ce of the brilliant light, she
resembled a statue of triumphant victory or of noble pride in great deeds
accomplished; and then, then, only an instant later, what an outrage was
inflicted!

"Like a robber, 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 Athe