“I have six-and-twenty years, O Queen,” I answered, “for I was born in the first month of Shomou, in the summer season, and on the third day of the month.”

“Why, then, we are of an age even to a day,” she cried, “for I too have six-and-twenty years, and I too was born on the third day of the first month of Shomou.  Well, this may we say:  those who begot us need have no shame.  For if I be the fairest woman in Egypt, methinks, Harmachis, that there is in Egypt no man more fair and strong than thou, ay, or more learned.  Born of the same day, why, ’tis manifest that we were destined to stand together, I, as the Queen, and thou, perchance, Harmachis, as one of the chief pillars of my throne, and thus to work each other’s weal.”

“Or maybe each other’s woe,” I answered, looking up; for her sweet speeches stung my ears and brought more colour to my face than I loved that she should see there.

“Nay, never talk of woe.  Be seated here by me, Harmachis, and let us talk, not as Queen and subject, but as friend to friend.  Thou wast angered with me at the feast to-night because I mocked thee with yonder wreath—­was it not so?  Nay, it was but a jest.  Didst thou know how heavy is the task of monarchs and how wearisome are their hours, thou wouldst not be wroth because I lit my dulness with a jest.  Oh, they weary me, those princes and those nobles, and those stiff-necked pompous Romans.  To my face they vow themselves my slaves, and behind my back they mock me and proclaim me the servant of their Triumvirate, or their Empire, or their Republic, as the wheel of Fortune turns, and each rises on its round!  There is never a man among them—­nothing but fools, parasites, and puppets—­never a man since with their coward daggers they slew that Caesar whom all the world in arms was not strong enough to tame.  And I must play off one against the other, if maybe, by so doing, I can keep Egypt from their grip.  And for reward, what?  Why, this is my reward—­that all men speak ill of me—­and, I know it, my subjects hate me!  Yes, I believe that, woman though I am, they would murder me could they find a means!”

She paused, covering her eyes with her hand, and it was well, for her words pierced me so that I shrank upon the seat beside her.

“They think ill of me, I know it; and call me wanton, who have never stepped aside save once, when I loved the greatest man of all the world, and at the touch of love my passion flamed indeed, but burnt a hallowed flame.  These ribald Alexandrians swear that I poisoned Ptolemy, my brother—­whom the Roman Senate would, most unnaturally, have forced on me, his sister, as a husband!  But it is false:  he sickened and died of fever.  And even so they say that I would slay Arsinoe, my sister—­who, indeed, would slay me!—­but that, too, is false!  Though she will have none of me, I love my sister.  Yes, they all think ill of me without a cause; even thou dost think ill of me, Harmachis.