“The more you trusted him, the greater would be your error.  The shameless rascal—­he owes everything to Antony—­had received tidings of Actium ere the ships arrived, and had already made overtures to Octavianus when the Imperator came.  The veterans who opposed the treachery were hewn down by the wretch’s orders, but the brave garrison of the city could not be won over to the monstrous crime.  It is due to these men that Mark Antony still lives and did not come to a miserable end at the hands of his own troops.  The twice-defeated general—­a courier brought the news—­will arrive to-night.  Strangely enough, he will not come to Lochias, but to the little palace on the Choma.”

“Poor, poor Queen!” cried Charmian; “how did she bear all this?”

“In the presence of the defeated Candidus and Antony’s messenger like a heroine.  But afterwards——­Her raving did not last long; but the mute, despairing silence!  Ere she had fully recovered her self-command she sent us all away, and I have not seen her since.  But all the thoughts and feelings which dwell here”—­he pointed to his brow and breast—­“have left their abode and linger with her.  I totter from place to place like a soulless body.  O Charmian! what has befallen us?  Where are the days when care and trouble lay buried with the other dead—­the days and nights when my brain united with that of the Queen to transform this desolate earth into the beautiful Elysian Fields, every-day life to a festival, festivals to the very air of Olympus?  What unprecedented scenes of splendour had I not devised for the celebration of the victory, the triumph—­nay, even the entry into Rome!  Whole chests are filled with the sketches, programmes, drawings, and verses.  All who handle brush and chisel, compose and execute music, would have lent their aid, and—­you may believe me-the result would have been something which future generations would have discussed, lauded, and extolled in song.  And now—­now?”

“Now we will double our efforts to save what is yet to be rescued!”

“Rescued?” repeated the courtier in a hollow tone.  “The Queen, too, still clings to this fine word.  When I saw her at work yesterday, it seemed as if I beheld her drawing water with the bottomless vessel of the Danaides.  True, today, when I left her, her arms had fallen—­and in this attitude she now stands before me with her tearful eyes.  And besides, I can’t get my nephew Dion out of my mind.  Cares—­nothing but cares concerning him!  And my intentions towards him were so kind!  My will gives him my entire fortune; but now he actually wants to marry the singer, the daughter of the artist Leonax.  You have taken her under your protection, but surely your own niece, Iras, is dearer to you, so you will approve of my destroying the will if Dion insists upon his own way.  He shall not have a solidus of my property if he does not give up the woman who is a thorn in the Queen’s flesh.  And his choice does not suit our ancient