“La! la!” said the voice. “Why, what a city is this for an old woman to seek her fortune in! And how shall I find those to whom I am known? As well look for the rush in the papyrus-roll.14 Begone! thou knave! and let my basket of simples lie; or, by the Gods, I’ll doctor thee with them!”
I turned, wondering, and found myself face to face with my foster-nurse, Atoua. She knew me instantly, for I saw her start, but in the presence of the people she checked her surprise.
“Good Sir,” she whined, lifting her withered countenance towards me, and at the same time making the secret sign. “By thy dress thou shouldst be an astronomer, and I was specially told to avoid astronomers as a pack of lying tricksters who worship their own star only; and, therefore, I speak to thee, acting on the principle of contraries, which is law to us women. For surely in this Alexandria, where all things are upside down, the astronomers may be the honest men, since the rest are clearly knaves.” And then, being by now out of earshot of the press, “royal Harmachis, I am come charged with a message to thee from thy father Amenemhat.”
“Is he well?” I asked.
“Yes, he is well, though waiting for the moment tries him sorely.”
“And his message?”
“It is this. He sends greeting to thee and with it warning that a great danger threatens thee, though he cannot read it. These are his words: ‘Be steadfast and prosper.’ ”
I bowed my head and the words struck a new chill of fear into my soul.
“When is the time?” she asked.
“This very night. Where goest thou?”
“To the house of the honourable Sepa, Priest of Annu. Canst thou guide me thither?”
“Nay, I may not stay; nor is it wise that I should be seen with thee. Hold!” and I called a porter who was idling on the quay, and, giving him a piece of money, bade him guide the old wife to the house.
“Farewell,” she whispered; “farewell till tomorrow. Be steadfast and prosper.”
Then I turned and went my way through the crowded streets, where the people made place for me, the astronomer of Cleopatra, for my fame had spread abroad.
And even as I went my footsteps seemed to beat Be steadfast, Be steadfast, Be steadfast, till at last it was as though the very ground cried out its warning to me.
VII
Of the Veiled Words of Charmion; Of the Passing of Harmachis Into the Presence of Cleopatra; and of the Overthrow of Harmachis
It was night, and I sat alone in my chamber, waiting the moment when, as it was agreed, Charmion should summon me to pass down to Cleopatra. I sat alone, and there before me lay the dagger that was to pierce her. It was long and keen, and the handle was formed of a sphinx of solid gold. I sat alone, questioning the future, but no answer came. At length I looked up, and Charmion stood before me—Charmion, no longer gay and bright, but pale of face and hollow-eyed.
“Royal Harmachis,” she said, “Cleopatra summons thee, presently to declare to her the voices of the stars.”
So the hour had fallen!
“It is well, Charmion,” I answered. “Are all things in order?”
“Yea, my Lord; all things are in order: well primed with wine, Paulus guards the gates, the eunuchs are withdrawn save one, the legionaries sleep, and already Sepa and his force lie hid without. Nothing has been neglected, and no lamb skipping at the shamble doors can be more innocent of its doom than is Queen Cleopatra.”
“It is well,” I said again; “let us be going,” and rising, I placed the dagger in the bosom of my robe. Taking a cup of wine that stood near, I drank deep of it, for I had scarce tasted food all that day.
“One word,” Charmion said hurriedly, “for it is not yet time: last night—ah, last night—” and her bosom heaved, “I dreamed a dream that haunts me strangely, and perchance thou also didst dream a dream. It was all a dream and ’tis forgotten: is it not so, my Lord?”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “why troublest thou me thus at such an hour?”
“Nay, I know not; but tonight, Harmachis, Fate is in labour of a great event, and in her painful throes mayhap she’ll crush me in her grip—me or thee, or the twain of us, Harmachis. And if that be so—well, I would hear from thee, before it is done, that ’twas naught but a dream, and that dream forgot—”
“Yes, it is all a dream,” I said idly; “thou and I, and the solid earth, and this heavy night of terror, ay, and this keen knife—what are these but dreams, and with what face shall the waking come?”
“So now, thou fallest in my humour, royal Harmachis. As thou sayest, we dream; and while we dream yet can the vision change. For the fantasies of dreams are wonderful, seeing that they have no stability, but vary like the vaporous edge of sunset clouds, building now this thing, and now that; being now dark and heavy, and now alight with splendour. Therefore, before we wake tomorrow tell me one word. Is that vision of last night, wherein I seemed to be quite shamed, and thou didst seem to laugh upon my shame, a fixed fantasy, or can it, perchance, yet change its countenance? For remember, when that waking comes, the vagaries of our sleep will be more unalterable and more enduring than are the pyramids. Then they will be gathered into that changeless region of the past where all things, great and small—ay, even dreams, Harmachis, are, each in its own semblance, frozen to stone and built into
