For a moment I stood struck dumb, for the magic of her voice and the power of her speech, despite myself, stirred me like the rush of music.  Had I loved the woman, doubtless she might have fired me with her flame; but I loved her not, and I could not play at passion.  And so thought came, and with thought that laughing mood, which is ever apt to fashion upon nerves strained to the point of breaking.  In a flash, as it were, I bethought me of the way in which she had that very night forced the wreath of roses on my head, I thought of the kerchief and how I had flung it forth.  I thought of Charmion in the little chamber watching what she held to be the arts of Cleopatra, and of her bitter speeches.  Lastly, I thought of what my uncle Sepa would say of her could he see her now, and of the strange and tangled skein in which I was inmeshed.  And I laughed aloud—­the fool’s laughter that was my knell of ruin!

She turned whiter yet—­white as the dead—­and a look grew upon her face that checked my foolish mirth.  “Thou findest, then, Harmachis,” she said in a low, choked voice, and dropping the level of her eyes, “thou findest cause of merriment in what I have said?”

“Nay,” I answered; “nay, Charmion; forgive me if I laughed.  It was rather a laugh of despair; for what am I to say to thee?  Thou hast spoken high words of all thou mightest be:  is it left for me to tell thee what thou art?”

She shrank, and I paused.

“Speak,” she said.

“Thou knowest—­none so well!—­who I am and what my mission is:  thou knowest—­none so well!—­that I am sworn to Isis, and may, by law Divine, have naught to do with thee.”

“Ay,” she broke in, in her low voice, and with her eyes still fixed upon the ground—­“ay, and I know that thy vows are broken in spirit, if not in form—­broken like wreaths of cloud; for, Harmachis—­thou lovest Cleopatra!”

“It is a lie!” I cried.  “Thou wanton girl, who wouldst seduce me from my duty and put me to an open shame!—­who, led by passion or ambition, or the love of evil, hast not shamed to break the barriers of thy sex and speak as thou hast spoken—­beware lest thou go too far!  And if thou wilt have an answer, here it is, put straightly, as thy question.  Charmion, outside the matter of my duty and my vows, thou art naught to me!—­nor for all thy tender glances will my heart beat one pulse more fast!  Hardly art thou now my friend—­for, of a truth, I scarce can trust thee.  But, once more:  beware!  To me thou mayest do thy worst; but if thou dost dare to lift a finger against our cause, that day thou diest!  And now, is this play done?”

And as, wild with anger, I spoke thus, she shrank back, and yet further back, till at length she rested against the wall, her eyes covered with her hand.  But when I ceased she dropped her hand, glancing up, and her face was as the face of a statue, in which the great eyes glowed like embers, and round them was a ring of purple shadow.