When Archibius paused, the young beauty assured him that she understood him; and as the alabaster hanging lamp and a three-branched light cast a brilliant glow upon the portrait which her father had painted of the nineteen-year-old Queen, and afterwards copied for his own household, she pointed to it, and, pursuing the current of her own thoughts, asked the question: 

“Was she not marvellously beautiful at that time?”

“As your father’s work represents her,” was the reply.  “Leonax painted the portrait of Octavia, on the opposite side, the same year, and perhaps the artist deemed the Roman the fairer woman.”  He pointed as he spoke to a likeness of Octavianus’s sister, whom Barine’s father had painted as the young wife of Marcellus, her first husband.

“Oh, no!” said Berenike.  “I still remember perfectly how Leonax returned in those days.  What woman might not have been jealous of his enthusiasm for the Roman Hera?  At that time I had not seen the portrait, and when I asked whether he thought Octavia more beautiful than the Queen, for whom Eros had inflamed his heart, as in the case of most of the beautiful women he painted, he exclaimed—­you know his impetuous manner—­’Octavia stands foremost in the ranks of those who are called “beautiful” or “less beautiful”; the other, Cleopatra, stands alone, and can be compared with no one.’”

Archibius bent his head in assent, then said firmly, “But, as a child, when I first saw her, she would have been the fairest even in the dance of the young gods of love.”

“How old was she then?” asked Barine, eagerly.

“Eight years,” he answered.  “How far in the past it is, yet I have not forgotten a single hour!  “Barine now earnestly entreated him to tell them the story of those days, but Archibius gazed thoughtfully at the floor for some time ere he raised his head and answered:  “Perhaps it will be well if you learn more of the woman for whose sake I ask a sacrifice at your hands.  Arius is your brother and uncle.  He stands near to Octavianus, for he was his intellectual guide, and I know that he reveres the Roman’s sister, Octavia, as a goddess.  Antony is now struggling with Octavianus for the sovereignty of the world.  Octavia succumbed in the conflict against the woman of whom you desire to hear.  It is not my place to judge her, but I may instruct and warn.  Roman nations burn incense to Octavia, and, when Cleopatra’s name is uttered, they veil their faces indignantly.  Here in Alexandria many imitate them.  Whoever upholds shining purity may hope to win a share of the radiance emanating from it.  They call Octavia the lawful wife, and Cleopatra the criminal who robbed her of her husband’s heart.”