Archibius’s thoughts lingered with his beloved Queen, and his vivid power of imagination conjured before his mind everything which could distress her.  No possible chance, not even the most terrible, was forgotten, and when he saw her sinking in the ship, stretching her beautiful arms imploringly towards him, to whom she had so long turned in every perilous position, when he beheld her a captive in the presence of the hostile, cold-hearted Octavianus, the blood seemed to freeze in his veins.  At last he dropped his felt mantle and, groaning aloud, struck his brow with his clenched hand.  He had fancied her walking with gold chains on her slender wrists before the victor’s four-horse chariot, and heard the exulting shouts of the Roman populace.

That would have been the most terrible of all.  To pursue this train of thought was beyond the endurance of the faithful friend, and Dion turned in surprise as he heard him sob and saw the tears which bedewed his face.

His own heart was heavy enough, but he knew his companion’s warm devotion to the Queen; so, passing his arm around his shoulder, he entreated him to maintain that peace of soul and mind which he had so often admired.  In the most critical situations he had seen him stand high above them, as yonder man who fed the flames on the summit of the Pharos stood above the wild surges of the sea.  If he would reflect over what had happened as dispassionately as usual, he could not fail to see that Antony must be free and in a position to guide his own future, since he directed the palace in the Choma to be put in order.  He did not understand about the wall, but perhaps he was bringing home some distinguished captive whom he wished to debar from all communication with the city.  It might prove that everything was far better than they feared, and they would yet smile at these grievous anxieties.  His heart, too, was heavy, for he wished the Queen the best fortune, not only for her own sake, but because with her and her successful resistance to the greed of Rome was connected the liberty of Alexandria.

“My love and anxiety, like yours,” he concluded, “have ever been given to her, the sovereign of this country.  The world will be desolate, life will no longer be worth living, if the iron foot of Rome crushes our independence and freedom.”  The words had sounded cordial and sincere, and Archibius followed Dion’s counsel.  Calm thought convinced him that nothing had yet happened which compelled belief in the worst result; and, as one who needs consolation often finds relief in comforting another, Archibius cheered his own heart by representing to his younger friend that, even if Octavianus were the victor and should deprive Egypt of her independence, he would scarcely venture to take from the citizens of Alexandria the free control of their own affairs.  Then he explained to Dion that, as a young, resolute, independent man, he might render himself doubly useful if it were necessary to guard the endangered liberty of the city, and told him how many beautiful things life still held in store.