Yesterday and to-day had brought events and called up questions which forced Barine’s disappearance into the realm of unimportant matters.

Charmian’s confession was preceded by the statement that she longed for rest yet, nevertheless, was ready to remain with her royal friend, in every situation, until she no longer desired her services and sent her away.  But she feared that this moment had come.

Cleopatra interrupted her with the assurance that she was speaking of something utterly impossible; and when Charmian disclosed Barine’s escape, and admitted that it was she who had aided the flight of the innocent and sorely threatened granddaughter of Didymus, the Queen started up angrily and frowned, but it was only for a moment.  Then, with a smile, she shook her finger at her friend, embraced her, and gravely but kindly assured her that, of all vices, ingratitude was most alien to her nature.  The companion of her childhood had bestowed so many proofs of faithfulness, love, self-sacrifice, and laborious service in her behalf that they could not be long outweighed by a single act of wilful disobedience.  An abundant supply would still remain, by virtue of which she might continue to sin without fearing that Cleopatra would ever part from her Charmian.

The latter again perceived that nothing on earth could be hostile or sharp enough to sever the bond which united her to this woman.  When her lips overflowed with the gratitude which filled her heart, Cleopatra admitted that it seemed as if, in aiding Barine’s escape, she had rendered her a service.  The caution with which Charmian had concealed Barine’s refuge had not escaped her notice, and she did not ask to learn it.  It was enough for her that the dangerous beauty was out of Caesarion’s reach.  As for Antony, a wall now separated him from the world, and consequently from the woman who, spite of Alexas’s accusations, had probably never stood closer to his heart.

Charmian now eagerly strove to show the Queen what had induced the Syrian to pursue Barine so vindictively.  It was evident—­and scarcely needed proof—­that Mark Antony’s whole acquaintanceship with the old scholar’s granddaughter had been far from leading to any tender relation.  But Cleopatra gave only partial attention.  The man whom she had loved with every pulsation of her heart already seemed to her only a dear memory.  She did not forget the happiness enjoyed with and through him, or the wrong she had done by the use of the magic goblet; yet with the wall on the Choma, which divided him from her and the rest of the world, and her command to have the mausoleum built, she imagined that the season of love was over.  Any new additions to this chapter of the life of her heart were but the close.  Even the jealousy which had clouded the happiness of her love like a fleeting, rapidly changing shadow, she believed she had now renounced forever.