The angry snarl of her negro slave, who bares his teeth like any cur at the bold intruder, gives warning to the queen of the stranger’s presence. But she makes no sign of cognisance, and ere Amoûn can utter a word, or indeed collect his thoughts out of the stupor into which they have swooned, Ta-hor has seized him and is whispering passionately, insistently in his ear. For an instant the young man is recalled to himself, and suffers his betrothed to lead him away. With eyes that nought escapes, for all that they seem to stare fixedly into space, the sinister queen observes the lovers, and the yielding of Amoûn to Ta-hor’s urgent pleading. But she gives no sign except to bid the ceremonial rites begin.
Ta-hor herself must needs lead the dance which now takes place. Perforce she leaves her lover, and with what heart she can muster enters upon her task. Motionless, prone upon her couch, the glittering queen reposes, and from a distance the fated Amoûn feasts his eyes upon her beauty. An irresistible lure attracts him; ere he knows what he is doing he is pressing eagerly through the maze of dancers towards his doom. His movement is quickly seen by Ta-hor. Again she intervenes, and once more, though this time with reluctance, Amoûn allows himself to be withdrawn. But for all Ta-hor’s devotion his destiny is plain.
The rites proceed, and Ta-hor, with aching heart, must resume her place amongst the dancers. Amoûn, feeding the fires of passion in the shadowy background, is forgotten as the dance goes on its way. Suddenly, on a strident note, an arrow quivers in the ground beside the queen’s divan. The dancers cease abruptly, soldiers dart forward, consternation and amazement seize the whole court. Cleopatra alone remains unmoved. Not a muscle of her body twitches, not a flicker of emotion is discernible in her face. She is inscrutable as fate, and as patient.
In a moment the guards re-enter, bringing with them Amoûn, the tell-tale bow in his hand. He shows no fear, but rather eagerness, as they hale him before the queen, on whom he fixes his fascinated gaze. Already the arrow has been plucked out of the ground, and a message, writ on papyrus, found attached to it. As Cleopatra rises to confront the prisoner, her slave girl reads out the ardent profession of love. Unabashed, Amoûn awaits his answer or his doom.
With secret smile the queen surveys this latest victim of her fatal charms. But here Ta-hor, agonised witness of her lover’s self-destruction, flings herself passionately between them. Cleopatra, unmoved even to disdain, turns aside while Ta-hor strives to regain her hold upon Amoûn. This time her pleading is in vain. The die is cast; Amoûn, no longer master of his own will, has eyes and ears only for the siren to whom his whole being is surrendered. Though Ta-hor clings about his feet, he but tramples her underfoot and presses for sentence from his more than queen.
From under the low brow, the basilisk eyes of Cleopatra fasten on their prey. Narrowly she scans her would-be lover, who meets her gaze frankly and undismayed. He is young, he is brave, he is fair to see. An eternal night of love, says the queen, shall be his, if he choose to take it. This night he shall share her couch; at dawn he must drink oblivion from a poisoned cup. Amoûn hears unflinchingly, unflinchingly accepts.
Slaves busy themselves with preparation of the royal couch. Ta-hor, in a last frenzy of despair, casts herself upon Amoûn. Love gives her strength, and by the sheer fury of her onslaught she bears her lover away from the dreadful presence of the queen. But Amoûn recovers himself, and with equal fury resists the efforts of Ta-hor to drag him from the temple. Against his male strength the utmost force of her weak arms is unavailing; he bursts from their clutch and dashes eagerly forward to where his implacable enchantress awaits him. Ta-hor, the last resource of her devotion spent, creeps forth, broken-hearted, to the desert.
Within the temple music and dance provide voluptuous accompaniment to Amoûn’s dedication—nay, immolation—of himself. The whirling forms of the dancers half conceal him as he yields to the seductive embraces of the queen. Released for the while from their attendance on her person, slave boy and slave girl of Cleopatra celebrate the amorous triumph of their mistress in a dance of wild abandon, which gives place to a bacchanale into which a band of Greek dancers, with attendant satyrs, fling themselves in an orgy of frenzied movement.