“O noble Antony,” she said, “steel thy heart to hear that which I needs must tell thee! Canidius is in Alexandria. He has fled far and fast, and this is his report. For seven whole days did the legions wait the coming of Antony, to lead them to victory, as aforetime, putting aside the offers of the envoys of Caesar. But Antony came not. And then it was rumoured that Antony had fled to Taenarus, drawn thither by Cleopatra. The man who first brought that tale to the camp the legionaries cried shame on—ay, and beat him to the death! But ever it grew, until at length there was no more room to doubt; and then, O Antony, thy officers slipped one by one away to Caesar, and where the officers go there the men follow. Nor is this all the story; for thy allies—Bocchus of Africa, Tarcondimotus of Cilicia, Mithridates of Commagene, Adallas of Thrace, Philadelphus of Paphlagonia, Archelaus of Cappadocia, Herod of Judaea, Amyntas of Galatia, Polemon of Pontus, and Malchus of Arabia—all, all have fled or bid their generals fly back to whence they came; and already their ambassadors crave cold Caesar’s clemency.”
“Hast done thy croakings, thou raven in a peacock’s dress, or is there more to come?” asked the smitten man, lifting his white and trembling face from the shelter of his hands. “Tell me more; say that Egypt’s dead in all her beauty; say that Octavianus lowers at the Canopic gate; and that, headed by dead Cicero, all the ghosts of Hell do audibly shriek out the fall of Antony! Yea, gather up every woe that can o’erwhelm those who once were great, and loose them on the hoary head of him whom—in thy gentleness—thou art still pleased to name ‘the noble Antony’!”
“Nay, my Lord, I have done.”
“Ay, and so have I done—done, quite done! It is altogether finished, and thus I seal the end,” and snatching a sword from the couch, he would, indeed, have slain himself had I not sprung forward and grasped his hand. For it was not my purpose that he should die as yet; since had he died at that hour Cleopatra had made her peace with Caesar, who rather wished the death of Antony than the ruin of Egypt.
“Art mad, Antony? Art, indeed, a coward?” cried Charmion, “that thou wouldst thus escape thy woes, and leave thy partner to face the sorrow out alone?”
“Why not, woman? Why not? She would not be long alone. There’s Caesar to keep her company. Octavianus loves a fair woman in his cold way, and still is Cleopatra fair. Come now, thou Olympus! thou hast held my hand from dealing death upon myself, advise me of thy wisdom. Shall I, then, submit myself to Caesar, and I, Triumvir, twice Consul, and aforetime absolute Monarch of all the East, endure to follow in his triumph along those Roman ways where I myself have passed in triumph?”
“Nay, Sire,” I answered. “If thou dost yield, then art thou doomed. All last night I questioned of the Fates concerning thee, and I saw this: when thy star draws near to Caesar’s it pales and is swallowed up; but when it passes from his radiance, then bright and big it shines, equal in glory to his own. All is not lost, and while some part remains, everything may be regained. Egypt can yet be held, armies can still be raised. Caesar has withdrawn himself; he is not yet at the gates of Alexandria, and perchance may be appeased. Thy mind in its fever has fired thy body; thou art sick and canst not judge aright. See, here, I have a potion that shall make thee whole, for I am well skilled in the art of medicine,” and I held out the phial.
“A potion, thou sayest man!” he cried. “More like it is a poison, and thou a murderer, sent by false Egypt, who would fain be rid of me now that I may no more be of service to her. The head of Antony is the peace offering she would send to Caesar—she for whom I have lost all! Give me thy draught. By Bacchus! I will drink it, though it be the very elixir of Death!”
“Nay, noble Antony; it is no poison, and I am no murderer. See, I will taste it, if thou wilt,” and I held forth the subtle drink that has the power to fire the veins of men.
“Give it me, Physician. Desperate men are brave men. There!⸺Why, what is this? Yours is a magic draught! My sorrows seem to roll away like thunderclouds before the southern gale, and the spring of Hope blooms fresh upon the desert of my heart. Once more I am Antony, and once again I see my legions’ spears asparkle in the sun, and hear the thunderous shout of welcome as Antony—beloved Antony—rides in pomp of war along his deep-formed lines! There’s hope! there’s hope! I may yet see the cold brows of Caesar—that Caesar who never errs except from policy—robbed of their victor bays and crowned with shameful dust!”
“Ay,” cried Charmion, “there still is hope, if thou wilt but play the man! O my Lord! come back with us; come back to the loving arms of Cleopatra! All night she lies upon her golden bed, and fills the hollow darkness with her groans for ‘Antony!’ who, enamoured now of Grief, forgets his duty and his love!”
“I come! I come! Shame
