“Now I will go to sleep.  If my awakening brings defeat, sorrow, and death, I have no reason to accuse my fate.  It denied me one thing only the painless peace which the child and the young girl recognized as the chief good; yet Cleopatra will possess that also.  The domain of death, which, as the Egyptians say, loves silence, is opening its doors to me.  The most absolute peace begins upon its threshold—­who knows where it ends?  The vision of the intellect does not extend far enough to discover the boundary where, at the end of eternity—­which in truth is endless—­ it is replaced by something else.”

While speaking, the Queen had motioned to her friend to accompany her into her chamber, from which a door led into the children’s room.  An irresistible impulse constrained her to open it and gaze into the dark, empty apartment.

She felt an icy chill run through her veins.  Taking a light from the hand of one of the maids who attended her, she went to little Alexander’s couch.  Like the others, it was empty, deserted.  Her head sank on her breast, the courageous calmness with which she had surveyed her whole past life failed and, like the luxuriant riot in the sky of the most brilliant hues, ere the glow of sunset suddenly yields to darkness, Cleopatra’s soul, after the lofty elation of the last few hours, underwent a sudden transition and, overwhelmed by deep, sorrowful depression, she threw herself down before the twins’ bed, where she lay weeping softly until Charmian, as day began to dawn, urged her to retire to rest.  Cleopatra slowly rose, dried her eyes, and said:  “My past life seemed to me just now like a magnificent garden, but how many serpents suddenly stretched out their flat heads with glittering eyes and forked tongues!  Who tore away the flowers beneath which they lay concealed?  I think, Charmian, it was a mysterious power which here, in the children’s apartment, rules so strongly the most trivial as well as the strongest emotions, it was—­when did I last hear that ominous word?—­it was conscience.  Here, in this abode of innocence and purity, whatever resembles a spot stands forth distinctly before the eyes.  Here, O Charmian!—­if the children were but here!  If I could only—­yet, no, no!  It is fortunate, very fortunate that they have gone.  I must be strong; and their sweet grace would rob me of my energy.  But the light grows brighter and brighter.  Dress me for the day.  It would be easier for me to sleep in a falling house than with such a tumult in my heart.”

While she was being attired in the dark robes she had ordered, loud shouts arose from the royal harbour below, blended with the blasts of the tuba and other signals directing the movements of the fleet and the army, a large body of troops having been marched during the night to the neighbouring hills overlooking the sea.

The notes sounded bold and warlike.  The well-armed galleys presented a stately appearance.  How often Cleopatra had seen unexpected events occur, apparent impossibilities become possible!  Had not the victory of Octavianus at Actium been a miracle?  What if Fate, like a capricious ruler, now changed from frowns to smiles?  What if Antony proved himself the hero of yesterday, the general he had been in days of yore?