The riot of dance and music has risen to a climax, when the tall figure of the high priest approaches Cleopatra’s couch. In his hand he bears a cup, and his gaze is upturned to the stars now
paling before the coming dawn. The appointed hour is nigh. The queen rises, and as her lover, hanging on her every motion, gains his feet, he is confronted by this gaunt minister of fate, death in his outstretched hands. Memory with sudden shock sobers Amoûn’s intoxicated senses. He recalls his doom. For a single moment he hesitates, seeking a ray of hope in Cleopatra’s face. But the queen is adamant, a figure turned to stone. Resolutely the young man receives the cup from the high priest’s hand, but never taking his eyes from his mistress’ face. Resolutely he puts it to his lips, and with his gaze still fixed upon the queen, drains it to the lees.
A spasm contorts the victim’s body. He reels, staggers, and clutching horribly at the empty air, falls writhing at the queen’s feet. The poison is swift, potent; and though the agony seems long-drawn-out and dreadful,
in a few moments only a lifeless corpse remains of what had been so full of vigorous, ardent life. Silently the train of musicians, dancers and the rest look on at this dire climax to the night’s fierce drama.
Motionless above the prostrate body stands Cleopatra, with arms upraised and outward bent palms. Her countenance, inscrutable as ever, betrays no sign of the ecstasy in which her strange being now exults; more eloquent is the tension to which her supple limbs are strung. Some moments thus she remains, then with a gesture summons her slaves, and leaning her weight upon them departs from the temple. Silently her retinue follows, none heeding the body of Amoûn save the high priest, who casts a black cloth over it as he passes.