“His doom was a necessity,” interrupted the conqueror in a tone of sincere regret.  “As I mourned Antony, I grieve for the unfortunate boy.”

“If that is true,” replied Cleopatra eagerly, “it does honour to the kindness of your heart.  When Proculejus wrested the dagger from my grasp he blamed me because I attributed to the most clement of conquerors harshness and implacability.”

“Two qualities,” the Caesar protested, “which are wholly alien to my nature.”

“And which—­even if you possessed them—­you neither could nor ought to use,” cried Cleopatra, “if you really mean the beautiful words you so often utter that, as the nephew and heir of the great Julius Caesar, you intend to walk in his footsteps.  Caesarion—­there is his bust—­was the image in every feature of his father, your illustrious model.  To me, the hapless woman now awaiting my sentence from his nephew’s lips, the gods granted, as the most precious of all gifts, the love of your divine uncle.  And what love!  The world knew not what I was to his great heart, but my wish to defend myself from misconception bids me show it to you, his heir.  From you I expect my sentence.  You are the judge.  These letters are my strongest defence.  I rely upon them to show myself to you as I was and am, not as envy and slander describe me.—­The little ivory casket, Iras!  It contains the precious proofs of Caesar’s love, his letters to me.”

She raised the lid with trembling hands and, as these mementoes carried her back to the past, she continued in lower tones: 

“Among all my treasures this simple little coffer has been for half a lifetime my most valued jewel.  He gave it to me.  It was in the midst of the fierce contest here at the Bruchium.”

Then, while unfolding the first roll, she directed Octavianus’s attention to it and the remainder of the contents of the little casket, exclaiming: 

“Silent pages, yet how eloquent!  Each one a peerless picture, the powerful thinker, the man of action, who permits his restless intellect to repose, and suffers his heart to overflow with the love of youth!  Were I vain, Octavianus, I might call each one of these letters a trophy of victory, an Olympic garland.  The woman to whom Julius Caesar owned his subjugation might well hold her head higher than the unhappy, vanquished Queen who, save the permission to die—­”

“Do not part with the letters,” said Octavianus kindly.  “Who can doubt that they are a precious treasure—­”

“The most precious and at the same time the advocate of the accused,” replied Cleopatra eagerly; “on them—­as you have already heard—­rests my vindication.  I will commence with their contents.  How terrible it is to make what is sacred to us and intended only to elevate our own hearts serve a purpose, to do what has always been repugnant to us!  But I need an advocate and, Octavianus, these letters will restore to the wretched, suffering beggar the dignity and