Both Archibius and the Roman Proculejus had counselled her not to receive him entirely alone.  The latter did not express his opinion in words, but he knew that Octavianus was more readily induced to noble and lenient deeds when there was no lack of witnesses to report them to the world.  It was advisable to provide spectators for the most consummate actor of his day.

Therefore the Queen had retained Iras, Charmian, and some of the officials nearest to her person, among them the steward Seleukus, who could give information if any question arose concerning the delivery of the treasure.

She had also intended, after she had somewhat recovered from the visit to the tomb, to be robed in fresh garments.  This was prevented by the Caesar’s unexpected arrival.  Now, even had time permitted, she would have been unable to have her hair arranged, she felt so weak and yet so feverishly excited.

The blood coursed hotly through her veins and flushed her cheeks.  When told that the Caesar was close at hand, she had only time to raise herself a little higher on her cushions, push back her hair, and let Iras, with a few hasty touches, adjust the folds of her mourning robes.  Had she attempted to advance to meet him, her limbs would have failed to support her.

When the Caesar at last entered, she could greet him only by a wave of her hand; but Octavianus, who had uttered the usual salutations from the threshold, quickly broke the painful silence, saying with a courteous bow: 

“You summoned me—­I came.  Every one is subject to beauty—­even the victor.”

Cleopatra’s head drooped in shame as she answered distinctly, yet in a tone of modest denial:  “I only asked the favour of an audience.  I did not summon.  I thank you for granting the request.  If it is dangerous for man to bow to woman’s charms, no peril threatens you here.  Beauty cannot withstand tortures such as those which have been imposed on me—­barely can life remain.  But you prevented my casting it from me.  If you are just, you will grant to the woman whom you would not permit to die an existence whose burden will not exceed her power to endure.”

The Caesar again bowed silently and answered courteously: 

“I intend to make it worthy of you.”

“Then,” cried Cleopatra impetuously, “release me from this torturing uncertainty.  You are not one of the men who never look beyond to-day and to-morrow.”

“You are thinking,” said Octavianus harshly, “of one who perhaps would still be among us, if with wiser caution—­”

Cleopatra’s eyes, which hitherto had met the victor’s cold gaze with modest entreaty, flashed angrily, and a majestic:  “Let the past rest!” interrupted him.

But she soon mastered the indignation which had stirred her passionate blood, and in a totally different tone, not wholly free from gentle persuasion, she continued: 

“The provident intellect of the man whose nod the universe obeys grasps the future as well as the present.  Must not he, therefore, have decided the children’s fate ere he consented to see their mother?  The only obstacle in your path, the son of your great uncle—­”