“O Harmachis, before thou judgest, remember what a thing is envy!—­that foul sickness of the mind which makes the jaundiced eye of pettiness to see all things distraught—­to read Evil written on the open face of Good, and find impurity in the whitest virgin’s soul!  Think what a thing it is, Harmachis, to be set on high above the gaping crowd of knaves who hate thee for thy fortune and thy wit; who gnash their teeth and shoot the arrows of their lies from the cover of their own obscureness, whence they have no wings to soar; and whose hearts’ quest it is to drag down thy nobility to the level of the groundling and the fool!

“Be not, then, swift to think evil of the Great, whose every word and act is searched for error by a million angry eyes, and whose most tiny fault is trumpeted by a thousand throats, till the world shakes with echoes of their sin!  Say not:  ’It is thus, ’tis certainly thus’—­say, rather:  ’May it not be otherwise?  Have we heard aright?  Did she this thing of her own will?’ Judge gently, Harmachis, as wert thou I thou wouldst be judged.  Remember that a Queen is never free.  She is, indeed, but the point and instrument of those forces politic with which the iron books of history are graved.  O Harmachis! be thou my friend—­my friend and counsellor!—­my friend whom I can trust indeed!—­for here, in this crowded Court, I am more utterly alone than any soul that breathes about its corridors.  But thee I trust; there is faith written in those quiet eyes, and I am minded to lift thee high, Harmachis.  I can no longer bear my solitude of mind—­I must find one with whom I may commune and speak that which lies within my heart.  I have faults, I know it; but I am not all unworthy of thy faith, for there is good grain among the evil seed.  Say, Harmachis, wilt thou take pity on my loneliness and befriend me, who have lovers, courtiers, slaves, dependents, more thick than I can count, but never one single friend?” and she leant towards me, touching me lightly, and gazed on me with her wonderful blue eyes.

I was overcome; thinking of the morrow night, shame and sorrow smote me. I, her friend!—­I, whose assassin dagger lay against my breast!  I bent my head, and a sob or a groan, I know not which, burst from the agony of my heart.

But Cleopatra, thinking only that I was moved beyond myself by the surprise of her graciousness, smiled sweetly, and said: 

“It grows late; to-morrow night when thou bringest the auguries we will speak again, O my friend Harmachis, and thou shalt answer me.”  And she gave me her hand to kiss.  Scarce knowing what I did, I kissed it, and in another moment she was gone.

But I stood in the chamber, gazing after her like one asleep.

CHAPTER VI

OF THE WORDS AND JEALOUSY OF CHARMION; OF THE LAUGHTER OF HARMACHIS; OF THE MAKING READY FOR THE DEED OF BLOOD; AND OF THE