Charmian, sorely wearied, had flung herself into an arm-chair, and Archibius took his place opposite to her.  They were happy in each other’s society, even when silent; but to-day the hearts of both were so full that they fared like those who are so worn out by fatigue that they cannot sleep.  How much they had to tell each other!—­yet it was long ere Charmian broke the silence and returned to the subject of the Queen’s wish, describing to her brother Cleopatra’s visit to the house which the children had built, how kind and cordial she had been; yet, a few minutes later, incensed by the mere mention of Barine’s name, she had dismissed her so ungraciously.

“I do not know what you intend,” she said in conclusion, “but, notwithstanding my love for her, I must perhaps decide in favour of what is most difficult, for—­when she learns that it was I who withdrew the daughter of Leonax from her and the base Alexas—­what treatment can I expect, especially as Iras no longer gives me the same affection, and shows that she has forgotten my love and care?  This will increase, and the worst of the matter is, that if the Queen begins to favour her, I cannot justly reproach her, for Iras is keener-witted, and has a more active brain.  Statecraft was always odious to me.  Iras, on the contrary, is delighted with the opportunity to speak on subjects connected with the government of the country, and especially the ceaseless, momentous game with Rome and the men who guide her destiny.”

“That game is lost,” Archibius broke in with so much earnestness that Charmian started, repeating in a low, timid tone: 

“Lost?”

“Forever,” said Archibius, “unless—­

“The Olympians be praised—­that there is still a doubt.”

“Unless Cleopatra can decide to commit an act which will force her to be faithless to herself, and destroy her noble image through all future generations.”

“How?”

“Whenever you learn it, will be too soon.”

“And suppose she should do it, Archibius?  You are her most trusted confidant.  She will place in your charge what she loves more than she does herself.”

“More?  You mean, I suppose, the children?”

“The children!  Yes, a hundred times yes.  She loves them better than aught else on earth.  For them, believe me, she would be ready to go to her death.”

“Let us hope so.”

“And you—­were she to commit the horrible deed—­I can only suspect what it is.  But should she descend from the height which she has hitherto occupied—­would you still be ready—­”

“With me,” he interrupted quietly, “what she does or does not do matters nothing.  She is unhappy and will be plunged deeper and deeper into misery.  I know this, and it constrains me to exert my utmost powers in her service.  I am hers as the hermit consecrated to Serapis belongs to the god.  His every thought must be devoted to him.  To the deity who created him he dedicates body and soul until the death to which he dooms him.  The bonds which unite me to this woman—­you know their origin—­are not less indestructible.  Whatever she desires whose fulfilment will not force me to despise myself is granted in advance.”