“The September sun shone brightly, and was reflected from the weapons.  From the high bank of the dry bed of the river, where we had pitched our tent, we saw something scarlet move to and fro.  It was the King’s mantle.  The waves, stirred by the autumn breeze, rippled lightly, blue as cornflowers, over the yellow sand of the dunes; but the King stood still, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed at the galley.  Meanwhile, Achillas, the commander of the troops, and Septimius, the tribune, who belonged to the Roman garrison in Alexandria, and who, I knew, had served under Pompey and owed him many favours, had entered a boat and put off to the vessel, which could not come nearer the land on account of the shallow water.

“The conference now began, and Achillas’s offer of hospitality must have been very warm and well calculated to inspire confidence, for a tall lady—­it was Cornelia, the wife of the Imperator—­waved her hand to him in token of gratitude.”

Here the speaker paused, drew a long breath, and, pressing his hand to his brow, continued “What follows—­alas, that it was my fate to witness the dreadful scene!  How often a garbled account has been given, and yet the whole was so terribly simple!

“Fortune makes her favourites confiding.  Pompey was also.  Though more than fifty years old—­he lacked two years of sixty—­he sprang into the boat quickly enough, with merely a little assistance from a freedman.  A sailor—­he was a negro—­shoved the skiff off from the side of the huge ship as violently as if the pole he used for the purpose was a spear, and the galley his foe.  The boat, urged by his companions’ oars, had already moved forward, and he stumbled, the brown cap falling from his woolly head in the act.

“It seems as if I could still see him.  Ere I clearly realized that this was an evil omen, the boat stopped.

“The water was shallow.  I saw Achillas point to the shore.  It could be reached by a single bound.  Pompey looked towards the King.  The freedman put his hand under his arm to help him rise.  Septimius also stood up.  I thought he intended to assist him.  But no!  What did this mean?  Something flashed by the Imperator’s silver-grey hair as if a spark had fallen from the sky.  Would Pompey defend himself, or why did he raise his hand?  It was to draw around him the toga, with which he silently covered his face.  The tribune’s arm was again raised high into the air, and then—­what confusion!  Here, there, yonder, hands suddenly appeared aloft, bright flashes darted through the clear air.  Achillas, the general, dealt blows with his dagger as if he were skilled in murder.  The Imperator’s stalwart figure sank forward.  The freedman supported him.

“Then shouts arose, here a cry of fury, yonder a wail of grief, and, rising above all, a woman’s shriek of anguish.  It came from the lips of Cornelia, the murdered man’s wife.  Shouts of applause from the King’s camp followed, then the blast of a trumpet; the Egyptians drew back from the shore.  The scarlet cloak again appeared.  Septimius, bearing in his hand a bleeding head, went towards it and held the ghastly trophy aloft.