CHAPTER IV
OF THE MEETING OF CHARMION WITH THE LEARNED OLYMPUS; OF HER SPEECH WITHHIM; OF THE COMING OF OLYMPUS INTO THE PRESENCE OF CLEOPATRA; AND OF THECOMMANDS OF CLEOPATRA.
Clad in my plain black robe, I sat in the guest-chamber of the housethat had been made ready for me. I sat in a carven lion-footed chair,and looked upon the swinging lamps of scented oil, the picturedtapestries, the rich Syrian rugs--and, amidst all this luxury, bethoughtme of that tomb of the Harpers which is at Tape, and of the nine longyears of dark loneliness and preparation. I sat; and crouched upon a rugnear to the door, lay the aged Atoua. Her hair was white as snow, andshrivelled with age was the wrinkled countenance of the woman who, whenall deserted me, had yet clung to me, in her great love forgetting mygreat sins. Nine years! nine long years! and now, once again, I set myfoot in Alexandria! Once again in the appointed circle of things I cameforth from the solitude of preparation to be a fate to Cleopatra; andthis second time I came not forth to fail.
And yet how changed the circumstance! I was out of the story: my partnow was but the part of the sword in the hands of Justice; I might nomore hope to make Egypt free and great and sit upon my lawful throne.Khem was lost, and lost was I, Harmachis. In the rush and turmoil ofevents, the great plot of which I had been the pivot was covered up andforgotten; scarce a memory of it remained. The curtain of dark nightwas closing in upon the history of my ancient Race; its very Gods weretottering to their fall; I could already, in the spirit, hear the shriekof the Roman eagles as they flapped their wings above the furthest banksof Sihor.
Presently I roused myself and bade Atoua go seek a mirror and bring itto me, that I might look therein.
And I saw this: a face shrunken and pallid, on which no smile came;great eyes grown wan with gazing into darkness looking out beneaththe shaven head, emptily, as the hollow eye-pits of a skull; a wizenedhalting form wasted by abstinence, sorrow, and prayer; a long wild beardof iron grey; thin blue-veined hands that ever trembled like a leaf;bowed shoulders and lessened limbs. Time and grief had done theirwork indeed; scarce could I think myself the same as when, the royalHarmachis--in all the splendour of my strength and youthful beauty--Ifirst had looked upon the woman's loveliness that did destroy me. Andyet within me burned the same fire as of yore; yet I was not changed,for time and grief have no power to alter the immortal spirit of man.Seasons may come and go; Hope, like a bird, may fly away; Passion maybreak its wings against the iron bars of Fate; Illusions may crumbleas the cloudy towers of sunset flame; Faith, as running water, may slipfrom beneath our feet; Solitude may stretch itself around us like themeasureless desert sand; Old Age may creep as the gathering night overour bowed heads grown hoary in their shame--yea, bound to Fortune'swheel, we may taste of every turn of chance--now rule as Kings, nowserve as Slaves; now love, now hate; now prosper, and now perish. Butstill, through all, we are the same; for this is the marvel of Identity.
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