stars; and a smile of wonderment, more sweet than the
sudden smile of the sea as its ripples wake to brightness beneath the
kiss of the risen moon, broke through her rain of tears.

"Thou livest!" she cried, throwing herself on her knees beside my couch.
"Thou livest--and I thought thee gone! Thou art come back to me! Oh!
what say I? How foolish is a woman's heart! 'Tis this long watching!
Nay; sleep and rest thee, Harmachis!--why dost thou talk? Not one
more word, I command thee straitly! Where is the draught left by
that long-bearded fool? Nay thou shalt have no draught! There, sleep,
Harmachis; sleep!" and she crouched down at my side and laid her cool
hand upon my brow, murmuring, "_Sleep! sleep!_"

And when I woke there she was still, but the lights of dawn were peeping
through the casement. There she knelt, one hand upon my forehead, and
her head, in all its disarray of curls, resting upon her outstretched
arm.

"Charmion," I whispered, "have I slept?"

Instantly she was wide awake, and, gazing on me with tender eyes, "Yea,
thou hast slept, Harmachis."

"How long, then, have I slept?"

"Nine hours."

"And thou hast held thy place there, at my side, for nine long hours?"

"Yes, it is nothing; I also have slept--I feared to waken thee if I
stirred."

"Go, rest," I said; "it shames me to think of this thing. Go rest thee,
Charmion!"

"Vex not thyself," she answered; "see, I will bid a slave watch thee,
and to wake me if thou needest aught; I sleep there, in the outer
chamber. Peace--I go!" and she strove to rise, but, so cramped was she,
fell straightway on the floor.

I can scarcely tell the sense of shame that filled me when I saw her
fall. Alas! I could not stir to help her.

"It is naught," she said; "move not, I did but catch my foot. There!"
and she rose, again to fall--"a pest upon my awkwardness! Why--I must be
sleeping. 'Tis well now. I'll send the slave;" and she staggered thence
like one overcome with wine.

And after that, I slept once more, for I was very weak. When I woke it
was afternoon, and I craved for food, which Charmion brought me.

I ate. "Then I die not," I said.

"Nay," she answered, with a toss of her head, "thou wilt live. In truth,
I did waste my pity on thee."

"And thy pity saved my life," I said wearily, for now I remembered.

"It is nothing," she answered carelessly. "After all, thou art my
cousin; also, I love nursing--it is a woman's trade. Like enough I had
do