The tidings recorded were so many and so unexpected that she was compelled to go over them two or three times, and then to repeat them to herself. This much, at least, was true: reconciled by their victory, the avengers of Cæsar had formed a new Triumvirate. The world was in their hands. They had divided it, or rather, Mark Antony, the only champion to fight and conquer Octavius (who, ill and quaking in his tent, had awaited him with chattering teeth) had divided it, according to his own liking. He gave the control of barbarous Gaul and a part of Italy, ruined and still racked by threats of revolution, to his wretched associate; Lepidus, who had not even taken any part in the war, had Spain (which was always on the eye of insurrection) and the African provinces assigned to him; and Mark Antony, supreme arbitrator and the worshipped leader of thirty-two legions, the hero before whom all knees were bent, claimed for his share of the spoils the mighty Orient, always desired, always coveted on account of its riches. So, the words of the god had not been in vain. The sacred promise had been fully carried out. She, Cleopatra, would have an ally as powerful as Cæsar and one whom she would have chosen above all others. As things now stood all lay within her grasp. The past had taught her that a woman like herself could make of such a man, of such a great man, whatever she desired. Was not this the moment to put her experience to the test, to try with another that fortune which before had played her false? The flood of hope rose quickly. It came from the depths of her being, like a magic stream, washing away her grief in a single wave. The future, full of beautiful vistas, spread out before her. The walls of her room seemed to cramp her vision and she went out on the terrace. Night was almost gone. A mist of silver floated between the sea and sky. A sudden light gleamed through the haze, the horizon was transfused with rose-coloured clouds, and through the limpid light shot the gold and scarlet rays of the rising sun. III MARK ANTONY In the accounts written by the admirers of Cæsar Augustus, Mark Antony is depicted as a combination of all the vices. His adversaries undoubtedly had good grounds for denouncing a man whose name reeked of scandals and whose passions had driven him to fight against his own country. It is easy to see how conservative men would have taken exception to his free ways, his bragging, his notorious wine-drinking, his extravagant habits; his gold plates carried, along with his mistresses, his mimes, and buffoons, into his very camps during the wars; the lions that were harnessed to his chariot, all the eccentricities which had caused him to be described as "an overgrown child who might have conquered the world and who did not know how to deny himself the least pleasure."