f night, the
tender light of the calm moon rises too before our fancy.

Having saved Irene, his present desire was to restore her parents to
liberty; to quit Egypt without having seen Klea once more seemed to him
absolutely impossible. He endeavored once more to revive in his mind the
image of her proud tall figure; he felt he must tell her that she was
beautiful, a woman worthy of a king--that he was her friend and hated
injustice, and was ready to sacrifice much for justice's sake and for
her own in the service of her parents and herself. To-day again, before
the banquet, he purposed to go to the temple, and to entreat the recluse
to help him to an interview with his adopted daughter.

If only Klea could know beforehand what he had been doing for Irene and
their parents she must surely let him see that her haughty eyes could
look kindly on him, must offer him her hand in farewell, and then he
should clasp it in both his, and press it to his breast. Then would he
tell her in the warmest and most inspired words he could command how
happy he was to have seen her and known her, and how painful it was to
bid her farewell; perhaps she might leave her hand in his, and give
him some kind word in return. One kind word--one phrase of thanks from
Klea's firm but beautiful mouth--seemed to him of higher value than a
kiss or an embrace from the great and wealthy Queen of Egypt.

When Publius was excited he could be altogether carried away by a sudden
sweep of passion, but his imagination was neither particularly lively
nor glowing. While his horses were being harnessed, and then while
he was driving to the Serapeum, the tall form of the water-bearer was
constantly before him; again and again he pictured himself holding her
hand instead of the reins, and while he repeated to himself all he meant
to say at parting, and in fancy heard her thank him with a trembling
voice for his valuable help, and say that she would never forget him, he
felt his eyes moisten--unused as they had been to tears for many years.
He could not help recalling the day when he had taken leave of his
family to go to the wars for the first time. Then it had not been his
own eyes but his mother's that had sparkled through tears, and it struck
him that Klea, if she could be compared to any other woman, was most
like to that noble matron to whom he owed his life, and that she might
stand by the side of the daughter of the great Scipio Africanus like a
youthful Mi