“Thy kerchief!--why, didst thou not see? Cleopatra twitted me about it, and I flung it from the balcony.” “Yes, I saw,” answered the girl, “I saw but too well. Thou didst fling away my kerchief, but the wreath of roses--that thou wouldst not fling away. It was ‘a Queen’s gift,’ forsooth, and therefore the royal Harmachis, the Priest of Isis, the chosen of the Gods, the crowned Pharaoh wed to the weal of Khem, cherished it and saved it. But my kerchief, stung by the laughter of that light Queen, he cast away!” “What meanest thou?” I asked, astonished at her bitter tone. “I cannot read thy riddles.” “What mean I?” she answered, tossing up her head and showing the white curves of her throat. “Nay, I mean naught, or all; take it as thou wilt. Wouldst know what I mean, Harmachis, my cousin and my Lord?” she went on in a hard, low voice. “Then I will tell thee--thou art in danger of the great offence. This Cleopatra has cast her fatal wiles about thee, and thou goest near to loving her, Harmachis--to loving her whom to-morrow thou must slay! Ay, stand and stare at that wreath in thy hand--the wreath thou couldst not send to join my kerchief--sure Cleopatra wore it but to-night! The perfume of the hair of Cæsar’s mistress--Cæsar’s and others’--yet mingles with the odour of its roses! Now, prithee, Harmachis, how far didst thou carry the matter on yonder balcony? for in that hole where I lay hid I could not hear or see. ‘Tis a sweet spot for lovers, is it not?--ay, and a sweet hour, too? Venus surely rules the stars to-night?” All of this she said so quietly and in so soft and modest a way, though her words were not modest, and yet so bitterly, that every syllable cut me to the heart, and angered me till I could find no speech. “Of a truth thou hast a wise economy,” she went on, seeing her advantage: “to-night thou dost kiss the lips that to-morrow thou shalt still for ever! It is frugal dealing with the occasion of the moment; ay, worthy and honourable dealing!” Then at last I broke forth. “Girl,” I cried, “how darest thou speak thus to me? Mindest thou who and what I am that thou loosest thy peevish gibes upon me?” “I mind what it behoves thee to be,” she answered quick. “What thou art, that I mind not now. Surely thou knowest alone--thou and Cleopatra!” “What meanest thou?” I said. “Am I to blame if the Queen----” “The Queen! What have we here? Pharaoh owns a Queen!” “If Cleopatra wills to come hither of a night and talk----” “Of stars, Harmachis--surely of stars and roses, and naught beside!” After that I know not what I said; for, troubled as I was, the girl’s bitter tongue and quiet way drove me wellnigh to madness. But this I know: I spoke so fiercely that she cowered before me as she had cowered before my uncle Sepa when he rated her because of her Grecian garb. And as she wept then, so she wept now, only more passionately and with great sobs.