destroying flames.

She would gladly have been a beggar, content with the barley bread of
Epicurus, she said to herself, if in return she could but have inspired
her son even with the views of the reckless blusterer Antyllus. Her
worst fears had not pictured Caesarion so weak, so insignificant. She
could no longer rest upon her cushions; and while, with drooping head,
she gazed backward over the past, the accusing voice in her own breast
cried out that she was reaping what she had sowed. She had repressed,
curbed the boy's awakening will to secure his obedience; understood how
to prevent any exercise of his ability or efforts in wider circles.

True, it had been done on many a pretext. Why should not her son taste
the quiet happiness which she had enjoyed in the garden of Epicurus? And
was not the requirement that whoever is to command must first learn to
obey, based upon old experiences?

But this was a day of reckoning and insight, and for the first time she
found courage to confess that her own burning ambition had marked out the
course of Caesarion's education. She had not repressed his talents from
cool calculation, but it had been pleasant to her to see him grow up free
from aspirations. She had granted the dreamer repose without arousing
him. How often she had rejoiced over the certainty that this son, on
whom Antony, after his victory over the Parthians, had bestowed the title
of Co-Regent, would never rebel against his mother's guardianship! The
welfare of the state had doubtless been better secured in her trained
hands than in those of an inexperienced boy. And the proud consciousness
of power! Her heart swelled. So long as she lived she would remain
Queen. To transfer the sovereignty to another, whatever name he might
bear, had seemed to her impossible. Now she knew how little her son