It is at Actium, and the fate of nations and generations yet
unborn hang, as the sword of Damocles hung, upon the tiny thread of
destiny. Egypt herself, her splendid barbaric beauty acting like an
inspiration upon the craven followers, leads on, foremost in this fierce
struggle. Then, the tide turns, and overpowered, they fly before
disgrace and defeat. Antony is there, the traitor, dishonored, false to
his country, yet true to his love; Antony, whom ambition could not lure
from her passionate caresses; Antony, murmuring softly,--
Egypt, thou knowest too well
My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,
And thou should'st tow me after.
Over my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knewest,
And that thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.
Picture after picture flashed through the maiden's mind. Agnes, the
gentle, sacrificing, burrowing like some frantic animal through the
ruins of Lisbon, saving her lover, Franklin, by teeth and bleeding
hands. Dora, the patient, serving a loveless existence, saving her rival
from starvation and destitution. The stern, dark, exiled Florentine
poet, with that one silver ray in his clouded life--Beatrice.
She heard the piping of an elfish voice, "Mother, why does the minister
keep his hands over his heart?" and the white drawn face of Hester
Prynne, with her scarlet elf-child, passed slowly across her vision.
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