“You speak,” replied Cleopatra, more and more deeply incensed, with proud composure, “of the treasures which my ancestors, the powerful monarchs of a wealthy country, amassed during three hundred years for their noble race and for the adornment of the women of their line.  Parsimony did not accord with the generosity and lofty nature of an Antony, yet avarice itself would not deem the portion still remaining insignificant.  Every article is registered.”

While speaking, she took a manuscript from the hand of Seleukus and passed it to Octavianus who, with a slight bend of the head, received it in silence.  But he had scarcely begun to read it when the steward, a little corpulent man with twinkling eyes half buried in his fat cheeks, raised his short forefinger, pointed insolently at the Queen, and asserted that she was trying to conceal some things, and had ordered him not to place them on the list.  Every tinge of colour faded from the lips and cheeks of the agitated and passionate woman; tortured by feverish impatience and no longer able to control her emotions, she raised herself and, with her own dainty hand, struck the accuser—­whom she had lifted from poverty and obscurity to his present high position—­again and again in the face, till Octavianus, with a smile of superiority, begged her, much as the man deserved his punishment, to desist.

The unfortunate woman, thus thrown off her guard, flung herself back on her couch and, panting for breath, with tears streaming from her eyes, sobbed aloud, declaring that in the presence of such unendurable insult, such contemptible baseness, she fairly loathed herself.  Then pressing her clenched hands upon her temples, she exclaimed “Before the eyes of the foe my royal dignity, which I have maintained all my life, falls from me like a borrowed mantle.  Yet what am I?  What shall I be to-morrow, what later?  But who beneath the sun who has warm blood in his veins can preserve his composure when juicy grapes are held before his thirsting lips to be withdrawn, as from Tantalus, ere he can taste them?  You came hither with the assurance of your favour; but the flattering words of promise which you bestowed upon the unhappy woman were probably only the drops of poppy-juice given to soothe the ravings of fever.  Was the favour which you permitted me to see and anticipate for the future merely intended to delude a miserable—­”

But she went no further; Octavianus, with dignified bearing and loud, clear tones, interrupted “Whoever believes the heir of Caesar capable of shamefully deceiving a noble woman, a queen, the object of his illustrious uncle’s love, insults and wounds him; but the just anger which overmastered you may serve as your apology.  Ay,” he added in a totally different tone, “I might even have cause to be grateful for this indignation, and to wish for another opportunity to witness the outbreak of passion though in its unbridled fierceness—­the royal lioness is scarcely aware of her own beauty when the tempest of wrath sweeps her away.  What must she be when it is love that constrains the flame of her glowing soul to burst into a blaze?”