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my counsel in this time of woe。
No； he did not feel either the joy or the pain。
Did this mean the capacity to suffer had been affected by the powerful elixir that never ceased its work in his veins？ Or was it something else； that he had long suspected； that when he slept； he somehow knew the passage of time？ Somehow even in that unconscious state； he travelled away from the things that had hurt him； and his dreams were only one indication of the reasoning that went on in darkness and in stillness。 Without panic； he had known before the sunlight ever touched his body mat hundreds of years had passed。
Perhaps he was merely so shocked by all he'd seen about him in the twentieth century that the memories had not attained their fall emotional force。 The pain would return all at once and he would find himself weeping uncontrollably on the edge of madness…unable to embrace all the beauty that he saw。
There had been a moment in the wax museum； yes； when he had seen that vulgar effigy of Cleopatra； and the ludicrous； expressionless Antony beside her； when he had felt something akin to panic。 It had soothed him to return to the noisy； bustling London streets outside。 He had heard her crying in his memory：〃 Ramses； Antony is dying。 Give him the elixir！ Ramses！〃 It seemed a voice from somewhere outside of him； which he could not silence at will。 It disturbed him that she had been so grossly represented。 And his heart had been tripping like those steam hammers that broke the cement pavings of London。 Tripping。 But that was not pain。
And what did it matter that the wax statue had so cheapened her beauty？ His statues bore no resemblance to him finally； and he had stood about in the hot sun chatting with the workmen who made them！ Nobody expected public art to have anything much to do with the flesh…and…blood model； that is； not until the Romans started filling their gardens with portraits of themselves； down to the very warts。
Cleopatra had been no Roman。 Cleopatra had been a Greek and an Egyptian。 And the horror was； Cleopatra meant something to these modern people of the twentieth century which was altogether wrong。 She had bee a symbol of licentiousness； when in fact she had possessed a multitude of amazing talents。 They had punished her for her one flaw by forgetting everything else。
Yes； that is what had shocked him in the wax museum。 Remembered； but not for what she was。 A painted whore lying on a silken couch。
Silence。 His heart was thudding again。 He listened。 He heard the ticking of the clock。
A tray of savory pastries lay before him。 There was the brandy； oranges and pears on a china plate。 He should eat and drink； for that always calmed him； just as if he'd been starving when he was not starving at all。
And he did not want to feel the agony again； did he？ Yet he was frightened。 Because he did not want to lose his vast experience of human feeling。 That would be like dying！
Once again he looked at her beautiful face； rendered there in marble； more truly Cleopatra than that wax horror。 And something deep inside threatened the strange quiet of his mind。 He saw images without meaning。 He put his hands to his head and sighed。
Of course if he thought of Julie Stratford in her bed above him； his mind and heart would be instantly united。 He laughed softly as he picked up one of the pastries…sticky and sweet。 He devoured it。 He wanted to devour Julie Stratford。 Ah； this woman； this splendid woman； this delicate…boned modern Queen who needed no land to rule to make her regal。 So wondrously clever and surprisingly strong。 But then he had better not dwell on it； or he would go up and knock down her door。
Picture it： crashing into her bedchamber。 The poor servant wakes in the attic and starts screaming… So what？ And Julie Stratford rises in that lace bower of hers； which he glimpsed earlier from the hallway； and he covers her； ripping off her scant gown； caressing her hot little limbs and taking her before she can protest。
No。 You cannot do that。 Do that and you destroy the thing you desire。 Julie Stratford was worth humility and patience； a great deal of it。 He had known that when he had watched her from that strange numb half…awakened state； moving about this library； speaking to him in his coffin； never guessing that he could hear。
Julie Stratford had bee a great mystery of body and soul and will。
He took another deep drink of the brandy。 Delicious。 Another long draw on the cigar。 He sliced through the orange with the knife and picked it up and ate the sweet； wet meat of it。
The cigar filled the room with a perfume finer than any incense。 Turkish tobacco； Julie had told him。 He had not known what that meant then； but he knew now。 Ripping through a little book called History of the World； he had read all about the Turks and their conquests。 That was how he should start； really； with the little books full of generalities and summations：〃 Within a century and a half all of Europe had fallen to the barbarian hordes。〃 The fine distinctions would e later； as he sought out the great wealth of printed material in all languages。 Just thinking of it made him smile。
The gramophone stopped。 He rose； went to the machine and found another black disk for it to play。 This one had the curious title〃 Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage。〃 For some reason that made him think of Julie again and wanting to crush her with kisses。 He set the disk on the turntable and cranked the handle。 A small fragile woman's voice began to warble。 He laughed。 He refilled his brandy and moved a little with the music； a slow dance without lifting his feet。
But it was time to do some work。 The darkness was dissolving outside the windows。 The first faint grey light of the dawn was ing。 He could hear； even over the dull roar of the city around him； the faraway song of birds。
He went into the dark cold kitchen of the house； found〃 a glass；〃 as they called them； these beautiful objects； and filled it with water from the miraculous little copper tap。
Then he went back into the library and studied the long row of alabaster jars under the mirror。 All appeared unharmed。 No cracks anywhere。 Nothing missing。 And there was his little burner； all ready for him； and the empty glass vials。 All he needed was a little oil。 Or one of these candles； burnt down now to a convenient stub。
Moving aside his scrolls rather carelessly； he set up the little burner properly。 He slipped the candle into place； and blew out the flame。
Then he studied the jars again。 His hand chose before his mind chose。 And when he studied the crushed white powder he knew that his hand had been right。
Oh； if only Henry Stratford had dipped his spoon into this instead of the other！ What a great shock he would have had。 His uncle； a roaring lion； might have torn off his head。
It occurred to him suddenly that though the poisons might have frightened the people of his time； they would be no deterrent to the scientists of his age。 A person with a spark of belief could easily have taken all these jars out of here； fed their contents slowly to animal victims； until he d