“That I will leave to your feminine delicacy of feeling,” replied Lucilius.  “Yet I have come with a request whose fulfilment will perhaps contain the answer.  Eros, Mark Antony’s faithful body-slave, humbly petitions your Majesty to grant him a few minutes’ audience.  You know the worthy fellow.  He would die for you and his master, and he—­I once heard from your lips the remark of King Antiochus, that no man was great to his body-slave—­thus Eros sees his master’s weaknesses and lofty qualities from a nearer point of view than we, and he is shrewd.  Antony gave him his freedom long ago, and if your Majesty does not object to receiving a man so low in station—­”

“Let him come,” replied Cleopatra.  “Your demand upon me is just.  Unhappily, I am but too well aware of the atonement due your friend.  Before you came, I was engaged in making preparations for the fulfilment of one of his warmest wishes.”

With these words she dismissed the Roman.  Her feelings as she watched his departure were of very mingled character.  The yearning for the happiness of which she had been so long deprived had again awaked, while the unkind words which he had applied to her still rankled in her heart.  But the door had scarcely closed behind Lucilius when the usher announced a deputation of the members of the museum.

The learned gentlemen came to complain of the wrong which had been done to their colleague, Didymus, and also to express their loyalty during these trying times.  Cleopatra assured them of her favour, and said that she had already offered ample compensation to the old philosopher.  In a certain sense she was one of themselves.  They all knew that, from early youth, she had honoured and shared their labours.  In proof of this, she would present to the library of the museum the two hundred thousand volumes from Pergamus, one of the most valuable gifts Mark Antony had ever bestowed upon her, and which she had hitherto regarded merely as a loan.  This she hoped would repay Didymus for the injury which, to her deep regret, had been inflicted upon him, and at least partially repair the loss sustained by the former library of the museum during the conflagration in the Bruchium.

The sages, eagerly assuring her of their gratitude and devotion, retired.  Most of them were personally known to Cleopatra who, to their mutual pleasure and advantage, had measured her intellectual powers with the most brilliant minds of their body.

The sun had already set, when a procession of the priests of Serapis, the chief god of the city, whose coming had been announced the day before, appeared at Lochias.  Accompanied by torch and lantern bearers, it moved forward with slow and solemn majesty.  In harmony with the nature of Serapis, there were many reminders of death.