Archibius said that, even in the worst case, it could not render the present state of affairs darker.  Experience, he said to Charmian, proved that no man of any feeling could wholly resist the charm of her nature, and to him at least she had never seemed more winning than now.  Who could have gazed unmoved into the beautiful face, so eloquent in its silent suffering, whose soul would not have been deeply touched by the sorrowful tones of her sweet voice?  Besides, her sable mourning robes were so well suited to the slight tinge of melancholy which pervaded her whole aspect.  When the fever flushed her cheeks, Archibius, spite of the ravages which grief, anxiety, and fear had made upon her charms, thought that he had never seen her look more beautiful.  He knew her thoroughly, and was aware that her desire to follow the man she loved into the realm of death was sincere; nay, that it dominated her whole being.  She clung to life only to die as soon as possible.  The decision which, after her resolve to build the monument, she had recognized in the temple of Berenike as the right one, had become the rule of conduct of her life.  Every thought, every conversation, led her back to the past.  The future seemed to exist no longer.  If Archibius succeeded in directing her thoughts to approaching days she occupied herself wholly with her children’s fate.  For herself she expected nothing, felt absolved from every duty except the one of protecting herself and her name from dishonour and humiliation.

The fact that Octavianus, when he doomed Caesarion to death, permitted the other children to return to her with the assurance that no harm should befall them, proved that he made a distinction between them and his uncle’s son, and had no fears that they threatened his own safety.  She might expect important results in their favour from an interview with Octavianus, so she at last authorized Proculejus to request an audience.

The Imperator’s answer came the very same day.  It was his place to seek her—­so ran the Caesar’s message.  This meeting must decide her fate.  Cleopatra was aware of this, and begged Charmian to remember the asp.

Her attendants had been forbidden to leave Lochias, but Epaphroditus permitted them to receive visitors.  The Nubian’s merry, amusing talk had made friends for her among the Roman guards, who allowed her to pass in and out unmolested.  On her return, of course, she was searched with the utmost care, like every one who entered Lochias.

The decisive hour was close at hand.  Charmian knew what she must do in any event, but there was still one desire for whose fulfilment she longed.  She wished to greet Barine and see her boy.

To spare Iras, she had hitherto refrained from sending for Dion’s wife.  The sight of the mother and child might have reopened wounds still unhealed, and she would not inflict this sorrow upon her niece, who for a long time had once more been loyally devoted to her.