It was evident that he awaited it in great suspense, and that his heart was by no means free from anxiety.

Berenike shared it, and her pleasant face, which had hitherto reflected her delight at her daughter’s sensible resolution, was now clouded with care as Archibius began:  “The object of my presence here?  You are making it very easy for me to attain it.  If I deemed it honest, I could now conceal the fact that I had sought you to induce you to leave the city.  I see no peril from the boyish insolence of the son of Antony.  The point in question, child, is merely to put yourself out of the reach of Caesarion.”

“If you could place me in the moon, it would please me best, as far as he is concerned,” replied Barine eagerly.  “That is just what induced me to change our mode of life, since my door cannot be closed against the boy who, though still under a tutor, uses his rank as a key to open it.  And just think of being compelled to address that dreamer, with eyes pleading for help, by the title of ’king’!”

“Yet what mighty impulse might not be slumbering in the breast of a son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra?” said Archibius.  “And passion—­I know, my child, that it is no fault of yours—­has now awakened within him.  Whatever the result may be, it must fill his mother’s heart with anxiety.  That is why it is needful to hasten your departure, and to keep your destination a secret.  He will attempt no violence; but—­he is the child of his parents—­and some unexpected act may be anticipated from him.”

“You startle me!” cried Barine.  “You transform the cooing dove which entered my house into a dangerous griffin.”

“As such you may regard him,” said the other, warningly.  “You will be a welcome guest, Barine, but I invited you, whom I have loved from your earliest childhood, the daughter of my dearest friend, not merely to do you a service at Irenia, but to save from grief or even annoyance the person to whom—­who is not aware of it—­I owe everything.”

The words conveyed to both ladies the knowledge that, though they were dear to Archibius, he would sacrifice them, and with them, perhaps, all the rest of the world, for the peace and happiness of the Queen.

Barine had expected nothing else.  She knew that Cleopatra had made the philosopher’s son a wealthy man and the owner of extensive estates; but she also felt that the source of his loyal devotion to the Queen, over whom he watched like a tender father, was due to other causes.  Cleopatra prized him also.  Had he been ambitious, he could have stood at the helm of the ship of state, as Epitrop long ago, but—­the whole city knew it—­he had more than once refused to accept a permanent office, because he believed that he could serve his mistress better as an unassuming, unnoticed counsellor.  Berenike had told Barine that the relations between Cleopatra and Archibius dated back to their childhood, but she had learned no particulars.  Various rumours were afloat which, in the course of time, had been richly adorned and interwoven with anecdotes, and Barine naturally lent the most ready credence to those which asserted that the princess, in her earliest youth, had cherished a childish love for the philosopher’s son.  Now her friend’s conduct led her to believe it.