"Antony is married?" On hearing of this wedding with Octavia, which had been celebrated with the utmost pomp and magnificence, Cleopatra was beside herself with rage. Her pride, her dignity, her position, were as nothing. She was practically delirious with fury. She looked wildly around for someone on whom to wreak her vengeance. Those who were nearest to her shrank back in terror. It was the unfortunate wretch, whose only crime had been to bear ill-tidings, on whom her wrath fell. He was cursed, beaten, threatened with death. It was the natural outburst of her passionate nature, accustomed to command all, and who, for the first time, was confronted by overpowering misfortune and injury. Was there no refuge from her torment? Could not the laws of the universe be altered? The first moments were horrible; a burst of tears followed her access of rage and she fainted. The servants fled, filling the whole palace with wailings. The doctors pressed forward, as though to aid someone in mortal need. Charmian was at her side. "For the love of the gods, Madame, do not give your enemies the joy of seeing you crushed by this sorrow. Do not let them know how this blow has pierced your heart!" "My Queen, my Queen, be brave!" whispered Iras, holding a handkerchief with some drops of stimulant to Cleopatra's lips. Gradually she grew calmer; she regained her self-control, but the wild frenzy was succeeded by a stupor. She felt as though a bottomless abyss had opened suddenly at her feet. "How can this be?" she murmured dully. "I trusted him and he told me that I meant all the world to him!" Her thoughts turned to the woman who had stolen her happiness. That sister of Octavius, Octavia--what kind of creature was she? The fierce desire to know the whole truth, in all its bitter details, surged in her breast, with the same violence that had caused her to pour out the stream of threats and curses so short a while before. But the traveller was nowhere to be seen. Taking advantage of the confusion that followed the Queen's fainting fit he had fled. A diligent search revealed him, hidden in the hold of a ship. He had taken refuge there, deciding to give up the affairs that had brought him to Alexandria and, thankful to escape with his life, was hoping to get away on the ship without being detected. He was terrified at being caught and it took repeated assurances that he would not be further punished to induce him to speak again. Fear had taught him discretion; he had learned that when speaking to the great and mighty it was wise to say only what they desired to hear. The plain truth was a crime. He showed the manners of a practised courtier when he had his second audience with Cleopatra. The Queen, too, had undergone a great change. A sad, compelling curiosity dominated all other feelings. She was like a wanderer, lost in a dark wood, who seeks only light.