“Not I!” exclaimed Barine eagerly.  “How often I have heard my uncle say that Antony and Cleopatra were fired with the most ardent love for each other!  Never did the arrows of Eros pierce two hearts more deeply.  Then it became necessary to save the state from civil war and bloodshed.  Antony consented to form an alliance with his rival, and, as security for the sincerity of the reconciliation, he gave his hand in marriage to Octavia, whose first husband, Marcellus, had just died—­his hand, I say, only his hand, for his heart was captive to the Queen of Egypt.  And if Antony was faithless to the wife to whom statecraft had bound him, he kept his pledge to the other, who had an earlier, better title.  If Cleopatra did not give up the man to whom she had sworn fidelity forever, she was right—­a thousand times right!  In my eyes—­no matter how often my mother rebukes me—­Cleopatra, in the eyes of the immortals, is and always will be Antony’s real wife; the other, though on her marriage day no custom, no word, no stroke of the stylus, no gesture was omitted, is the intruder in a bond of love which rejoices the gods, however it may anger mortals, and—­forgive me, mother—­virtuous matrons.”

Berenike had listened with blushing cheeks to her vivacious daughter; now with timid earnestness she interrupted:  “I know that those are the views of the new times; that Antony in the eyes of the Egyptians, and probably also according to their customs, is the rightful husband of the Queen.  I know, too, that you are both against me.  Yet Cleopatra is in reality a Greek, and therefore—­eternal gods!—­I can sincerely pity her; but the marriage has been solemnized, and I cannot blame Octavia.  She rears and cherishes, as if they were her own, the children of her faithless husband and Fulvia, his first wife, who have no claim upon her.  It is more than human to take the stones from the path of the man who became her foe, as she does.  No woman In Alexandria can pray more fervently than I that Cleopatra and her friend may conquer Octavianus.  His cold nature, highly as my brother esteems him, is repellent to me.  But when I gaze at Octavia’s beautiful, chaste, queenly, noble countenance, the mirror of true womanly purity—­”

“You can rejoice,” Archibius added, completing the sentence, and laying his right hand soothingly on the arm of the excited woman, “only it would be advisable at this time to put the portrait elsewhere, and rest satisfied with confiding your opinion of Octavia to your brother and a friend as reliable as myself.  If we conquer, such things may pass; if not—­The messenger tarries long—­”

Here Barine again entreated him to use the time.  She had only once had the happiness of being noticed by the Queen—­just after her song at the Adonis festival.  Then Cleopatra had advanced to thank her.  She said only a few kind words, but in a voice which seemed to penetrate the inmost depths of her heart and bind her with invisible threads.  Meanwhile Barine’s eyes met those of her sovereign, and at first they roused an ardent desire to press her lips even on the hem of her robe, but afterwards she felt as if a venomous serpent had crawled out of the most beautiful flower.