“That Octavianus will be more and more warmly animated by the desire to accord you and yours a worthy destiny, the more firmly you expect that he will attest his generosity.”

“And if I fulfil this desire and expect from you everything that is great and noble—­the condition is not difficult—­what proofs of your graciousness will then await us?”

“Paint them with all the fervour of that vivid power of imagination which interpreted even my glance in your favour, and devised the marvels by which you rendered the greatest and most brilliant man in Rome the happiest of mortals.  But—­by Zeus!—­it is the fourth hour after noonday!”

A glance from the window had caused the exclamation.  Then, pressing his hand upon his heart, he continued in a tone of the most sincere regret “How gladly I would prolong this fascinating conversation, but important matters which, unfortunately, cannot be deferred, summon me—­”

“And your answer?” cried Cleopatra, panting for breath and gazing at him with eyes full of expectation.

“Must I repeat it?” he asked with impatient haste.  “Very well, then.  In return for implicit confidence on your part, favour, forgiveness, cordiality, every consideration which you can justly desire.  Your heart is so rich in warmth of feeling, grant me but a small share of it and ask tangible gifts in return.  They are already bestowed.”  Then greeting her like a friend who is reluctant to say farewell, he hastily left the apartment.

“Gone—­gone!” cried Iras as the door closed behind him.  “An eel that slips from the hand which strives to hold him.”

“Northern ice,” added Cleopatra gloomily as Charmian aided her to find a more comfortable position.  “As smooth as it is cold; there is nothing more to hope.”

“Yes, my royal mistress, yes,” Iras eagerly protested.  “Dolabella is waiting for him in the Philadelphus court-yard.  From him—­you have his promise—­we shall learn what Octavianus has in store for you.”

In truth, the Caesar did find the youth at the first gate of the palace, inspecting his superb Cyrenean horses.

“Magnificent animals!” cried Octavianus; “a gift from the city!  Will you drive with me?—­A remarkable, a very remarkable woman!”

“Isn’t she?” asked Dolabella eagerly.

“Undoubtedly,” replied the Caesar.  “But though she might almost be your mother, an uncommonly dangerous one for youths of your age.  What a melting voice, what versatility, what fervour!  And yet such regal grace in every movement!  But I wish to stifle, not to fan, the spark which perhaps has already fallen into your heart.  And the play, the farce which she just enacted before me in the midst of most serious matters!”

He uttered a low, short laugh; but Dolabella exclaimed expectantly:  “You rarely laugh, but this conversation—­apparently—­excites your mirth.  So the result was satisfactory?”