“Yea, Harmachis, the guards tramp before thy door, but be not deceived.  Did I not know that I hold thee to me by bonds more strong than prison chains—­did I not know that I am hedged from ill at thy hands by a fence of honour harder for thee to pass than all the spears of all my legions, thou hadst been dead ere now, Harmachis.  See, here is thy knife,” and she handed me the dagger; “now slay me if thou canst,” and she drew near, tore open the bosom of her robe, and stood waiting with calm eyes.

“Thou canst not slay me,” she went on; “for there are things, as I know well, that no man—­no man such as thou art—­may do and live:  and this is the chief of them—­to slay the woman who is all his own.  Nay, stay thy hand!  Turn not that dagger against thy breast, for if thou mayst not slay me, by how much more mayst thou not slay thyself, O thou forsworn Priest of Isis!  Art thou, then, so eager to face that outraged Majesty in Amenti?  With what eyes, thinkest thou, will the Heavenly Mother look upon Her son, who, shamed in all things and false to his most sacred vow, comes to greet Her, his life-blood on his hands?  Where, then, will be the space for thy atonement?—­if, indeed, thou mayest atone!”

Then I could bear no more, for my heart was broken.  Alas! it was too true—­I dared not die!  I was come to such a pass that I did not even dare to die!  I flung myself upon the couch and wept—­wept tears of blood and anguish.

But Cleopatra came to me, and, seating herself beside me, she strove to comfort me, throwing her arms about my neck.

“Nay, love, look up,” she said; “all is not lost for thee, nor am I angered against thee.  We did play a mighty game; but, as I warned thee, I matched my woman’s magic against thine, and I have conquered.  But I will be open with thee.  Both as Queen and woman thou hast my pity—­ay, and more; nor do I love to see thee plunged in sorrow.  It was well and right that thou shouldst strive to win back that throne my fathers seized, and the ancient liberty of Egypt.  Myself as lawful Queen had done the same, nor shrunk from the deed of darkness to which I was sworn.  Therein, then, thou hast my sympathy, that ever goes out to what is great and bold.  It is well also that thou shouldst grieve over the greatness of thy fall.  Therein, then, as woman—­as loving woman—­thou hast my sympathy.  Nor is all lost.  Thy plan was foolish—­for, as I hold, Egypt could never have stood alone—­for though thou hadst won the crown and country—­as without a doubt thou must have done—­yet there was the Roman to be reckoned with.  And for thy hope learn this:  I am little known.  There is no heart in this wide land that beats with a truer love for ancient Khem than does this heart of mine—­nay, not thine own, Harmachis.  Yet I have been heavily shackled heretofore—­for wars, rebellions, envies, plots, have hemmed me in on every side, so that I might not serve my people as I would.  But thou, Harmachis, shalt show me how.  Thou