Betrayed by her brother, abandoned by her husband, parted from her children, scorned by the man she had loved, dethroned and powerless, too weak and too utterly crushed to dream of revenge—­she spent two interminably long hours in the keenest anguish of mind, shut up in her prison which was overloaded with splendor and with gifts.  If poison had been within her reach, in that hour she would unhesitatingly have put an end to her ruined life.  Now she walked restlessly up and down, asking herself what her fate would be, and now she flung herself on the couch and gave herself up to dull despair.

There lay the lyre she had given to her brother; her eye fell on the relievo of the marriage of Cadmus and Harmonia, and on the figure of a woman who was offering a jewel to the bride.  The bearer of the gift was the goddess of love, and the ornament she gave—­so ran the legend—­brought misfortune on those who inherited it.  All the darkest hours of her life revived in her memory, and the blackest of them all had come upon her as the outcome of Aphrodite’s gifts.  She thought with a shudder of the murdered Roman, and remembered the moment when Eulaeus had told her that her Bithynian lover had been killed by wild beasts.  She rushed from one door to another—­the victim of the avenging Eumenides—­shrieked from the window for rescue and help, and in that one hour lived through a whole year of agonies and terrors.

At last—­at last, the door of the room was opened, and Euergetes came towards her, clad in the purple, with the crown of the two countries on his grand head, radiant with triumph and delight.

“All hail to you, sister!” he exclaimed in a cheerful tone, and lifting the heavy crown from his curling hair.  “You ought to be proud to-day, for your own brother has risen to high estate, and is now King of Upper and Lower Egypt.”

Cleopatra turned from him, but he followed her and tried to take her hand.  She however snatched it away, exclaiming: 

“Fill up the measure of your deeds, and insult the woman whom you have robbed and made a widow.  It was with a prophecy on your lips that you went forth just now to perpetrate your greatest crime; but it falls on your own head, for you laugh over our misfortune—­and it cannot regard me, for my blood does not run cold; I am not overwhelmed nor hopeless, and I shall—­”

“You,” interrupted Euergetes, at first with a loud voice, which presently became as gentle as though he were revealing to her the prospect of a future replete with enjoyment, “You shall retire to your roof-tent with your children, and there you shall be read to as much as you like, eat as many dainties as you can, wear as many splendid dresses as you can desire, receive my visits and gossip with me as often as my society may seem agreeable to you—­as yours is to me now and at all times.  Besides all this you may display your sparkling wit before as many Greek and Jewish men of letters or learning