“Nay, Charmion,” I replied, “I grieve if I did pain thee; but over that vision comes no change. I said what was in my heart and there’s an end. Thou art my cousin and my friend, I can never be more to thee.”
“It is well—’tis very well,” she said; “let it be forgotten. And now on from dream—to dream,” and she smiled with such a smile as I had never seen her wear before; it was sadder and more fateful than any stamp that grief can set upon the brow.
For, though being blinded by my own folly and the trouble at my heart I knew it not, with that smile, the happiness of youth died for Charmion the Egyptian; the hope of love fled; and the holy links of duty burst asunder. With that smile she consecrated herself to Evil, she renounced her Country and her Gods, and trampled on her oath. Ay, that smile marks the moment when the stream of history changed its course. For had I never seen it on her face Octavianus had not bestridden the world, and Egypt had once more been free and great.
And yet it was but a woman’s smile!
“Why lookest thou thus strangely, girl?” I asked.
“In dreams we smile,” she answered. “And now it is time; follow thou me. Be firm and prosper, royal Harmachis!” and bending forward she took my hand and kissed it. Then, with one strange last look, she turned and led the way down the stair and through the empty halls.
In the chamber that is called the Alabaster Hall, the roof of which is upborne by columns of black marble, we stayed. For beyond was the private chamber of Cleopatra, the same in which I had seen her sleeping.
“Abide thou here,” she said, “while I tell Cleopatra of thy coming,” and she glided from my side.
I stood for long, mayhap in all the half of an hour, counting my own heartbeats, and, as in a dream, striving to gather up my strength to that which lay before me.
At length Charmion came back, her head held low and walking heavily.
“Cleopatra waits thee,” she said: “pass on, there is no guard.”
“Where do I meet thee when what must be done is done?” I asked hoarsely.
“Thou meetest me here, and then to Paulus. Be firm and prosper. Harmachis, fare thee well!”
And so I went; but at the curtain I turned suddenly, and there in the midst of that lonely lamplit hall I saw a strange sight. Far away, in such a fashion that the light struck full upon her, stood Charmion, her head thrown back, her white arms outstretched as though to clasp, and on her girlish face a stamp of anguished passion so terrible to see that, indeed, I cannot tell it! For she believed that I, whom she loved, was passing to my death, and this was her last farewell to me.
But I knew naught of this matter; so with another passing pang of wonder I drew aside the curtains, gained the doorway, and stood in Cleopatra’s chamber. And there, upon a silken couch at the far end of the perfumed chamber, clad in wonderful white attire, rested Cleopatra. In her hand was a jewelled fan of ostrich plumes, with which she gently fanned herself, and by her side was her harp of ivory, and a little table whereon were figs and goblets and a flask of ruby-coloured wine. I drew near slowly through the soft dim light to where the Wonder of the World lay in all her glowing beauty. And, indeed, I have never seen her look so fair as she did upon that fatal night. Couched in her amber cushions, she seemed to shine as a star on the twilight’s glow. Perfume came from her hair and robes, music fell from her lips, and in her heavenly eyes all lights changed and gathered as in the ominous opal’s disc.
And this was the woman whom, presently, I must slay!
Slowly I drew near, bowing as I came; but she took no heed. She lay there, and the jewelled fan floated to and fro like the bright wing of some hovering bird.
At length I stood before her, and she glanced up, the ostrich-plumes pressed against her breast as though to hide its beauty.
“What! friend; art thou come?” she said. “It is well; for I grew lonely here. Nay; ’tis a weary world! We know so many faces, and there are so few whom we love to see again. Well, stand not there so mute, but be seated.” And she pointed with her fan to a carven chair that was placed near her feet.
Once more I bowed and took the seat.
“I have obeyed the Queen’s desire,” I said, “and with much care and skill worked out the lessons of the stars; and here is the record of my labour. If the Queen permits, I will expound it to her.” And I rose, in order that I might pass round the couch and, as she read, stab her in the back.
“Nay, Harmachis,” she said quietly, and with a slow and lovely smile. “Bide thou where thou art, and give me the writing. By Serapis! thy face is too comely for me to wish to lose the sight of it!”
Checked in this design, I could do nothing but hand her the papyrus, thinking to myself that while she read I would arise suddenly and plunge the dagger to her heart. She took it, and as she did so touched my hand. Then she made pretence to read. But she read no word, for I saw that her eyes were fixed upon me over the edge of the scroll.
“Why placest thou thy hand within thy robe?” she asked presently; for, indeed, I clutched the dagger’s hilt. “Is thy heart stirred?”
“Yea, O Queen,” I said; “it beats high.”
She gave no answer, but once more made pretence to read, and the while she watched me.
I took counsel with myself. How should
