She gave a little cry of joy, and I never saw aught more beautiful than the change that came upon her weeping face! It was as when the first lights of the day run up the pallor of that sad sky which veils the night from dawn. All rosy grew her lovely countenance; her dim eyes shone out like 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 done as much for any slave. Now, too, that the danger is past, I leave thee.” “Thou hadst done better to let me die, Charmion,” I said after a while, “for life to me can now be only one long shame. Tell me, then, when sails Cleopatra for Cilicia?”