“I am mindful, and in all things I have worked for thee in secret—­for thee, and for the utter ruin of Cleopatra and the Roman.  I have fanned his passion and her jealousy, I have egged her on to wickedness and him to folly, and of all have I caused report to be brought to Caesar.  Listen! thus stands the matter.  Thou knowest how went the fight at Actium.  Thither went Cleopatra with her fleet, sorely against the will of Antony.  But, as thou sentest me word, I entreated him for the Queen, vowing to him, with tears, that, did he leave her, she would die of grief; and he, poor slave, believed me.  And so she went, and in the thick of the fight, for what cause I know not, though perchance thou knowest, Harmachis, she made signal to her squadron, and, putting about fled from the battle, sailing for Peloponnesus.  And now, mark the end!  When Antony saw that she was gone, he, in his madness, took a galley, and deserting all, followed hard after her, leaving his fleet to be shattered and sunk, and his great army in Greece, of twenty legions and twelve thousand horse, without a leader.  And all this no man would believe, that Antony, the smitten of the Gods, had fallen so deep in shame.  Therefore for a while the army tarried, and but now to-night comes news brought by Canidius, the General, that, worn with doubt and being at length sure that Antony had deserted them, the whole of his great force has yielded to Caesar.”

“And where, then, is Antony?”

“He has built him a habitation on a little isle in the Great Harbour and named it Timonium; because, forsooth, like Timon, he cries out at the ingratitude of mankind that has forsaken him.  And there he lies smitten by a fever of the mind, and thither thou must go at dawn, so wills the Queen, to cure him of his ills and draw him to her arms; for he will not see her, nor knows he yet the full measure of his woe.  But first my bidding is to lead thee instantly to Cleopatra, who would ask thy counsel.”

“I come,” I answered, rising.  “Lead thou on.”

And so we passed the palace gates and along the Alabaster Hall, and presently once again I stood before the door of Cleopatra’s chamber, and once again Charmion left me to warn her of my coming.

Presently she came back and beckoned to me.  “Make strong thy heart,” she whispered, “and see that thou dost not betray thyself, for still are the eyes of Cleopatra keen.  Enter!”

“Keen, indeed, must they be to find Harmachis in the learned Olympus!  Had I not willed it, thyself thou hadst not known me, Charmion,” I made answer.

Then I entered that remembered place and listened once more to the plash of the fountain, the song of the nightingale, and the murmur of the summer sea.  With bowed head and halting gait I came, till at length I stood before the couch of Cleopatra—­that same golden couch on which she had sat the night she overcame me.  Then I gathered my strength, and looked up.  There before me was Cleopatra, glorious