Then with great pomp Cleopatra laid him in that sepulchre which had been made ready, and in a sarcophagus of alabaster.  Now, this sarcophagus was fashioned so large that place was left in it for a second coffin, for Cleopatra would lie by Antony at the last.

These things then happened.  And but a little while after I learned tidings from one Cornelius Dolabella, a noble Roman who waited upon Caesar, and, moved by the beauty that swayed the souls of all who looked upon her, had pity for the woes of Cleopatra.  He bade me warn her—­for, as her physician, it was allowed me to pass in and out of the tomb where she dwelt—­that in three days she would be sent away to Rome, together with her children, save Caesarion, whom Octavian had already slain, that she might walk in the triumph of Caesar.  Accordingly I went in, and found her sitting, as now she always sat, plunged in a half stupor, and before her that blood-stained robe with which she had staunched the wounds of Antony.  For on this she would continually feast her eyes.

“See how faint they grow, Olympus,” she said, lifting her sad face and pointing to the rusty stains, “and he so lately dead!  Why, Gratitude could not fade more fast.  What is now thy news?  Evil tidings is writ large in those dark eyes of thine, which ever bring back to me something that still slips my mind.”

“The news is ill, O Queen,” I answered.  “I have this from the lips of Dolabella, who has it straight from Caesar’s secretary.  On the third day from now Caesar will send thee and the Princes Ptolemy and Alexander and the Princess Cleopatra to Rome, there to feast the eyes of the Roman mob, and be led in triumph to that Capitol where thou didst swear to set thy throne!”

“Never, never!” she cried, springing to her feet.  “Never will I walk in chains in Caesar’s triumph!  What must I do?  Charmion, tell me what I can do!”

And Charmion, rising, stood before her, looking at her through the long lashes of her downcast eyes.

“Lady, thou canst die,” she said quietly.

“Ay, of a truth I had forgotten; I can die.  Olympus, hast thou the drug?”

“Nay; but if the Queen wills it, by to-morrow morn it shall be brewed—­a drug so swift and strong that not the Gods themselves can hold him who drinks it back from sleep.”

“Let it be made ready, thou Master of Death!”

I bowed, and withdrew myself; and all that night I and old Atoua laboured at the distilling of the deadly draught.  At length it was done, and Atoua poured it into a crystal phial, and held it to the light of the fire; for it was white as the purest water.

“La! la!” she sang, in her shrill voice; “a drink for a Queen!  When fifty drops of that water of my brewing have passed those red lips of hers, thou wilt indeed be avenged of Cleopatra, O Harmachis!  Ah, that I could be there to see thy Ruin ruined! La! la! it would be sweet to see!”