the solitude.  The child, the daughter of the man whose love I renounced, and afterwards perhaps her sons and daughters, would fill the place of my own.  As they would have been dear to Leonax, I, too, would have loved them!  This is the guise in which the future has appeared to me in many a quiet hour.  But shall Charmian—­who, when her heart throbbed still more warmly and life lay fair before her, laid her first love upon the altar of sacrifice for her royal playfellow —­abandon Cleopatra in misfortune from mere selfish scruples?  No, no!—­ Like you, I too belong—­come what may—­to the Queen.”

She gazed into her brother’s face, sure of his approval but, waving his uplifted hand, he answered gravely:  “No, Charmian!  What I, a man, can assume, might be fatal to you, a woman.  The present is not sweet enough for me to embitter it with wormwood from the future.  And yet you must cast one glance into its gloomy domain, in order to understand me.  You can be silent, and what you now learn will be a secret between us.  Only one thing”—­here he lowered the loud tones of his deep voice—­“only one thing can save her:  the murder of Antony, or an act of shameless treachery which would deliver him into Octavianus’s power.  This is the proposal Timagenes brought.”

“This?” she asked in a hollow tone, her grey head drooping.

“This,” he repeated firmly.  “And if she succumbs to the temptation, she will be faithless to the love which has coursed through her whole life as the Nile flows through the land of her ancestors.  Then, Charmian, stay, stay under any circumstances, cling to her more firmly than ever, for then, then, my sister, she will be more wretched—­ten, a hundred fold more wretched than if Octavianus deprives her of everything, perhaps even life itself.”

“Nor will I leave her, come what may.  I will remain at her side until the end,” cried Charmian eagerly.  But Archibius, without noticing the enthusiastic ardor, so unusual to his sister’s quiet nature, calmly continued:  “She won your heart also, and it seems impossible for you to desert her.  Many have shared our feelings; and it is no disgrace to any one.  Misfortune is a weapon which cleaves base natures like a sword, yet like a hammer welds noble ones more closely.  To you, therefore, it now seems doubly difficult to leave her, but you need love.  The right to live and guard yourself from the most pitiable retrogression is your due, as much as that of the rare woman on the throne.  So long as you are sure of her love, remain with her, and show your devotion in every situation until the end.  But the motives which were drawing you away to books, flowers, and children, weigh heavily in the balance, and if you lack the anchor of her favour and love, I shall see you perish miserably.  The frost emanating from Cleopatra, if her heart grew cold to you, the pin-pricks with which Iras would assail you, were you defenceless, would kill you.  This must not be, sister; we will guard against it Do not interrupt me.  The counsel I advise you to follow has been duly weighed.  If you see that the Queen still loves you as in former days, cling to her; but should you learn the contrary, bid her farewell to-morrow.  My Irenia is yours—­”