“I do perceive, O Charmion, that thou art mindful of thy oaths; and it is well, for the hour of vengeance is at hand.”
“I am mindful, and in all things I have worked for thee in secret—for thee, and for the utter ruin of Cleopatra and the Roman. I have fanned his passion and her jealousy, I have egged her on to wickedness and him to folly, and of all have I caused report to be brought to Caesar. Listen! thus stands the matter. Thou knowest how went the fight at Actium. Thither went Cleopatra with her fleet, sorely against the will of Antony. But, as thou sentest me word, I entreated him for the Queen, vowing to him, with tears, that, did he leave her, she would die of grief; and he, poor slave, believed me. And so she went, and in the thick of the fight, for what cause I know not, though perchance thou knowest, Harmachis, she made signal to her squadron, and, putting about fled from the battle, sailing for Peloponnesus. And now, mark the end! When Antony saw that she was gone, he, in his madness, took a galley, and deserting all, followed hard after her, leaving his fleet to be shattered and sunk, and his great army in Greece, of twenty legions and twelve thousand horse, without a leader. And all this no man would believe, that Antony, the smitten of the Gods, had fallen so deep in shame. Therefore for a while the army tarried, and but now tonight comes news brought by Canidius, the General, that, worn with doubt and being at length sure that Antony had deserted them, the whole of his great force has yielded to Caesar.”
“And where, then, is Antony?”
“He has built him a habitation on a little isle in the Great Harbour and named it Timonium; because, forsooth, like Timon, he cries out at the ingratitude of mankind that has forsaken him. And there he lies smitten by a fever of the mind, and thither thou must go at dawn, so wills the Queen, to cure him of his ills and draw him to her arms; for he will not see her, nor knows he yet the full measure of his woe. But first my bidding is to lead thee instantly to Cleopatra, who would ask thy counsel.”
“I come,” I answered, rising. “Lead thou on.”
And so we passed the palace gates and along the Alabaster Hall, and presently once again I stood before the door of Cleopatra’s chamber, and once again Charmion left me to warn her of my coming.
Presently she came back and beckoned to me. “Make strong thy heart,” she whispered, “and see that thou dost not betray thyself, for still are the eyes of Cleopatra keen. Enter!”
“Keen, indeed, must they be to find Harmachis in the learned Olympus! Had I not willed it, thyself thou hadst not known me, Charmion,” I made answer.
Then I entered that remembered place and listened once more to the plash of the fountain, the song of the nightingale, and the murmur of the summer sea. With bowed head and halting gait I came, till at length I stood before the couch of Cleopatra—that same golden couch on which she had sat the night she overcame me. Then I gathered my strength, and looked up. There before me was Cleopatra, glorious as of old, but, oh! how changed since that night when I saw Antony clasp her in his arms at Tarsus! Her beauty still clothed her like a garment; the eyes were yet deep and unfathomable as the blue sea, the face still splendid in its great loveliness. And yet all was changed. Time, that could not touch her charms, had stamped upon her presence such a look of weary grief as may not be written. Passion, beating ever in that fierce heart of hers, had written his record on her brow, and in her eyes shone the sad lights of sorrow.
I bowed low before this most royal woman, who once had been my love and destruction, and yet knew me not.
She looked up wearily, and spoke in her slow, well remembered voice:
“So thou art come at length, Physician. How callest thou thyself?—Olympus? ’Tis a name of promise, for surely now that the Gods of Egypt have deserted us, we do need aid from Olympus. Well, thou hast a learned air, for learning goes not with beauty. Strange, too, there is that about thee which recalls what I know not. Say, Olympus, have we met before?”
“Never, O Queen, have my eyes fallen on thee in the body,” I answered in a feigned voice. “Never till this hour, when I come forth from my solitude to do thy bidding and cure thee of thy ills!”
“Strange! and even in the voice—Pshaw! ’tis some memory that I cannot catch. In the body, thou sayest? then, perchance, I knew thee in a dream?”
“Ay, O Queen; we have met in dreams.”
“Thou art a strange man, who talkest thus, but, if what I hear be true, one well learned; and, indeed, I mind me of thy counsel when thou didst bid me join my Lord Antony in Syria, and how things befell according to thy word. Skilled must
