ber, an assassin, Proculejus rushed upon her, seized her arm,
and wrested the weapon from her grasp. His tall figure concealed her
from me. But when, struggling to escape from the ruffian's clutch,
she again turned her face towards the hall, what a transformation had
occurred! Her eyes--you know how large they are--were twice their usual
size, and blazed with scorn, fury, and hatred for the traitor. The
cheering light had become a consuming fire. So I imagine the vengeance,
the curse which calls down ruin upon the head of a foe. And Proculejus,
the great lord, the poet whose noble nature is praised by the authors on
the banks of the Tiber, held the defenceless woman, the worthy daughter
of a brilliant line of kings, in a firm grasp, as if it required the
exertion of all his strength to master this delicate embodiment of
charming womanhood. True, the proud blood of the outwitted lioness urged
her to resist this profanation, and Proculejus--an enviable honour--made
her feel the superior strength of his arm. I am no prophet, but Dion,
I repeat, this shameful struggle and the glances which flashed upon
him will be remembered to his dying hour. Had they been darted at me, I
should have cursed my life.

"They blanched even the Roman's cheeks. He was lividly pale as he
completed what he deemed his duty. His own aristocratic hands were
degraded to the menial task of searching the garments of a woman, the
Queen, for forbidden wares, poisons or weapons. He was aided by one of
Caesar's freedmen, Epaphroditus, who is said to stand so high in the
favour of Octavianus.

"The scoundrel also searched Iras and Charmian, yet all the time both
Romans constantly spoke in cajoling terms of Caesar's favour; and his
desire to grant Cleopatra everything which was due a Queen.

"At last she was taken back to Lochias, but I felt like a madman; for
the image of the unfortunate woman pursued me like my shadow. It was
no longer a vision of the bewitching sovereign nay, it resembled the
incarnation of despair, tearless anguish, wrath demanding vengeance. I
will not describe it; but those eyes, those flashing, threatening
eyes, and the tangled hair on which Antony's blood had flowed-terrible,
horrible! My heart grew chill, as if I had seen upon Athene's shield the
head of the Medusa with its serpent locks.

"It had been impossible for me to warn her in time, or even to seize the
traitor's arm--I have already said so--and yet, yet her shining image