me.  Then, laughing again, she kissed me on the lips, and said I was indeed her King.  But, remembering how I had been crowned in the halls of Abouthis, and remembering also that wreath of roses of which the odour haunts me yet, I rose, pale with wrath, and cast the trinkets from me, asking how she dared to mock me—­her caged bird.  And I think there was that about me which startled her, for she fell back.

“Nay, Harmachis,” she said, “be not wroth!  How knowest thou that I mock thee?  How knowest thou that thou shalt not be Pharaoh in fact and deed?”

“What meanest thou?” I said.  “Wilt thou, then, wed me before Egypt?  How else can I be Pharaoh now?”

She cast down her eyes.  “Perchance, love, it is in my mind to wed thee,” she said gently.  “Listen,” she went on:  “Thou growest pale, here, in this prison, and thou dost eat little.  Gainsay me not!  I know it from the slaves.  I have kept thee here, Harmachis, for thy own sake, that is so dear to me; and for thy own sake, and thy honour’s sake, thou must still seem to be my prisoner.  Else wouldst thou be shamed and slain—­ay, murdered secretly.  But I can meet thee here no more! therefore to-morrow I shall free thee in all, save in the name, and thou shalt once more be seen at Court as my astronomer.  And I will give this reason—­that thou hast cleared thyself; and, moreover, that thy auguries as regards the war have been auguries of truth—­as, indeed, they have, though for this I have no cause to thank thee, seeing that thou didst suit thy prophecies to fit thy cause.  Now, farewell; for I must return to those heavy-browed ambassadors; and grow not so sudden wroth, Harmachis, for who knows what may come to pass betwixt thee and me?”

And, with a little nod, she went, leaving it on my mind that she had it in her heart to wed me openly.  And of a truth, I believe that, at this hour, such was her thought.  For, if she loved me not, still she held me dear, and as yet she had not wearied of me.

On the morrow Cleopatra came not, but Charmion came—­Charmion, whom I had not seen since that fatal night of ruin.  She entered and stood before me, with pale face and downcast eyes, and her first words were words of bitterness.

“Pardon me,” she said, in her gentle voice, “in that I dare to come to thee in Cleopatra’s place.  Thy joy is not delayed for long, for thou shalt see her presently.”

I shrank at her words, as well I might, and, seeing her vantage, she seized it.

“I come, Harmachis—­royal no more!—­I come to say that thou art free!  Thou art free to face thine own infamy, and see it thrown back from every eye which trusted thee, as shadows are from water.  I come to tell thee that the great plot—­the plot of twenty years and more—­is at its utter end.  None have been slain, indeed, unless it is Sepa, who has vanished.  But all the leaders have been seized and put in chains, or driven from the land, and their party is broken and scattered.  The storm has melted before it burst.  Egypt is lost, and lost for ever, for her last hope is gone!  No longer may she struggle—­now for all time she must bow her neck to the yoke, and bare her back to the rod of the oppressor!”