steps of the staircase, down which I was hastening, were already behind me—­then—­then Proculejus, with two men, suddenly dashed from the intense darkness on the other side.  Scarcely able to control myself, I sprang down the remaining steps, and while Iras’s shrill cry, ’Poor Cleopatra, they will capture you!’ still rang in my ears, I saw the betrayed Queen turn from the door through which, resolved on death, she was saying something to Gallus, perceive Proculejus close behind her, thrust her hand into her girdle, and with the speed of lightning—­you have already heard so—­throw up her arm with the little dagger to bury the sharp blade in her breast.  What a picture!  In the full radiance of the brilliant light, she resembled a statue of triumphant victory or of noble pride in great deeds accomplished; and then, then, only an instant later, what an outrage was inflicted!

“Like a robber, an assassin, Proculejus rushed upon her, seized her arm, and wrested the weapon from her grasp.  His tall figure concealed her from me.  But when, struggling to escape from the ruffian’s clutch, she again turned her face towards the hall, what a transformation had occurred!  Her eyes—­you know how large they are—­were twice their usual size, and blazed with scorn, fury, and hatred for the traitor.  The cheering light had become a consuming fire.  So I imagine the vengeance, the curse which calls down ruin upon the head of a foe.  And Proculejus, the great lord, the poet whose noble nature is praised by the authors on the banks of the Tiber, held the defenceless woman, the worthy daughter of a brilliant line of kings, in a firm grasp, as if it required the exertion of all his strength to master this delicate embodiment of charming womanhood.  True, the proud blood of the outwitted lioness urged her to resist this profanation, and Proculejus—­an enviable honour—­made her feel the superior strength of his arm.  I am no prophet, but Dion, I repeat, this shameful struggle and the glances which flashed upon him will be remembered to his dying hour.  Had they been darted at me, I should have cursed my life.

“They blanched even the Roman’s cheeks.  He was lividly pale as he completed what he deemed his duty.  His own aristocratic hands were degraded to the menial task of searching the garments of a woman, the Queen, for forbidden wares, poisons or weapons.  He was aided by one of Caesar’s freedmen, Epaphroditus, who is said to stand so high in the favour of Octavianus.

“The scoundrel also searched Iras and Charmian, yet all the time both Romans constantly spoke in cajoling terms of Caesar’s favour; and his desire to grant Cleopatra everything which was due a Queen.

“At last she was taken back to Lochias, but I felt like a madman; for the image of the unfortunate woman pursued me like my shadow.  It was no longer a vision of the bewitching sovereign nay, it resembled the incarnation of despair, tearless anguish, wrath demanding vengeance.  I will not describe it; but those eyes, those flashing, threatening eyes, and the tangled hair on which Antony’s blood had flowed-terrible, horrible!  My heart grew chill, as if I had seen upon Athene’s shield the head of the Medusa with its serpent locks.