Mark Antony, the hero who had braved a thousand dangers, had flung down his sword.

Why, why?
Because a woman had yielded to idle fears, obeyed the yearning of a mother's heart, and fled?
Of all human weaknesses, not one had been more alien than cowardice to the man whose recklessness had led him to many an unprecedented venture.

And now?
No, a thousand times no! Fire and water would unite sooner than Mark Antony and cowardice! He had been under the coercive power of a demon; a mysterious spell had forced him--" "The mightiest power, love," interrupted Iras with enthusiastic warmth--"a love as great and overmastering as ever subjugated the soul of man." "Ay, love," repeated Cleopatra, in a hollow tone.

Then her lips curled with a faint tinge of derision, and her voice expressed the very bitterness of doubt, as she continued: "Had it been merely the love which makes two mortals one, transfers the heart of one to the other, it might perchance have borne my timorous soul into the hero's breast! But no.

Violent tempests had raged before the battle.