Those historians whose accounts of Augustus are full of adulation have described this scene as typical of the chaste and grave son of Theseus who was able to resist the seductions of the cursed courtesan. Perhaps, under other conditions, Cleopatra would still have kept this role of courtesan; but, at this time of infinite weariness, with her wounded breast, her tired eyes, her feet still trembling from having felt her throne crumble beneath them; after having buried the man whom she adored, and having in her mouth the bitter taste of emptiness, could she still have played the part of a coquette? Her keen intelligence, apart from her dignity, would have kept her from such a false step. With no intention of beguiling him, no hope of finding in him another Cæsar, or an Antony, she surely had the privilege of using what remained of her charms, scarred by thirty-eight years of passion and misfortune, to soften the heart of her captor. As to succeeding...? The two antagonists were face to face. Bowing courteously, Octavius took the chair near her bed that the Queen had pointed out. Then, as customary when greeting an invalid, he inquired as to her health. With a sigh, she replied: "You can see. I have no strength left." Abruptly he broached the subject that was nearest his heart. Was it true that the Queen had given up in despair? That she would rather die than submit to his kindly rule? She only sobbed. He went on: "Undoubtedly Thyreus has not delivered my message properly!" She said that, on the contrary, she understood what a generous master he was and that she expected every consideration from him. "Then be brave, Queen. Do not look on me as an enemy." His voice was gentle, his expression kindly, but at a glance Cleopatra had comprehended. He was hard as a rock. He was trying to look human but she saw only the sharply cut nose that suggested a bird of prey, the dry, close-lipped mouth. No sincere words could come from it. She knew the part she must play. It would be a fencing match, and each must be on guard. She made a gesture of resignation. "It is true; when Antony died I felt I could not go on living!" "And now?" "Oh! now I must think of my children. Dear little souls! How can I leave them? At least I must know what their future in Rome will be!" Her children! Cæsarion, Ptolemy, Antyllas, they were the first prizes that Octavius had seized. Defrauded of his principal victim, these innocent children would be sacrificed to their mother's insubordination. The executioner went on with his hypocritical smile: "Have no fear for them, Madame. Their fate is in your hands. If you put your faith in me and comply with my requests, no harm shall come to them." She knew just how much this assurance was worth. She knew that the unhappy children would have to suffer; but she feigned confidence. "I have the word of Octavius."