wives and children of many among you for ten long years.  'How heavy must
be the purse which can expose such a treasure to sun and rain!' is the
thought of every one who sees him strutting about as proudly as a
peacock.  And his purse is loaded with many talents.  Only it is a pity
that, day after day, most of you must give your children a little less
bread and deprive yourselves of many a draught of wine to deck him out so
bravely.  His father, Eumenes, was a tax-collector, and what the leech
extorted from you and your children, the son now uses to drive, clad in
hyacinthine purple, a four-horse chariot, which splashes the mire from
the street into your faces as it rolls onward.  By the dog! the gentleman
does  not weigh  so  very much, yet he needs four horses to drag him.
And, fellow-citizens, do you know why?  I'll tell you.  He's afraid of
sticking fast everywhere, even in his speech."

Here Philostratus lowered his voice, for the phrase "sticking fast" had
drawn a laugh from some of his hearers; but Dion, whose father had really
amassed, in the high position of a receiver of taxes, the handsome
fortune which his son possessed, did not delay his reply.

"Yes, yes," he retorted scornfully, "yonder Syrian babbler hit the mark
this time.  He stands before me, and who does not easily stick fast when
marsh and mire are so near?  As for the hyacinthine purple cloak, I wear
it because I like it.  His crocus-yellow one is less to my taste, though
he certainly looks fine enough in it in the sunlight.  It shines like a
buttercup in the grass.  You know the plant.  When it fades--and I ask
whether you think Philostratus looks like a bud--when it fades, it leaves
a hollow spiral ball which a child's breath could blow away.  Suppose in
future we should call the round buttercup seed-vessels 'Philostratus
heads'?  You like the suggestion?  I am glad, fellow-citizens, and I
thank you.  It proves your good taste.  Then we will stick to the
comparison.  Every head contains a tongue, and Philostratus says that his
is the tool which supports him."

"Hear the money-bag, the despiser of the people!"  interrupted
Philostratus furiously.  "The honest toil by which a citizen earns a
livelihood is a disgrace in his eyes."

"Honest toil, my good friend," replied Dion, "is scarcely in question
here.  I spoke only of your tongue.--You understand me, fellow-citizens.
Or, if any of you are not yet acquainted with this worthy man, I will
show him to you, for I know him well.  He is my foe, yet I can sincerely
recommend him to many of you.  If any one has a very bad, shamefully
corrupt cause to bring before the courts, I most earnestly counsel him
to apply to the buttercup man perched on yonder fountain.  He will thank
me for it.  Believe me, Didymus's cause is just, precisely because this
advocate so eagerly assails it.  I told you just now the matter under
discussion.  Which of you who owns a garden can say in future, 'It is
mine,' if, during the absence of the Queen, it is allowable to take it
away to be used for any other purpose?  But this is what threatens
Didymus.  If this is to be the custom here, let every one beware of
sowing a radish or planting a bush or a tree, for should the wife of
some great noble desire to dry her linen there, he may be deprived
of it ere the former can ripen or the latter give shade."

Loud applause followed this sentence, but Philostratus shouted in a voice
that echoed far and wide: "Hear me, fellow-citizens; do not allow your
selves to be deceived!  No one is to be robbed here.  The project is to
purchase, at a high price, the spot which the city needs for her
adornment, and to honour and please the Queen.  Are the Regent and the
citizens to lose this opportunity of expressing the gratitude of years,
and the rejoicing over the greatest of victories, of which we shall soon
hear, because an evil-disposed person--the word must be uttered--a foe
to his country, opposes it?"

"Now the mire is coming too near me," Dion angrily responded, "and I
might really stick fast, as I was warned; for I do not envy the ready
presence of mind of any person whose tongue would not falter when the
basest slander scattered its venom over him.  You all know, fellow-
citizens, through how many generations the Didymus family has lived to
the honour of this city, doing praiseworthy work in yonder house.  You
know that the good old man who dwells there was one of the teachers of
the royal children."

"And yet," cried Philostratus, "only the day before yesterday he walked
arm in arm in the Paneum garden with Arius, the tutor of Octavianus, our
own and our Queen's most hated foe.  In my presence, and before I know
not how many others, Didymus distinguished this Arius as his most beloved
pupil."

"To give you that title," retorted Dion, "would certainly fill any
teacher with shame and anger, no matter how far you had surpassed him in
wisdom and knowledge.  Nay, had you been committed to the care of the
herring dealers, instead of the rhetoricians, every honest man among them
would disown you, for they sell only good wares for good money, while you
give the poorest in exchange for glittering gold.  This time you trample
under foot the fair name of an honourable man.  But I will not suffer it;
and you hear, fellow-citizens, I now challenge this Syrian to prove that
Didymus ever betrayed his native land, or I will brand him in your
presence a base slanderer, an infamous, venal destroyer of character!"

"An insult from such lips is easily borne," replied Philostratus in a
tone of scornful superiority; but there was a pause ere he again turned
to the listening throng, and with all the warmth he could throw into his
voice continued: "What do I desire, then, fellow-citizens?  What is the
sole object of my words?  I stand here with clean hands, impelled solely
by the impulse of my heart, to plead for the Queen.  In order to secure
the only suitable site for the statues to be erected to Cleopatra's
honour and fame, I enter into judgment with her foes, expose myself to
the insult with which boastful insolence is permitted to vent its wrath
upon me.  But I am not dismayed, though, in pursuing this course, I am
acting against the law of Nature; for the infamous man against whom I
raise my voice was my teacher, too, and ere he turned from the path of
right and virtue--under influences which I will not mention here--he
numbered me also, in the presence of many witnesses, among his best
pupils.  I was certainly one of the most grateful--I chose his
granddaughter--the truth must be spoken--for my wife.  The possession--"

"Possession!" interrupted Dion in a loud, excited tone.  "The corpse cast
ashore by the waves might as well boast possession of the sea!"

The dim torchlight was sufficient to reveal Philostratus's pallor to the
bystanders.  For a moment the orator seemed to lose his self-control, but
he quickly recovered himself, and shouted: "Fellow-citizens, dear
friends!  I was about to make you witnesses of the misery which a woman,
whose wickedness is even greater than her beauty, brought upon an
inexperienced--"

But he went no further; for his hearers--many of whom knew the brilliant,
generous Dion, and Barine, the fair singer at the last Adonis festival--
gave the orator tokens of their indignation, which were all the more
pitiless because of the pleasure they felt in seeing an expert vanquished
by an untrained foe.  The wordy war would not have ended so quickly,
however, had not restlessness and alarm taken possession of the crowd.
The shout, "Back! disperse!" ran through the multitude, and directly
after the trampling of hoofs and the commands of the leader of a troop of
Libyan cavalry were heard.  The matter at stake was not sufficiently
important to induce the populace to offer an armed force resistance which
might have entailed serious danger.  Besides, the blustering war of
tongues had reached a merry close, and loud laughter blended with the
shouts of fear and warning; for the surging throng had swept with
unexpected speed towards the fountain and plunged Philostratus into the
basin.  Whether this was due to the wrath of some enemy, or to mere
accident, could not be learned; the vain efforts of the luckless man to
crawl out of the water up the smooth marble were so comical, and his
gestures, after helping hands had dragged him dripping upon the pavement
of the square, were so irresistibly funny, that more laughing than angry
voices were heard, especially when some one cried, "His hands were soiled
by blackening Didymus, so the washing will do him good."  "Some wise
physicians flung him into the water," retorted an other;  "he needed the
cold application after the blows Dion dealt him."

The Regent, who had sent the troop of horsemen to drive the crowd away
from Didymus's house, might well be pleased that the violent measure
encountered so little resistance.

The throng quickly scattered, and was speedily attracted by something new
at the Theatre of Dionysus--the zither-player Anaxenor had just announced
from its steps that Cleopatra and Antony had won the most brilliant
victory, and had sung to the accompaniment of his lute a hymn which had
deeply stirred all hearts.  He had composed it long before, and seized
the first opportunity--the report had reached his ears while breakfasting
in Kanopus--to try its effect.

As soon as the square began to empty, Barine left her post of
observation.  It was long since her heart had throbbed so violently.
Not one of the many suitors for her favour had been so dear to her as
Dion; but she now felt that she loved him.

What he had just done for her and her grandfather was worthy of the
deepest gratitude; it proved that he did not come to her house, like most
of her guests, merely to while away the evening hours.

It had been no small matter for the young aristocrat, in the presence of
the whole multitude, to enter into a debate with the infamous
Philostratus, and how well he had succeeded in silencing the dreaded
orator!  Besides, Dion had even taken her part against his own powerful
uncle, and perhaps by his deed drawn upon himself the hostility of his
enemy's brother, Alexas, Antony's powerful favourite.  Barine might
assure herself that he, who was the peer of any Macedonian noble in the
city, would have done this for no one else.

She felt as if the act had ransomed her.

When, after an unhappy marriage and many desolate days, she had regained
her former bright cheerfulness and saw her house become the centre of the
intellectual life of the city, she had striven until now to extend the
same welcome to all her guests.  She had perceived that she ought not to
give any one the power over her which is possessed by the man who knows
that he is beloved, and even to Dion she had granted little more than to
the others.  But now she saw plainly that she would resign the pleasure
of being a universally admired woman, whose modest home attracted the
most distinguished men in the city, for the far greater happiness which
would be hers as Dion's beloved wife.

With him, cherished by his love, she believed that she could find far
greater joy in solitude than in the gay course of her present life.

She knew now what she must do if Dion sought her, and the architect,
for the first time, found her a silent companion.  He had willingly
accompanied her back to her grandfather's house, where he had again met
her sister Helena, while she had quitted it disappointed, because her
brave defender had not returned there.

After the interruption of the debate Dion had been in a very cheerful
mood.  The pleasant sensation of having championed a good cause, and the
delightful consciousness of success were not new to him, but he had
rarely felt so uplifted as now.  He most ardently longed for his next
meeting with Barine, and imagined how he would describe what had happened
and claim her gratitude for his friendly service.  The scene had risen
clearly before his mind, but scarcely had the radiant vision of the
future faded when the unusually bright expression of his manly face was
clouded by a grave and troubled one.

The darkness of the night, illumined only by the flare of the pitch-pans,
had surrounded him, yet it had seemed as if he were standing with Barine
in the full light of noon in the blossoming garden of his own palace,
and, after asking a reward for his sturdy championship, she had clung
to him with deep emotion, and he had passionately kissed her tearful
face.

The face had quickly vanished, yet it had been as distinct as the most
vivid picture in a dream.  Was Barine more to him than he supposed?  Had
he not been drawn to her, during the past few months, by the mere charm
of her pliant intellect and her bright beauty?  Had a new, strong passion
awakened within him?  Was he in danger of seeing the will which urged him
to preserve his freedom conquered?  Had he cause to fear that some day,
constrained by a mysterious, invincible power, in defiance of the
opposition of calm reason, he might perhaps bind himself for life to this
Barine, the woman who had once been the wife of a Philostratus, and who
bestowed her smiles on all who found admittance to her house seeking a
feast for the eye, a banquet for the ear, a pleasant entertainment?

Though her honor was as stainless as the breast of a swan--and he had no
reason to doubt it--she would still be classed with Aspasia and other
women whose guests sought more than songs and agreeable conversations.
The gifts with which the gods had so lavishly endowed her had already
been shared with too many to permit him, the last scion of a noble
Macedonian house, to think of leading her, as mistress, to the palace
whose erection he had so carefully and successfully planned with Gorgias.

Surely it lacked nothing save the gracious rule of a mistress.

But if she should consent to become his without the blessing of Hymen?
No.

He could not thus dishonor the granddaughter of Didymus, the man who had
been his father's revered teacher, a woman whom he had always rejoiced
that, spite of the gay freedom with which she received so many admirers,
he could still esteem.  He would not do so, though his friends would have
greeted such scruples with a smile of superiority.  Who revered the
sacredness of marriage in a city whose queen was openly living for the
second time with the husband of another?  Dion himself had formed many a
brief connection, but for that very reason he could not place a woman
like Barine on the same footing with those whose love he had perhaps owed
solely to his wealth.  He had never lacked courage and resolution, but he
felt that this time he would have to resist a power with which he had
never coped.

That accursed face!  Again and again it rose before his mental vision,
smiling and beckoning so sweetly that the day must come when the yearning
to realize the dream would conquer all opposition.  If he remained near
her he would inevitably do what he might afterwards regret, and therefore
he would fain have offered a sacrifice to Peitho to induce her to enhance
Archibius's powers of persuasion and induce Barine to leave Alexandria.
It would be hard for him to part from her, yet much would be gained if
she went into the country.  Between the present and the distant period of
a second meeting lay respite from peril, and perhaps the possibility of
victory.  Dion did not recognize himself.  He seemed as unstable as a
swaying reed, because he had conquered his wish to re-enter old Didymus's
house and encourage him, and passed on to his own home.  But he would
probably have found Barine still with her grandfather, and he would not
meet her, though every fibre of his being longed for her face, her voice,
and a word of gratitude from her beloved lips.  Instead of joy, he was
filled with the sense of dissatisfaction which overpowers a man standing
at a crossing in the roads, who sees before him three goals, yet can be
fully content with neither.

The Street of the King, along which he suffered himself to be carried by
the excited throng, ran between the sea and the Theatre of Dionysus.  The
thought darted through his mind that his friend the architect desired to
erect the luckless statues of the royal lovers in front of this stately
building.  He would divert his thoughts by examining the site which
Gorgias had chosen.

The zither-player finished his hymn just as Dion approached the theatre,
and the crowd began to disperse.  Every one was full of the joyful
tidings of victory, and one shouted to another what Anaxenor, the
favourite of the great Antony, who must surely know, had just recited in
thrilling verse.  Many a joyous Io and loud Evoe to Cleopatra, the new
Isis, and Antony, the new Dionysus, resounded through the air, while
bearded and smooth, delicate Greek and thick Egyptian lips joined in the
shout, "To the Sebasteum!"  This was the royal palace, which faced the
government building containing the Regent's residence.  The populace
desired to have the delightful news confirmed, and to express, by a
public demonstration, the grateful joy which filled every heart.

Dion, too, was eager to obtain certainty, and, though usually averse to
mingling with the populace during such noisy outbursts of feeling, he was
preparing to follow the crowd thronging towards the Sebasteum, when the
shouts of runners clearing a passage for a closed litter fell upon his
ear.

It was occupied by Iras, the Queen's trusted attendant.  If any one could
give accurate information, it was she; yet it would hardly be possible to
gain an opportunity of conversing with her in this throng.  But Iras must
have had a different opinion; she had seen Dion, and now called him to
her side.  There were hoarse tones in her voice, usually so clear and
musical, which betrayed the emotion raging in her breast as she assailed
the young Macedonian noble with a flood of questions.  Without giving him
the usual greeting, she hastily desired to know what was exciting the
people, who had brought the tidings of victory, and whither the multitude
was flocking?

Dion had found it difficult not to be forced from the litter while
answering.  Iris perceived this, and as they were just passing the
Maeander, the labyrinth, which was closed after sunset, she ordered her
bearers to carry the litter to the entrance, made herself known to the
watchman, ordered the outer court to be opened, the litter to be placed
there, and the bearers and runners to wait outside for her summons, which
would soon be given.

This unusual haste and excitement filled Dion with just solicitude.  She
refused his invitation to alight and walk up and down, declaring that
life offered so many labyrinths that one need not seek them.  He, too,
seemed to be following paths which were scarcely straight ones.  "Why,"
she concluded, thrusting her head far out of the opening in the litter,
"are you rendering it so difficult for the Regent and your own uncle to
execute their plans, making common cause with the populace, like a paid
agitator?"

"Like Philostratus, you mean, on whom I bestowed a few blows in addition
to the golden guerdon received from your hand?"

"Ay, like him, for aught I care.  Probably it was you, too, who had him
flung into the water, after you had vented your wrath on him?  You
managed your cause well.  What we do for love's sake is usually
successful.  No matter, if only his brother Alexas does not rouse Antony
against you.  For my part, I merely desire to know why and for whom all
this was done."

"For whom save the good old man who was my father's preceptor, and his
just claim?" replied Dion frankly.  "Moreover--for no site more
unsuitable could be found than his garden-in behalf of good taste."

Iras laughed a shrill, short laugh, and her narrow, regularly formed
face, which might have been called beautiful, had not the bridge of the
straight delicate nose been too long and the chin too small, darkened
slightly, as she exclaimed, "That is frank at least."

"You ought to be accustomed to that from me," replied Dion calmly.
"In this case, however, the expert, Gorgias, fully shares my opinion."

"I heard that too.  You are both the most constant visitors of--what is
the woman's name?--the bewitching Barine."

"Barine?"  repeated Dion, as if the mention of the name surprised him.
"You take care, my friend, that our conversation does honour to its
scene, the labyrinth.  I speak of works of the sculptor's art, and you
pretend that I am referring to what is most certainly a very successful
living work from the creative hands of the gods.  I was very far from
thinking of the granddaughter of the old scholar for whom I interceded."

"Ay," she scornfully retorted, "young gentlemen in your position, and
with your habits of life, always think of their fathers estimable
teachers rather than of the women who, ever since Pandora opened her box,
have brought all sorts of misfortunes into the world.  But," she added,
pushing back her dark locks from her high forehead, "I don't understand
myself, how, with the mountain of care that now burdens my soul, I can
waste even a single word upon such trifles.  I care as little for the
aged scholar as I do for his legion of commentaries and books, though
they are not wholly unfamiliar to me.  For any concern of mine he might
have as many grandchildren as there are evil tongues in Alexandria, were
it not that just at this time it is of the utmost importance to remove
everything which might cast a shadow on the Queen's pathway.  I have just
come from the palace of the royal children at Lochias, and what I learned
there.  But that--I will not, I cannot believe it. It fairly stifles me!"

"Have you received bad news from the fleet?"  questioned Dion, with
sincere anxiety; but she only bent her head in assent, laying her fan of
ostrich-plumes on her lips to enjoin silence, at the same time shivering
so violently that he perceived it, even in the dusk.  It was evident that
speech was difficult, as she added in a muffled tone: "It must be kept
secret--Rhodian sailors--thank the gods, it is still very doubtful--it
cannot, must not be true--and yet-the prattle of that zither-player,
which has filled the multitude with joyous anticipation, is abominable--
the great ones of the earth are often most sorely injured by those who
owe them the most gratitude.  I know you can be silent, Dion.  You could
as a boy, if anything was to be hidden from our parents.  Would you still
be ready to plunge into the water for me, as in those days?  Scarcely.
Yet you may be trusted, and, even in this labyrinth, I will do so.  My
heart is heavy.  But not one word to any person.  I need no confidant and
could maintain silence even towards you, but I am anxious that you should
understand me, you who have just taken such a stand.  Before I entered my
litter at Lochias, the boy returned, and I talked with him."

"Young Caesarion loves Barine," replied Dion with grave earnestness.

"Then this horrible folly is known?" asked Iras excitedly.  "A passion
far deeper than I should ever have expected this dreamer to feel has
taken possession of him.  And if the Queen should now return--perhaps
less successful than we desire--if she looks to those from whom she still
expects pleasure, satisfaction, lofty deeds, and learns what has befallen
the boy--for what does not that sun-bright intellect learn and perceive?
He is dear to her, dearer than any of you imagine.  How it will increase
her anxiety, perhaps her suffering!  With what good reason she will be
angered against those whom duty and love should have commanded to guard
the boy!"

"And therefore," added Dion, "the stone of offence must be removed.
Your first step to secure this object was the attack on Didymus."

He had judged correctly and perceived that, in her assault upon the old
scholar, she had at first intended to play into the hands of the rulers,
work against the old philosopher and his relatives, among whose number
was Barine; for the Egyptian law permitted the relatives of those who
were convicted of any crime against the sovereign or the government to be
banished with the criminal.  This attack upon an innocent person was
disgraceful, yet every word Iras uttered made Dion feel, every feature of
her face betrayed, that it was not merely base jealousy, but a nobler
emotion, that caused her to assail the guiltless sage--love for her
mistress, the desire which dominated her whole being to guard Cleopatra
from grief and trouble in these trying times.  He knew Iras's iron will
and the want of consideration with which she had learned to pursue her
purpose at the court.  His first object was to protect Barine from the
danger which threatened her; but he also wished to relieve the anxiety of
Iras, the daughter of Krates, his father's neighbour, with whom he had
played in boyhood and for whom he had never ceased to feel a tender
interest.

His remark surprised her.  She saw that her plot was detected by the man
whose esteem she most valued, and a loving woman is glad to recognize the
superiority of her lover.  Besides, from her earliest childhood--and she
was only two years younger than Dion--she had belonged to circles where
no quality was more highly prized than mental pliancy and keenness.  Her
dark eyes, which at first had glittered distrustfully and questioningly
and afterwards glowed with a gloomy light, now gained a new expression.
Her gaze sought her friend's with a tender, pleading look as, admitting
his charge, she began: "Yes! Dion, the philosopher's granddaughter must
not stay here.  Or do you see any other way to protect the unhappy boy
from incalculable misfortune?  You know me well enough to be aware that,
like you, I am reluctant to infringe another's rights, that except in
case of necessity I am not cruel.  I value your esteem.  No one is more
truthful, and yesterday you averred that Eros had no part in your visits
to the much-admired young woman, that you joined her guests merely
because the society you found at her house afforded a pleasant stimulus
to the mind.  I have ceased to believe in many things, but not in you and
your words, and if hearing that you had taken sides with the grandfather,
I fancied that you were secretly seeking the thanks and gratitude of the
granddaughter, why--surely the atrocious maxim that Zeus does not hear
the vows of lovers comes from you men--why, suspicion again reared its
head.  Now you seem to share my opinion--"

"Like you," Dion interrupted, "I believe that Barine ought to be
withdrawn from the boy's pursuit, which cannot be more unpleasant to you
than to her.  As Caesarion neither can nor ought to leave Alexandria
while affairs are so threatening, nothing is left except to remove the
young woman--but, of course, in all kindness."

"In a golden chariot, garlanded with roses, if you so desire," cried Iras
eagerly.

"That might attract attention," answered Dion, smiling and raising his
hand as if to enjoin moderation.  "Your mode of action does not please
me, even now that I know its purpose, but I will gladly aid you to attain
your object.  Your crooked paths also lead to the goal, and perhaps one
is less likely to stumble in them; but straight ways suit me better, and
I think I have already found the right one.  A friend will invite Barine
to an estate far away from here, perhaps in the lake regions."

"You?" cried Iras, her narrow eyebrows suddenly contracting.

"Do you imagine that she would go with me?" he asked, in a faintly
reproachful tone.  "No.  Fortunately, we have older friends, and at their
head is one who happens to be your uncle and at the same time is wax in
the hands of the Queen."

"Archibius?"  exclaimed  Iras.  "Ah!  if he could persuade her to do so!"

"He will try.  He, too, is anxious about the lad.  While we are talking
here, he is inviting Barine to his estate.  The country air will benefit
her."

"May she bloom there like a young shepherdess!"

"You are right to wish her the best fortune; for if the Queen does not
return victorious, the irritability of our Alexandrians will be doubled.
When you laid hands on Didymus's garden, you were so busily engaged in
building the triumphal arch that you forgot--"

"Who would have doubted the successful issue of this war?" cried Iras.
"And they will, they will conquer.  The Rhodian said that the fleet was
scattered.  The disaster happened on the Acharnanian coast.  How positive
it sounded!  But he had it only at second and third hand.  And what are
mere rumours?  The source of the false tidings is discovered later.
Besides, even if the naval battle were really lost, the powerful army,
which is far superior to Octavianus's forces, still remains.  Which of
the enemy's generals could cope with Antony on the land?  How he will
fight when all is at stake-fame, honour, sovereignty, hate, and love!
Away with this fear, based on mere rumour!  After Dyrrachium Caesar's
cause was deemed lost, and how soon Pharsalus made him master of the
world!  Is it worthy of a sensible person to suffer courage to be
depressed by a sailor's gossip?  And yet--yet!  It began while I was ill.
And then the swallows on the Antonias, the admiral's ship.  We have
already spoken of it.  Mardiou and your uncle Zeno saw with their own
eyes the strange swallows drive away those which had built their nest on
the helm of the Antonias, and kill the young ones with their cruel beaks.
An evil omen!

"I cannot forget it.  And my dream, while I lay ill with fever far away
from my mistress!  But I have already lingered here too long.  No, Dion,
no.  I am grateful for the rest here--I can now feel at ease about
Caesarion.  Place the monument where you choose.  The people shall see
and hear that we respect their opposition, that we are just and friendly.
Help me to turn this matter to the advantage of the Queen, and if
Archibius succeeds in getting Barine away and keeping her in the country,
then--if I had aught that seemed to you desirable it should be yours.
But what does the petted Dion care for his fading playfellow?"

"Fading?" he repeated in a tone of indignant reproach.  "Say rather the
fully developed flower has learned from her royal friend the secret of
eternal youth."

With a swift impulse of gratitude Iras bent her face towards him in the
dusk, extending the slender white hand--next to Cleopatra's famed as the
most beautiful at court--for him to kiss, but when he merely pressed his
lips lightly on it with no shadow of tenderness, she hastily withdrew it,
exclaiming as if overwhelmed by sudden repentance: "This idle, hollow
dalliance at such a time, with such a burden of anxiety oppressing the
heart!  It is un worthy, shameful!  If Barine goes with Archibius, her
time will scarcely hang heavy on his estates.  I think I know some one
who will speedily follow to bear her company.--Here, Sasis! the bearers!
To the Tower of Nilus, before the Gate of the Sun!"

Dion gazed after her litter a short time, then passed his hand through
his waving brown hair, walked swiftly to the shore and, without pausing
long to choose, sprang into one of the boats which were rented for
pleasure voyages.  Ordering the sailors who were preparing to accompany
him to remain on shore, he stretched the sail with a practised hand, and
ran out towards the mouth of the harbour.  He needed some strong
excitement, and wished to go himself in search of news.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Contempt had become too deep for hate
Jealousy has a thousand eyes
Zeus does not hear the vows of lovers






CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 2.



CHAPTER IV.

The house facing the garden of the Paneum, where Barine lived, was the
property of her mother, who had inherited it from her parents.  The
artist Leonax, the young beauty's father, son of the old philosopher
Didymus, had died long before.

After Barine's unhappy marriage with Philostratus was dissolved, she had
returned to her mother, who managed the affairs of the household.  She
too, belonged to a family of scholars and had a brother who had won high
repute as a philosopher, and had directed the studies of the young
Octavianus.  This had occurred long before the commencement of the
hostility which separated the heirs of Caesar and Mark Antony.  But even
after the latter had deserted Octavia, the sister of Octavianus, to
return to Cleopatra, the object of his love, and there was an open breach
between the two rivals for the sovereignty of the world, Antony had been
friendly to Arius and borne him no grudge for his close relations to his
rival.  The generous Roman had even given his enemy's former tutor a fine
house, to show him that he was glad to have him in Alexandria and near
his person.

The widow Berenike, Barine's mother, was warmly attached to her only
brother, who often joined her daughter's guests.  She was a quiet, modest
woman whose happiest days had been passed in superintending the education
of her children, Barine, the fiery Hippias, and the quiet Helena, who for
several years had lived with her grandparents and, with faithful
devotion, assumed the duty of caring for them.  She had been more easily
guided than the two older children; for the boy's aspiring spirit had
often drawn him beyond his mother's control, and the beautiful, vivacious
girl had early possessed charms so unusual that she could not remain
unnoticed.

Hippias had studied oratory, first in Alexandria and later in Athens and
Rhodes.  Three years before, his uncle Arius had sent him with excellent
letters of introduction to Rome to become acquainted with the life of the
capital and try whether, in spite of his origin, his brilliant gifts of
eloquence would forward his fortunes there.

Two miserable years with an infamous, unloved husband had changed the
wild spirits of Barine's childhood into the sunny cheerfulness now one of
her special charms.  Her mother was conscious of having desired only her
best good in uniting the girl of sixteen to Philostratus, whom the
grandfather Didymus then considered a very promising young man, and whose
advancement, in addition to his own talents, his brother Alexas, Antony's
favourite, promised to aid.  She had believed that this step would afford
the gay, beautiful girl the best protection from the perils of the
corrupt capital; but the worthless husband had caused both mother and
daughter much care and sorrow, while his brother Alexas, who constantly
pursued his young sister-in-law with insulting attentions, was the source
of almost equal trouble.  Berenike often gazed in silent astonishment at
the child, who, spite of such sore grief and humiliation, had preserved
the innocent light-heartedness which made her seem as if life had offered
her only thornless roses.

Her father, Leonax, had been one of the most distinguished artists of the
day, and Barine had inherited from him the elastic artist temperament
which speedily rebounds from the heaviest pressure.  To him also she owed
the rare gift of song, which had been carefully cultivated and had
already secured her the first position in the woman's chorus at the
festival of the great goddesses of the city.  Every one was full of her
praises, and after she had sung the Yalemos in the palace over the waxen
image of the favourite of the gods, slain by the boar, her name was
eagerly applauded.  To have heard her was esteemed a privilege, for she
sang only in her own house or at religious ceremonials "for the honour of
the gods."

The Queen, too, had heard her, and, after the Adonis festival, her uncle
Arius had presented her to Antony, who expressed his admiration with all
the fervour of his frank nature, and afterwards came to her house a
second time, accompanied by his son Antyllus.  Doubtless he would have
called on her frequently and tested upon her heart his peculiar power
over women, had he not been compelled to leave the city on the day after
his last visit.

Berenike had reproved her brother for bringing the Queen's lover to
Barine, for her anxiety was increased by the repeated visits of Antony's
son, and still more aroused by that of Caesarion, who was presented by
Antyllus.

These youths were not numbered among the guests whose presence she
welcomed and whose conversation afforded her pleasure.  It was flattering
that they should honour her simple home by their visits, but she knew
that Caesarion came without his tutor's knowledge, and perceived, by the
expression of his eyes, what drew him to her daughter.  Besides,
Berenike, in rearing the two children, who had been the source of so much
anxiety had lost the joyous confidence which had characterized her own
youth.  Whenever life presented any new phase, she saw the dark side
first.  If a burning candle stood before her, the shadow of the
candlestick caught her eye before the light.  Her whole mental existence
became a chain of fears, but the kind-hearted woman loved her children
too tenderly to permit them to see it.  Only it was a relief to her heart
when some of her evil forebodings were realized, to say that she had
foreseen it all.

No trace of this was legible in her face, a countenance still pretty and
pleasing in its unruffled placidity.  She talked very little, but what
she did say was sensible, and proved how attentively she understood how
to listen.  So she was welcome among Barine's guests.  Even the most
distinguished received something from her, because he felt that the quiet
woman understood him.

Before Barine had returned that evening, something had occurred which
made her mother doubly regret the accident to her brother Arius the day
before.  On his way home from his sister's he had been run over by a
chariot darting recklessly along the Street of the King, and was carried,
severely injured, to his home, where he now lay helpless and fevered.
Nor did it lessen his sufferings to hear his two sons threaten to take
vengeance on the reckless fellow who had wrought their father this
mischief, for he had reason to believe Antyllus the perpetrator of the
deed, and a collision between the youths and the son of Antony could only
result in fresh disaster to him and his, especially as the young Roman
seemed to have inherited little of his father's magnanimous generosity.
Yet Arius could not be vexed with his sons for stigmatizing, in the
harshest terms, the conduct of the man who had gone on without heeding
the accident.  He had cautioned his sister against the utterly unbridled
youth whose father he had himself brought to her house.  With what good
reason he had raised his voice in warning was now evident.  At sunset
that very day several guests had arrived as usual, followed by Antyllus,
a youth of nineteen.  When the door-keeper refused to admit him, he had
rudely demanded to see Barine, thrust aside the prudent old porter, who
endeavoured to detain him, and, in spite of his protestations, forced his
way into his dead master's work-room, where the ladies usually received
their visitors.  Not until he found it empty would he retire, and then he
first fastened a bouquet of flowers he had brought to a statue of Eros in
burnt clay, which stood there.  Both the porter and Barine's waiting-maid
declared that he was drunk; they saw it when he staggered away with the
companions who had waited for him in the garden outside.

This unseemly and insulting conduct filled Berenike with the deepest
indignation.  It must not remain unpunished, and, while waiting for her
daughter, she imagined what evil consequences might ensue if Antyllus
were forbidden the house and accused to his tutor, and how unbearable,
on the other hand, he might become if they omitted to do so.

She was full of sad presentiments, and as, with such good reason, she
feared the worst, she cherished a faint hope that her daughter might
perhaps bring home some pleasant tidings; for she had had the experience
that events which had filled her with the utmost anxiety sometimes
resulted in good fortune.

At last Barine appeared, and it was indeed long since she had clasped her
mother in her arms with such joyous cheerfulness.

The widow's troubled heart grew lighter.  Her daughter must have met with
something unusually gratifying, she looked so happy, although she had
surely heard what had happened here; for her cloak was laid aside and her
hair newly arranged, so she must have been to her chamber, where she was
dressed by her loquacious Cyprian slave, who certainly could not keep to
herself anything that was worth mentioning.  The nimble maid had shown
her skill that day.

"Any stranger would take her for nineteen," thought her mother.  "How