But the traveller was nowhere to be seen. Taking advantage of the confusion that followed the Queen's fainting fit he had fled. A diligent search revealed him, hidden in the hold of a ship. He had taken refuge there, deciding to give up the affairs that had brought him to Alexandria and, thankful to escape with his life, was hoping to get away on the ship without being detected.
He was terrified at being caught and it took repeated assurances that he would not be further punished to induce him to speak again. Fear had taught him discretion; he had learned that when speaking to the great and mighty it was wise to say only what they desired to hear. The plain truth was a crime. He showed the manners of a practised courtier when he had his second audience with Cleopatra.
The Queen, too, had undergone a great change. A sad, compelling curiosity dominated all other feelings. She was like a wanderer, lost in a dark wood, who seeks only light.
"Tell me something about Octavia," she said, with a gentleness that veiled the autocratic command. "You have seen her and know whether she is beautiful. Has she a wonderful expression? Is she dark or fair? What is the colour of her hair?" But however adroitly her questions might be put, this man, in whose ears her curses still rang, who was yet bruised from her shower of blows, would give no direct reply. According to him Octavia was a fright. Her eyes were dull, her hair scanty and fastened with austere, ash-coloured fillets.
"How old is she?" queried Cleopatra, still in the depths of despair, for however fascinating a deserted mistress may be, in her eyes the new love, though in reality a scarecrow, has all the attractiveness of a pure maiden whose unsullied youth is like to a fragrant garden in which her lover, or her husband, may wander at will to gather the flowers of happiness.
The merchant's tale was comforting, however. On hearing that Octavia was a widow, with two children; that she was without beauty and devoid of charm, with no power to kindle passion in a man's heart, Cleopatra had a moment of relief. Her anger had not died out, nor her bitter rancour against the lover who had deceived and betrayed her; she was, however, beginning to understand that this marriage had merely been a matter of political stratagem, a means of accomplishing Antony's designs.