“It is so, madam,” broke in Charidemus; “nay, I know that your name is in Parmenio’s list, for Philotas his son showed it me. I entreat you to act without delay. You should have seen the king on his first arrival. To-night it is impossible. But go to-morrow, as early as may be, before he sees the list—and he begins business betimes—that you may still seem to have given yourself up of your own accord.”
Barsiné made no answer, but paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. At last she addressed the Macedonian.
“You know him; you do not speak by hearsay, or as courtiers who flatter a king?”
“Madam,” replied Charidemus, “I have seen him at times when men show their real selves—at the banquet and in the battle-field.”
“And he is merciful and generous? Strong he is and valiant, I know. My Memnon used to say that he had not his match in the world, and he had seen him fight. But he is one, you say, who can have compassion also, who can pity the suppliant?”
“Madam,” said the young man, “I believe from my heart that he is.”
“Then I will go to him; I will throw myself at his feet; I will implore his compassion for myself and my children.”
“There shall be no need for you to do so, lady,” said a voice from the other end of the room.
At the same time the tapestry that covered another door was moved apart, and Alexander himself stood before them. He was unarmed, except for a light cuirass of richly gilded steel and a sword. His head was uncovered; his hair, which he wore long after the fashion of the heroic age, fell in golden curls about his neck. His face, with lustrous deep-blue eyes, features chiselled after the purest Greek type, and fair complexion just now flushed with a delicate rose, was of a beauty singularly attractive.