“Young Caesarion loves Barine,” replied Dion with grave earnestness.

“Then this horrible folly is known?” asked Iras excitedly.  “A passion far deeper than I should ever have expected this dreamer to feel has taken possession of him.  And if the Queen should now return—­perhaps less successful than we desire—­if she looks to those from whom she still expects pleasure, satisfaction, lofty deeds, and learns what has befallen the boy—­for what does not that sun-bright intellect learn and perceive?  He is dear to her, dearer than any of you imagine.  How it will increase her anxiety, perhaps her suffering!  With what good reason she will be angered against those whom duty and love should have commanded to guard the boy!”

“And therefore,” added Dion, “the stone of offence must be removed.  Your first step to secure this object was the attack on Didymus.”

He had judged correctly and perceived that, in her assault upon the old scholar, she had at first intended to play into the hands of the rulers, work against the old philosopher and his relatives, among whose number was Barine; for the Egyptian law permitted the relatives of those who were convicted of any crime against the sovereign or the government to be banished with the criminal.  This attack upon an innocent person was disgraceful, yet every word Iras uttered made Dion feel, every feature of her face betrayed, that it was not merely base jealousy, but a nobler emotion, that caused her to assail the guiltless sage—­love for her mistress, the desire which dominated her whole being to guard Cleopatra from grief and trouble in these trying times.  He knew Iras’s iron will and the want of consideration with which she had learned to pursue her purpose at the court.  His first object was to protect Barine from the danger which threatened her; but he also wished to relieve the anxiety of Iras, the daughter of Krates, his father’s neighbour, with whom he had played in boyhood and for whom he had never ceased to feel a tender interest.

His remark surprised her.  She saw that her plot was detected by the man whose esteem she most valued, and a loving woman is glad to recognize the superiority of her lover.  Besides, from her earliest childhood—­and she was only two years younger than Dion—­she had belonged to circles where no quality was more highly prized than mental pliancy and keenness.  Her dark eyes, which at first had glittered distrustfully and questioningly and afterwards glowed with a gloomy light, now gained a new expression.  Her gaze sought her friend’s with a tender, pleading look as, admitting his charge, she began:  “Yes!  Dion, the philosopher’s granddaughter must not stay here.  Or do you see any other way to protect the unhappy boy from incalculable misfortune?  You know me well enough to be aware that, like you, I am reluctant to infringe another’s rights, that except in case of necessity I am not cruel.  I value your esteem.  No one is more truthful,