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Cleopatra gave herself unreservedly to the joys of love. Privation, exile, the dread of further persecution, all these had made her eager for happiness. Without questioning for a moment the nature of his affection, with no thought of the selfish motive behind it, she was enchanted at her triumph. Indeed, on second thoughts even, she had every reason to be satisfied. She had sought only a protector; she had found a most passionate and tender lover. Safe on board the great ship which had anchored near her coast, she had yielded to his powerful protection as to a force whose elements were not to be analyzed. If his devotion aroused no kindred sentiment in her bosom, the love of this mighty conqueror filled her with such pride, awakened such anticipations, that her heart felt no need of anything more vital. With dreams of a glorious future, she had a thrill of ecstacy at being borne along toward a destiny which, though unknown, with Cæsar for a pilot, could not fail to be one of untold splendour. Although frequently disturbed by the noise of the catapults and the clamour of the engines, with which the besiegers were riddling the approaches to the Bruchium, the days that this pair of lovers spent there as prisoners were filled with rare delight. With no intruders to annoy them, with no other care than a continuous effort to give each other pleasure, their conversation broken only by renewed caresses, they fully realized that ideal of solitude à deux which so many lovers have vainly sought.