“Her glowing soul!” Cleopatra eagerly repeated, and the desire awoke to subjugate this man who had so confidently boasted of his power of resistance.  Though he might be stronger than many others, he certainly was not invincible.  And aware of her still unbroken sway over the hearts of men, her eyes sparkled with the alluring radiance of love, and a bewitching smile brightened her face.

The young Imperator’s heart began to chafe under the curb and to beat more quickly, his cheeks flushed and paled by turns.  How she gazed at him!  What if she loved the nephew as she had once loved the uncle who, through her, had learned what bliss life can offer?  Ay, it must be happiness to kiss those lips, to be clasped in those exquisite arms, to hear one’s own name tenderly spoken by those musical tones.  Even the magnificent marble statue of Ariadne, which he had seen in Athens, had not displayed to his gaze lines more beautiful than those of the woman reclining on yonder pillows.  Who could venture to speak in her presence of vanished charms?  Ah, no!  The spell which had conquered Julius Caesar was as vivid, as potent as ever.  He himself felt its power; he was young, and after such unremitting exertions he too yearned to quaff the nectar of the noblest joys, to steep body and soul in peerless bliss.

So, with a hasty movement, he took one step towards her couch, resolved to grasp her hands and raise them to his lips.  His ardent gaze answered hers; but surprised by the power which, though so heavily burdened with physical and mental suffering, she still possessed over the strongest and coldest of men, she perceived what was passing in his soul, and a smile of triumph, blended with the most bitter contempt, hovered around her beautiful lips.  Should she dupe him into granting her wishes by feigning love for the first time?  Should she yield to the man who had insulted her, in order to induce him to accord the children their rights?  Should she, to gratify her lover’s foe, relinquish the sacred grief which was drawing her after him, give posterity and her children the right to call her, instead of the most loyal of the loyal, a dishonoured woman, who sold herself for power?

To all these questions came a prompt denial.  The single stride which Octavianus had made towards her, his eyes aflame with love, gave her the right to feel that she had vanquished the victor, and the proud delight of triumph was too plainly reflected in her mobile features to escape the penetrating, distrustful gaze of the subjugated Caesar.

But he had scarcely perceived what threatened him, and remembered her words concerning his famous uncle’s surrender only to her and to death, when he succeeded in conquering his quickly kindled senses.  Blushing at his own weakness, he averted his eyes from the Queen, and when he met those of Proculejus and the other witnesses of the scene, he realized the abyss on whose verge he stood.  He had half succumbed to the danger of losing, by a moment’s weakness, the fruit of great sacrifices and severe exertions.