“Say so to the young King, but express yourself cautiously,” replied Archibius as the architect turned towards the carriage.

As soon as Dion and the older man were alone, the latter inquired the cause of the increasing uproar, and as, like every well-disposed Alexandrian, he esteemed Archibius, and knew that he was intimately acquainted with the owner of the imperilled garden, and therefore with his granddaughter Barine, he confided his anxiety to him without reserve.

“Iras is your niece, it is true,” he said in his open-hearted manner, “but I know that you understand her character.  It suits her now to fling a golden apple into the path of a person whom she dislikes and believes incautious, that she may pick it up and thus afford her an opportunity to bring a charge of theft.”

Noting the inquiring glance Archibius fixed upon him as he made this comparison, he changed his tone and continued more earnestly:  “Zeus is great, but destiny is superior even to him.  Zeus can accomplish much, but when Iras and your sister Charmian, who unfortunately is now with the Queen, wish to effect anything, he, like the Regent Mardion, must give way.  The more lovable Cleopatra is, the more surely every one prizes a position near her person above aught else, especially such trifles as law and justice.”

“These are harsh words,” responded Archibius, and seem the more bitter in proportion to the germ of truth which they contain.  Our court shares the fate of every other in the East, and those to whom Rome formerly set the example of holding law and justice sacred—­”

“Can now go there,” interrupted Dion, “to learn how rudely both are trampled under foot.  The sovereigns here and there may smile at one another like the augurs.  They are like brothers—­”

“But with the difference,” Archibius broke in, “that the head of our public affairs is the very embodiment of affability and grace; while in Rome, on the contrary, harsh severity and bloody arrogance, or even repulsive servility, guide the reins.”

Here Archibius interrupted himself to point to the shouting throng advancing towards them.  “You are right,” Dion answered.  “Let us defer this discussion till we can pursue it in the house of the charming Barine.  But I rarely meet you there, though by blood you are so nearly allied to her father.  I am her friend—­at my age that might easily mean her lover.  But in our case the comparison would not suit.  Yet perhaps you will believe me, for you have the right to call yourself the friend of the most bewitching of women.”

A sorrowful smile flitted over the grave, set features of the older man, who, raising his hand as if in protest, answered carelessly:  “I grew up with Cleopatra, but a private citizen loves a queen only as a divinity.  I believe in your friendship for Barine, though I deem it dangerous.”