Nor could the multitude be blamed for this confidence; for at the Serapeum, the theatre of Dionysus, the lofty pylons of the Sebasteum, the main door of the museum, in front of the entrance of the palace in the Bruchium, and before the fortress-like palaces in the Lochias, triumphal arches had been erected, adorned with gods of victory and trophies hastily constructed of plaster, inscriptions of congratulations and thanks to the deities, garlands of foliage and flowers.  The wreathing of the Egyptian pylons and obelisks, the principal temple, and the favourite statues in the city had been commenced during the night.  The last touches were now being given to the work.

Gorgias, like his friend Dion, had not closed his eyes since the night before; for he had had charge of all the decorations of the Bruchium, where one superb building adjoined another.

Sleep had also fled from the couches of the occupants of the Sebasteum, the royal palace where Iras lived during the absence of the Queen, and the practorium, facing its southern front, which contained the official residence of the Regent.

When Archibius was conducted to the Queen’s waiting-woman, her appearance fairly startled him.  She had been his guest in Kanopus only the day before yesterday, and how great was the alteration within this brief time!  Her oval face seemed to have lengthened, the features to have grown sharper; and this woman of seven-and-twenty years, who had hitherto retained all the charms of youth, appeared suddenly to have aged a decade.  There was a feverish excitement in her manner, as, holding out her hand to her uncle, in greeting, she exclaimed hastily, “You, too, bring no good tidings?”

“Nor any evil ones,” he answered quietly.  “But, child, I do not like your appearance—­the dark circles under your keen eyes.  You have had news which rouses your anxiety?”

“Worse than that,” she answered in a low tone.

“Well?”

“Read!” gasped Iras, her lips and nostrils quivering as she handed Archibius a small tablet.  With a gesture of haste very unusual in him, he snatched it from her hand and, as his eyes ran over the words traced upon it, every vestige of colour vanished from his cheeks and lips.

They were written by Cleopatra’s own hand, and contained the following lines: 

“The naval battle was lost—­and by my fault.  The land forces might still save us, but not under his command.  He is with me, uninjured, but apparently exhausted; like a different being, bereft of courage, listless as if utterly crushed.  I foresee the beginning of the end.  As soon as this reaches you, arrange to have some unpretending litters ready for us every evening at sunset.  Make the people believe that we have conquered until trustworthy intelligence arrives concerning the fate of Canidius and the army.  When you kiss the children in my name, be very tender with them.  Who knows how soon they may be orphaned?  They