I stood still, plunged in thought.  Then by hazard as it were I took up the wreath of roses and looked on it.  How long I stood so I know not, but when next I lifted up my eyes they fell upon the form of Charmion, whom, indeed, I had altogether forgotten.  And though at the moment I thought but little of it, I noted vaguely that she was flushed as though with anger, and beat her foot upon the floor.

“Oh, it is thou, Charmion!” I said.  “What ails thee?  Art thou cramped with standing so long in thy hiding-place?  Why didst not thou slip hence when Cleopatra led me to the balcony?”

“Where is my kerchief?” she asked, shooting an angry glance at me.  “I let fall my broidered kerchief.”

“Thy kerchief!—­why, didst thou not see?  Cleopatra twitted me about it, and I flung it from the balcony.”

“Yes, I saw,” answered the girl, “I saw but too well.  Thou didst fling away my kerchief, but the wreath of roses—­that thou wouldst not fling away.  It was ‘a Queen’s gift,’ forsooth, and therefore the royal Harmachis, the Priest of Isis, the chosen of the Gods, the crowned Pharaoh wed to the weal of Khem, cherished it and saved it.  But my kerchief, stung by the laughter of that light Queen, he cast away!”

“What meanest thou?” I asked, astonished at her bitter tone.  “I cannot read thy riddles.”

“What mean I?” she answered, tossing up her head and showing the white curves of her throat.  “Nay, I mean naught, or all; take it as thou wilt.  Wouldst know what I mean, Harmachis, my cousin and my Lord?” she went on in a hard, low voice.  “Then I will tell thee—­thou art in danger of the great offence.  This Cleopatra has cast her fatal wiles about thee, and thou goest near to loving her, Harmachis—­to loving her whom to-morrow thou must slay!  Ay, stand and stare at that wreath in thy hand—­the wreath thou couldst not send to join my kerchief—­sure Cleopatra wore it but to-night!  The perfume of the hair of Caesar’s mistress—­Caesar’s and others’—­yet mingles with the odour of its roses!  Now, prithee, Harmachis, how far didst thou carry the matter on yonder balcony? for in that hole where I lay hid I could not hear or see.  ’Tis a sweet spot for lovers, is it not?—­ay, and a sweet hour, too?  Venus surely rules the stars to-night?”

All of this she said so quietly and in so soft and modest a way, though her words were not modest, and yet so bitterly, that every syllable cut me to the heart, and angered me till I could find no speech.

“Of a truth thou hast a wise economy,” she went on, seeing her advantage:  “to-night thou dost kiss the lips that to-morrow thou shalt still for ever!  It is frugal dealing with the occasion of the moment; ay, worthy and honourable dealing!”

Then at last I broke forth.  “Girl,” I cried, “how darest thou speak thus to me?  Mindest thou who and what I am that thou loosest thy peevish gibes upon me?”

“I mind what it behoves thee to be,” she answered quick.  “What thou art, that I mind not now.  Surely thou knowest alone—­thou and Cleopatra!”