trict fidelity unto
thee! Now and for ever I am thine, and thine alone!"

Then Charmion took me by the hand and drew me thence.

"Hast seen enough?" she asked, when we were once more within the chamber
and the lamp was lit.

"Yea," I answered; "my eyes are opened."

CHAPTER XVI

OF THE PLAN OF CHARMION; OF THE CONFESSION OF CHARMION; AND OF THE
ANSWER OF HARMACHIS

For some while I sat with bowed head, and the last bitterness of shame
sank into my soul. This, then, was the end. For this I had betrayed my
oaths; for this I had told the secret of the pyramid; for this I had
lost my Crown, my Honour, and, perchance, my hope of Heaven! Could there
be another man in the wide world so steeped in sorrow as I was that
night? Surely not one! Where should I turn? What could I do? And even
through the tempest of my torn heart the bitter voice of jealousy called
aloud. For I loved this woman, to whom I had given all; and she at this
moment--she was----Ah! I could not bear to think of it; and in my utter
agony, my heart burst in a river of tears such as are terrible to weep!

Then Charmion drew near me, and I saw that she, too, was weeping.

"Weep not, Harmachis!" she sobbed, kneeling at my side. "I cannot endure
to see thee weep. Oh! why wouldst thou not be warned? Then hadst thou
been great and happy, and not as now. Listen, Harmachis! Thou didst hear
what that false and tigerish woman said--to-morrow she hands thee over
to the murderers!"

"It is well," I gasped.

"Nay: it is not well. Harmachis, give her not this last triumph over
thee. Thou hast lost all save life: but while life remains, hope remains
also, and with hope the chance of vengeance."

"Ah!" I said, starting from my seat. "I had not thought of that. Ay--the
chance of vengeance! It would be sweet to be avenged!"

"It would be sweet, Harmachis, and yet this--Vengeance is an arrow that
in falling oft pierces him who shot it. Myself--I know it," and she
sighed. "But a truce to talk and grief. There will be time for us twain
to grieve, if not to talk, in all the heavy coming years. Thou must
fly--before the coming of the light must thou fly. Here is a plan.
To-morrow, ere the dawn, a galley that but yesterday came from
Alexandria, bearing fruit and stores, sails thither again, and its
captain is known to me, but to thee he is not known. Now, I will find
thee the garb of a Syrian merchant, and cloak thee, as I know how, and
furnish thee with a lette