he swung his mighty figure ashore like a youth, while his handsome, heroic face beamed with ardent love for me!  And then—­you do not forget it either—­when he raised his deep voice to shout the first greeting, why, it seemed as if the very fish in the water must join in, and the palm-trees on the shore wave their feathery tops in joyous sympathy.  And here!  The dreams of my childhood, which I made reality for him, received us, and our existence, wreathed with love and roses, became a fairy tale.  Since the day he rode towards us at Kanopus and offered me the first bouquet, with his sunny glance wooing my love, his image has stood before my soul as the embodiment of the virile strength which conquers everything, and the bright, undimmed joy which renders the whole world happy.  And now—­now?  Do you remember the dull dreamer whom we left ere he set forth for Paraetonium?  But no, no, a thousand times no, he must not remain so!  Not with bowed head, but erect as in the days of happiness, must he cross the threshold of Hades, hand in hand with her whom he loved.  And he does love me still.  Else would he have followed me hither, though no magic goblet drew him after me?  And I?  The heart which, in the breast of the child, gave him its first young love, is still his, and will be forever.  Might I not go to the harbour and await him there?  Look me in the face, Charmian, and answer me as fearlessly as a mirror:  did Olympus really succeed in effacing the wrinkles?”

“They were scarcely visible before,” was the reply, “and even the keenest eye could no longer discover them.  I have brought the pomade, too, and the prescription Olympus gave me for—­”

“Hush, hush!” interrupted Cleopatra softly.  “There are many living creatures in this garden, and they say that even the birds are good listeners.”

A roguish smile deepened the dimples in her cheeks as she spoke, and delight in her bewitching grace forced from Charmian’s lips the exclamation: 

“If Mark Antony could only see you now!”

“Flatterer!” replied the Queen with a grateful smile.  But Charmian felt that the time had now come to plead once more for Barine, and she began eagerly: 

“No, I certainly do not flatter.  No one in Alexandria, no matter what name she bears, could venture to vie even remotely with your charms.  So cease the persecution of the unfortunate woman whom you confided to my care.  It is an insult to Cleopatra—­”

But here an indignant “Again!” interrupted her.

Cleopatra’s face, which during the conversation had mirrored every emotion of a woman’s soul, from the deepest sorrow to the most mischievous mirth, assumed an expression of repellent harshness, and, with the curt remark, “You are forgetting what I had good reason to forbid—­I must go to my work,” she turned her back upon the companion of her youth.

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