Sinking on a couch he buried his face amid the cushions.

Iras gazed at the strong man and shook her head.  She, too, loved the Queen; the news had brought tears to her eyes also; but even while she wept, a host of plans coping with this disaster had darted through her restless brain.  A few minutes after the arrival of the message of misfortune she had consulted with the members of Cleopatra’s council, and adopted measures for sustaining the people’s belief in the naval victory.

What was she, the delicate, by no means courageous girl, compared to this man of iron strength who, she was well aware, had braved the greatest perils in the service of the Queen?  Yet there he lay with his face hidden in the pillows as if utterly overwhelmed.

Did a woman’s soul rebound more quickly after being crushed beneath the burdens of the heaviest suffering, or was hers of a special character, and her slender body the casket of a hero’s nature?

She had reason to believe so when she recalled how the Regent and the Keeper of the Seal had received the terrible news.  They had rushed frantically up and down the vast hall as if desperate; but Mardion the eunuch had little manhood, and Zeno was a characterless old author who had won the Queen’s esteem, and the high office which he occupied solely by the vivid power of imagination, that enabled him constantly to devise new exhibitions, amusements, and entertainments, and present them with magical splendour.

But Archibius, the brave, circumspect counsellor and helper?

His shoulders again quivered as if they had received a blow, and Iras suddenly remembered what she had long known, but never fully realized—­that yonder grey-haired man loved Cleopatra, loved her as she herself loved Dion; and she wondered whether she would have been strong enough to maintain her composure if she had learned that a cruel fate threatened to rob him of life, liberty, and honour.

Hour after hour she had vainly awaited the young Alexandrian, yet he had witnessed her anxiety the day before.  Had she offended him?  Was he detained by the spell of Didymus’s granddaughter?

It seemed a great wrong that, amid the unspeakably terrible misfortune which had overtaken her mistress, she could not refrain from thinking continually of Dion.  Even as his image filled her heart, Cleopatra’s ruled her uncle’s mind and soul, and she said to herself that it was not alone among women that love paid no heed to years, or whether the locks were brown or tinged with grey.

But Archibius now raised himself, left the couch, passed his hand across his brow, and in the deep, calm tones natural to his voice, began with a sorrowful smile:  “A man stricken by an arrow leaves the fray to have his wound bandaged.  The surgeon has now finished his task.  I ought to have spared you this pitiable spectacle, child.  But I am again ready for the battle.  Cleopatra’s account of Antony’s condition renders a piece of news which we have just received somewhat more intelligible.”