“What! friend; art thou come?” she said. “It is well; for I grew lonely here. Nay; ‘tis a weary world! We know so many faces, and there are so few whom we love to see again. Well, stand not there so mute, but be seated.” And she pointed with her fan to a carven chair that was placed near her feet. Once more I bowed and took the seat. “I have obeyed the Queen’s desire,” I said, “and with much care and skill worked out the lessons of the stars; and here is the record of my labour. If the Queen permits, I will expound it to her.” And I rose, in order that I might pass round the couch and, as she read, stab her in the back. “Nay, Harmachis,” she said quietly, and with a slow and lovely smile. “Bide thou where thou art, and give me the writing. By Serapis! thy face is too comely for me to wish to lose the sight of it!” Checked in this design, I could do nothing but hand her the papyrus, thinking to myself that while she read I would arise suddenly and plunge the dagger to her heart. She took it, and as she did so touched my hand. Then she made pretence to read. But she read no word, for I saw that her eyes were fixed upon me over the edge of the scroll. “Why placest thou thy hand within thy robe?” she asked presently; for, indeed, I clutched the dagger’s hilt. “Is thy heart stirred?” “Yea, O Queen,” I said; “it beats high.” She gave no answer, but once more made pretence to read, and the while she watched me. I took counsel with myself. How should I do the hateful deed? If I flung myself upon her now she would see me and scream and struggle. Nay, I must wait a chance. “The auguries are favourable, then, Harmachis?” she said at length, though this she must have guessed. “Yes, O Queen,” I answered. “It is well,” and she cast the writing on the marble. “The ships shall sail. For, good or bad, I am weary of weighing chances.” “This is a heavy matter, O Queen,” I said. “I had wished to show upon what circumstance I base my forecast.” “Nay, not so, Harmachis; I have wearied of the ways of stars. Thou hast prophesied; that is enough for me; for, doubtless, being honest, thou hast written honestly. Therefore, save thou thy reasons and we’ll be merry. What shall we do? I could dance to thee--there are none who can dance so well!--but it would scarce be queenly. Nay, I have it. I will sing.” And, leaning forward, she raised herself, and, bending the harp towards her, struck some wandering chords. Then her low voice broke out in perfect and most sweet song. And thus she sang: “Night on the sea, and night upon the sky, And music in our hearts, we floated there, Lulled by the low sea voices, thou and I, And the wind’s kisses in my cloudy hair: And thou didst gaze on me and call me fair-- Enfolded by the starry robe of night-- And then thy singing thrilled upon the air, Voice of the heart’s desire and Love’s delight.