“You are a slanderer! a base calumniator!  The Roman attacks you with naked weapons, but you slink in the dark, like a scorpion, and try to sting your enemy in the heel.  Apelles, the painter, warns us—­the grandchildren of Lagus—­against folks of your kidney in the picture he painted against Antiphilus; as I look at you I am reminded of his Demon of Calumny.  The same spite and malice gleam in your eyes as in hers, and the same fury and greed for some victim, fire your flushed face!  How you would rejoice if the youth whom Apelles has represented Calumny as clutching by the hair, could but be Publius! and if only the lean and hollow-eyed form of Envy, and the loathsome female figures of Cunning and Treachery would come to your did as they have to hers!  But I remember too the steadfast and truthful glance of the boy she has flung to the ground, his arms thrown up to heaven, appealing for protection to the goddess and the king—­and though Publius Scipio is man enough to guard himself against open attack, I will protect him against being surprised from an ambush!  Leave this room!  Go, I say, and you shall see how we punish slanderers!”

At these words Eulaeus flung himself at the queen’s feet, but she, breathing hurriedly and with quivering nostrils, looked away over his head as if she did not even see him, till her husband came towards her, and said in a voice of most winning gentleness: 

“Do not condemn him unheard, and raise him from his abasement.  At least give him the opportunity of softening your indignation by bringing the water-bearer here without angering Asclepiodorus.  Carry out this affair well, Eulaeus, and you will find in me an advocate with Cleopatra.”

The king pointed to the door, and Eulaeus retired, bowing deeply and finding his way out backwards.  Philometer, now alone with his wife, said with mild reproach: 

“How could you abandon yourself to such unmeasured anger?  So faithful and prudent a servant—­and one of the few still living of those to whom our mother was attached—­cannot be sent away like a mere clumsy attendant.  Besides, what is the great crime he has committed?  Is it a slander which need rouse you to such fury when a cautious old man says in all innocence of a young one—­a man belonging to a world which knows nothing of the mysterious sanctity of Serapis—­that he has taken a fancy to a girl, who is admired by all who see her, that he seeks her out, and gives her flowers—­”

“Gives her flowers?” exclaimed Cleopatra, breaking out afresh.  “No, he is accused of persecuting a maiden attached to Serapis—­to Serapis I say.  But it is simply false, and you would be as angry as I am if you were ever capable of feeling manly indignation, and if you did not want to make use of Eulaeus for many things, some of which I know, and others which you choose to conceal from me.  Only let him fetch the girl; and when once we have her here, and if I find that the Roman’s indictment against Eulaeus—­which I will hear to-morrow morning—­is well founded, you shall see that I have manly vigor enough for both of us.  Come away now; they are waiting for us in the other room.”