roughness and the desperation of his embrace, with his hands moving over her face and her cheek almost cruelly. He was saying her name like a prayer. He murmured something in the ancient Egyptian tongue, she didn't know what it was. And then he said softly in Latin that he loved her. He loved her. It seemed both explanation and apology, somehow, the reason for all this suffering. He loved her. He said it as if he were just realizing it, and now her tears were coming again, stupidly. It infuriated her.
She pulled back; then kissed him and let him kiss her again, and sank against his chest, merely letting him hold her.
Then softly she said:
"What does she look like?"
He sighed.
"Is she beautiful?"
"She always was. She is now. She is the woman who seduced Caesar, and Mark Antony, and the whole world."
She stiffened, drawing away from him.
"She is as beautiful as you are," he said." But you are right. She is not Cleopatra. She is a stranger in Cleopatra's body. A monster looking through Cleopatra's eyes. And struggling to use Cleopatra's wits to her own purposeless advantage."
What more was there to say? What could she do? It was in his hands, it had been since the beginning. She forced him to release her and then she sat down and leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her forehead in her hand.
"I'll find her," he said." And I will undo this awful error. I will put her back into the darkness from which I took her. And she will suffer only a little while. And then she will sleep."
"Oh, but it's too awful! There must be some other way. ..." She broke into sobs.
"What have I done to you, Julie Stratford?" he said." What have I done to your life, all your tender dreams and ambitions?"
She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and pressed it to her mouth. She forced herself to stop this foolish crying. She wiped her nose, then looked up at him, the great handsome dreamy figure he was standing there with that tragic expression. A man, only a man. Immortal, yes, a ruler once, a teacher always, perhaps, but human as we all are. Fallible as we all are. Lovable as we all are.
"I cannot live without you, Ramses," she said." Well, I could. But I don't want to." Ah, tears from him now. If she didn't look away, she'd be weeping again." Reason has nothing to do with it anymore," she went on," But it's this creature you've wronged. It's this thing you've resurrected that will be hurt. You speak of burying her alive. I cannot ... I cannot ..."
"Trust in me that I shall find a painless way," he whispered.
She couldn't speak. She couldn't look at him.
"And know this, for what it's worth. Know it now because later it may bring contusion. Your cousin Henry is dead. Cleopatra killed him."
"What!"
"It was to Henry's abode in the old Cairo that Elliott took her. He did follow me to the museum. And when the soldiers took me away, Elliott gave shelter to the creature I 'd resurrected. He took her there, and there she killed both Henry and the woman, Malenka."
She shook her head, and once again her hands went up to her ears. All the things she knew of Henry, of her father's death, of
his attempt on her life, somehow could not help her now; they could not touch her. She heard only the horror.
"Trust in me when I say that I shall find a painless way. For that I must do before more innocent blood is shed. I cannot turn my back until it's finished."
"My son left no message?" Elliott had not forsaken the leather chair, or the gin, and had no intention of doing so. But he knew he had to call Alex before he got any drunker. And so he'd sent for the telephone." But he wouldn't go out without telling me. All right. Samir Ibrahaim, where is he? Can you ring his room for me?"
"He's in Miss Stratford's suite, sir. Two-oh-three. He requests that any messages be sent there. Shall I ring? It is eleven of the clock, sir."
"No, I'll go up, thank you."
She leaned over the marble lavatory. She slapped the cold water on her face. She didn't want to look into the mirror. Then slowly she wiped her eyes with the towel. When she turned around,