“Immediately, my love,” replied Philometor.  “But one thing I must tell you, for I know that it will arouse your sympathy.  The Roman read to you the petition for pardon for Philotas, the chief of the Chrematistes and ‘relative of the king,’ which contains such serious charges against Eulaeus.  I was ready with all my heart to grant your wish and to pardon the man who is the father of these miserable water-bearers; but, before having the decree drawn up, I had the lists of the exiles to the gold-mines carefully looked through, and there it was discovered that Philotas and his wife have both been dead more than half a year.  Death has settled this question, and I cannot grant to Publius the first service he has asked of me—­asked with great urgency too.  I am sorry for this, both for his sake and for that of poor Philotas, who was held in high esteem by our mother.”

“May the ravens devour them!” answered Cleopatra, pressing her forehead against the ivory frame which surrounded the stuffed back of her seat.  “Once more I beg of you excuse me from all further speech.”  This time the two kings obeyed her wishes.  When Euergetes offered her his hand she said with downcast eyes, and poking her fan-stick into the wool of the carpet: 

“I will visit you early to-morrow.”

“After the first sacrifice,” added Euergetes.  “If I know you well, something that you will then hear will please you greatly; very greatly indeed, I should think.  Bring the children with you; that I ask of you as a birthday request.”

CHAPTER XX.

The royal chariot in which Klea was standing, wrapped in the cloak and wearing the hat of the captain of the civic guard, went swiftly and without stopping through the streets of Memphis.  As long as she saw houses with lighted windows on each side of the way, and met riotous soldiers and quiet citizens going home from the taverns, or from working late in their workshops, with lanterns in their hands or carried by their slaves—­so long her predominant feeling was one of hatred to Publius; and mixed with this was a sentiment altogether new to her—­a sentiment that made her blood boil, and her heart now stand still and then again beat wildly—­the thought that he might be a wretched deceiver.  Had he not attempted to entrap one of them—­whether her sister or herself it was all the same—­wickedly to betray her, and to get her into his power!

“With me,” thought she, “he could not hope to gain his evil ends, and when he saw that I knew how to protect myself he lured the poor unresisting child away with him, in order to ruin her and to drag her into shame and misery.  Just like Rome herself, who seizes on one country after another to make them her own, so is this ruthless man.  No sooner had that villain Eulaeus’ letter reached him, than he thought himself justified in believing that I too was spellbound by a glance from his eyes, and would spread my wings to fly into his arms; and so he put out his greedy hand to catch me too, and threw aside the splendor and delights of a royal banquet to hurry by night out into the desert, and to risk a hideous death—­for the avenging deities still punish the evildoer.”