h one of these letters a trophy
of victory, an Olympic garland. The woman to whom Julius Caesar owned
his subjugation might well hold her head higher than the unhappy,
vanquished Queen who, save the permission to die--"

"Do not part with the letters," said Octavianus kindly. "Who can doubt
that they are a precious treasure--"

"The most precious and at the same time the advocate of the accused,"
replied Cleopatra eagerly; "on them--as you have already heard--rests my
vindication. I will commence with their contents. How terrible it is to
make what is sacred to us and intended only to elevate our own hearts
serve a purpose, to do what has always been repugnant to us! But I need
an advocate and, Octavianus, these letters will restore to the wretched,
suffering beggar the dignity and majesty of the Queen. The world knows
but two powers to which Julius Caesar bowed--the thrall of the pitiable
woman on this couch, and of all-conquering death. An unpleasant
fellowship--but I do not shrink from it; for death robbed him of life,
and from my hand--I ask only a brief moment. How gladly I would spare
myself my own praises, and you the necessity of listening to them! Yes,
here it is: 'Through you, you irresistible woman,' he writes, 'I learned
for the first time, after youth was over, how beautiful life can be.'"

Cleopatra, as she spoke, handed Caesar the letter. But while she was
still searching hastily for another he returned the first, saying:

"I understand only too well your reluctance to allow such confidential
effusions to play the part of defender. I can imagine their purport, and
they shall influence me as if I had read them all. However eloquent they
may be, they are needless witnesses. Is any written testimony required
in behalf of charms whose magic is still potent?"

A bewitching smile, which seemed like a confirmation of the haughty
young conqueror's flattering words, flitted over Cleopatra's face.
Octavianus noticed it. This woman indeed possessed enthralling charms,
and he felt the slight flush that suffused his cheeks.

This unhappy captive, this suffering supplicant, could still draw
into her net any man who did not possess the cool watchfulness which
panoplied his soul. Was it the marvellous melody of her voice, the
changeful lustre of her tearful eyes, the aristocratic grace of the
noble figure, the exquisite symmetry of the hands and feet, the weakness
of the prostrate sufferer, strangely blended with tr