In the chamber that is called the Alabaster Hall, the roof of which is upborne by columns of black marble, we stayed.  For beyond was the private chamber of Cleopatra, the same in which I had seen her sleeping.

“Abide thou here,” she said, “while I tell Cleopatra of thy coming,” and she glided from my side.

I stood for long, mayhap in all the half of an hour, counting my own heart-beats, and, as in a dream, striving to gather up my strength to that which lay before me.

At length Charmion came back, her head held low and walking heavily.

“Cleopatra waits thee,” she said:  “pass on, there is no guard.”

“Where do I meet thee when what must be done is done?” I asked hoarsely.

“Thou meetest me here, and then to Paulus.  Be firm and prosper.  Harmachis, fare thee well!”

And so I went; but at the curtain I turned suddenly, and there in the midst of that lonely lamplit hall I saw a strange sight.  Far away, in such a fashion that the light struck full upon her, stood Charmion, her head thrown back, her white arms outstretched as though to clasp, and on her girlish face a stamp of anguished passion so terrible to see that, indeed, I cannot tell it!  For she believed that I, whom she loved, was passing to my death, and this was her last farewell to me.

But I knew naught of this matter; so with another passing pang of wonder I drew aside the curtains, gained the doorway, and stood in Cleopatra’s chamber.  And there, upon a silken couch at the far end of the perfumed chamber, clad in wonderful white attire, rested Cleopatra.  In her hand was a jewelled fan of ostrich plumes, with which she gently fanned herself, and by her side was her harp of ivory, and a little table whereon were figs and goblets and a flask of ruby-coloured wine.  I drew near slowly through the soft dim light to where the Wonder of the World lay in all her glowing beauty.  And, indeed, I have never seen her look so fair as she did upon that fatal night.  Couched in her amber cushions, she seemed to shine as a star on the twilight’s glow.  Perfume came from her hair and robes, music fell from her lips, and in her heavenly eyes all lights changed and gathered as in the ominous opal’s disc.

And this was the woman whom, presently, I must slay!

Slowly I drew near, bowing as I came; but she took no heed.  She lay there, and the jewelled fan floated to and fro like the bright wing of some hovering bird.

At length I stood before her, and she glanced up, the ostrich-plumes pressed against her breast as though to hide its beauty.

“What! friend; art thou come?” she said.  “It is well; for I grew lonely here.  Nay; ’tis a weary world!  We know so many faces, and there are so few whom we love to see again.  Well, stand not there so mute, but be seated.”  And she pointed with her fan to a carven chair that was placed near her feet.

Once more I bowed and took the seat.