But the old man was not asleep, and had anticipated her.  She recognized, with a low cry of terror, the first person who entered the lighted vestibule—­Alexas.  Iras followed, her head closely muffled, for the storm was still howling through the streets.  Last of all a lantern-bearer crossed the threshold.

The Syrian saluted the startled young beauty with a formal bow, but Iras, without a greeting or even a single word of preparation, delivered the Queen’s command, and then read aloud, by the light of the lantern, what Cleopatra had scrawled upon the wax tablet.

When Barine, pallid and scarcely able to control her emotion, requested the messengers who had arrived at so late an hour to enter, in order to give her time to prepare for the night drive and take leave of her mother, Iras vouchsafed no reply, but, as if she had the right to rule the house, merely ordered the doorkeeper to bring his mistress’s cloak without delay.

While the old man, with trembling knees, moved away, Iras asked if the wounded Dion was in the dwelling; and Barine, her self-control restored by the question, answered, with repellent pride, that the Queen’s orders did not command her to submit to an examination in her own house.

Iras shrugged her shoulders and said, sneeringly, to Alexas: 

“In truth, I asked too much.  One who attracts so many men of all ages can scarcely be expected to know the abode of each individual.”

“The heart has a faithful memory,” replied the Syrian in a tone of correction, but Iras echoed, contemptuously, “The heart!”

Then all were silent until, instead of the doorkeeper, Berenike herself came hurrying in, bringing the cloak.  With pallid face and bloodless lips she wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulders, whispering, amid floods of tears, almost inaudible words of love and encouragement, which Iras interrupted by requesting Barine to follow her to the carriage.

The mother and daughter embraced and kissed each other, then the closed equipage bore the persecuted woman through the storm and darkness to Lochias.

Not a word was exchanged between Barine and the Queen’s messengers until they reached the room where the former was to await Cleopatra; but here Iras again endeavoured to induce her to speak.  At the first question, however, Barine answered that she had no information to give.

The room was as bright as if it were noonday, though the lights flickered constantly, for the wind found its way through the thin shutters closing the windows on both sides of the corner room, and a strong, cold draught swept in.  Barine wrapped her cloak more closely around her; the storm which howled about the sea-washed palace harmonized with the vehement agitation of her soul.  Whether she had looked within or without, there was nothing which could have soothed her save the assurance of being loved—­an assurance that held fear at bay.  Now, indignation