tear a woman’s heart, for now I was sure that thou didst love Cleopatra!  Ay, and so mad was I, even that night I was minded to betray thee:  but I thought—­not yet, not yet; to-morrow he may soften.  Then came the morrow, and all was ready for the bursting of the great plot that should make thee Pharaoh.  And I too came—­thou dost remember—­and again thou didst put me away when I spake to thee in parables, as something of little worth—­as a thing too small to claim a moment’s weighty thought.  And, knowing that this was because—­though thou knewest it not—­thou didst love Cleopatra, whom now thou must straightway slay, I grew mad, and a wicked Spirit entered into me, possessing me utterly, so that I was myself no longer, nor could control myself.  And because thou hadst scorned me, I did this, to my everlasting shame and sorrow!—­I passed into Cleopatra’s presence and betrayed thee and those with thee, and our holy cause, saying that I had found a writing which thou hadst let fall and read all this therein.”

I gasped and sat silent; and gazing sadly at me she went on: 

“When she understood how great was the plot, and how deep its roots, Cleopatra was much troubled; and, at first, she would have fled to Sais or taken ship and run for Cyprus, but I showed her that the ways were barred.  Then she said she would cause thee to be slain, there, in the chamber, and I left her so believing; for, at that hour, I was glad that thou shouldst be slain—­ay, even if I wept out my heart upon thy grave, Harmachis.  But what said I just now?—­Vengeance is an arrow that oft falls on him who looses it.  So it was with me; for between my going and thy coming Cleopatra hatched a deeper plan.  She feared that to slay thee would only be to light a fiercer fire of revolt; but she saw that to bind thee to her, and, having left men awhile in doubt, to show thee faithless, would strike the imminent danger at its roots and wither it.  This plot once formed, being great, she dared its doubtful issue, and—­need I go on?  Thou knowest, Harmachis, how she won; and thus the shaft of vengeance that I loosed fell upon my own head.  For on the morrow I knew that I had sinned for naught, that the burden of my betrayal had been laid on the wretched Paulus, and that I had but ruined the cause to which I was sworn and given the man I loved to the arms of wanton Egypt.”

She bowed her head awhile, and then, as I spoke not, once more went on: