LITMIR.BIZ

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old grudge, which had only just been allowed to slumber, woke again; and, as a relapse is always more dangerous than the original illness, the newly-roused anger was more violent than what he had formerly felt.

      He thought and thought, but he could not devise a fitting punishment for this false woman. Her death would not content his vengeance, she must suffer something worse than mere death!

      Should he send her back to Egypt, disgraced and shamed? Oh, no! she loved her country, and she would be received by her parents with open arms. Should he, after she had confessed her guilt, (for he was determined to force a confession from her) shut her up in a solitary dungeon? or should he deliver her over to Boges, to be the servant of his concubines? Yes! now he had hit upon the right punishment. Thus the faithless creature should be disciplined, and the hypocrite, who had dared to make sport of him—the All-powerful—forced to atone for her crimes.

      Then he said to himself: “Bartja must not stay here; fire and water have more in common than we two—he always fortunate and happy, and I so miserable. Some day or other his descendants will divide my treasures, and wear my crown; but as yet I am king, and I will show that I am.”

      The thought of his proud, powerful position flashed through him like lightning. He woke from his dreams into new life, flung his golden goblet far into the hall, so that the wine flew round like rain, and cried: “We have had enough of this idle talk and useless noise. Let us hold a council of war, drunken as we are, and consider what answer we ought to give the Massagetae. Hystaspes, you are the eldest, give us your opinion first.”

      [Herod. I. 134. The Persians deliberated and resolved when they

       were intoxicated, and when they were sober reconsidered their

       determinations. Tacitus tells the same of the old Germans. Germ,

       c. 22.]

      Hystaspes, the father of Darius, was an old man. He answered: “It seems to me, that the messengers of this wandering tribe have left us no choice. We cannot go to war against desert wastes; but as our host is already under arms and our swords have lain long in their scabbards, war we must have. We only want a few good enemies, and I know no easier work than to make them.”

      At these words the Persians broke into loud shouts of delight; but Croesus only waited till the noise had ceased to say: “Hystaspes, you and I are both old men; but you are a thorough Persian and fancy you can only be happy in battle and bloodshed. You are now obliged to lean for support on the staff, which used to be the badge of your rank as commander, and yet you speak like a hot-blooded boy. I agree with you that enemies are easy enough to find, but only fools go out to look for them. The man who tries to make enemies is like a wretch who mutilates his own body. If the enemies are there, let us go out to meet them like wise men who wish to look misfortune boldly in the face; but let us never try to begin an unjust war, hateful to the gods. We will wait until wrong has been done us, and then go to victory or death, conscious that we have right on our side.”

      The old man was interrupted by a low murmur of applause, drowned however quickly by cries of “Hystaspes is right! let us look for an enemy!”

      It was now the turn of the envoy Prexaspes to speak, and he answered laughing: “Let us follow the advice of both these noble old men. We will do as Croesus bids us and not go out to seek an enemy, but at the same time we will follow Hystaspes’ advice by raising our claims and pronouncing every one our enemy, who does not cheerfully consent to become a member of the kingdom founded by our great father Cyrus. For instance, we will ask the Indians if they would feel proud to obey your sceptre, Cambyses. If they answer no, it is a sign that they do not love us, and whoever does not love us, must be our enemy.”

      “That won’t do,” cried Zopyrus. “We must have war at any price.”

      “I vote for Croesus,” said Gobryas. “And I too,” said the noble Artabazus.

      “We are for Hystaspes,” shouted the warrior Araspes, the old Intaphernes, and some more of Cyrus’s old companions-in-arms.

      “War we must have at any price,” roared the general Megabyzus, the father of Zopyrus, striking the table so sharply with his heavy fist, that the golden vessels rang again, and some goblets even fell; “but not with the Massagetac—not with a flying foe.”

      “There must be no war with the Massagetae,” said the high-priest Oropastes. “The gods themselves have avenged Cyrus’s death upon them.”

      Cambyses sat for some moments, quietly and coldly watching the unrestrained enthusiasm of his warriors, and then, rising from his seat, thundered out the words: “Silence, and listen to your king!”

      The words worked like magic on this multitude of drunken men. Even those who were most under the influence of wine, listened to their king in a kind of unconscious obedience. He lowered his voice and went on: “I did not ask whether you wished for peace or war—I know that every Persian prefers the labor of war to an inglorious idleness—but I wished to know what answer you would give the Massagetan warriors. Do you consider that the soul of my father—of the man to whom you owe all your greatness—has been sufficiently avenged?”

      A dull murmur in the affirmative, interrupted by some violent voices in the negative, was the answer. The king then asked a second question: “Shall we accept the conditions proposed by their envoys, and grant peace to this nation, already so scourged and desolated by the gods?” To this they all agreed eagerly.

      “That is what I wished to know,” continued Cambyses. “To-morrow, when we are sober, we will follow the old custom and reconsider what has been resolved on during our intoxication. Drink on, all of you, as long as the night lasts. To-morrow, at the last crow of the sacred bird Parodar, I shall expect you to meet me for the chase, at the gate of the temple of Bel.”

      So saying, the king left the hall, followed by a thundering “Victory to the king!” Boges had slipped out quietly before him. In the forecourt he found one of the gardener’s boys from the hanging-gardens.

      “What do you want here?” asked Boges. “I have something for the prince Bartja.”

      “For Bartja? Has he asked your master to send him some seeds or slips?”

      The boy shook his sunburnt head and smiled roguishly.

      “Some one else sent you then?” said Boges becoming more attentive.

      “Yes, some one else.”

      “Ah! the Egyptian has sent a message to her brother-in-law?”

      “Who told you that?”

      “Nitetis spoke to me about it. Here, give me what you have; I will give it to Bartja at once.”

      “I was not to give it to any one but the prince himself.”

      “Give it to me; it will be safer in my hands than in yours.”

      “I dare not.”

      “Obey me at once, or—”

      At this moment the king came up. Boges thought a moment, and then called in a loud voice to the whip-bearers on duty at the palace-gate, to take the astonished boy up.

      “What is the matter here?” asked Cambyses.

      “This fellow,” answered the eunuch, “has had the audacity to make his way into the palace with a message from your consort Nitetis to Bartja.”

      At sight of the king, the boy had fallen on his knees, touching the ground with his forehead.

      Cambyses looked at him and turned deadly pale. Then, turning to the eunuch, he asked: “What does the Egyptian Princess wish from my brother?”

      “The boy declares that he has orders to give up what has been entrusted to him to no one but Bartja.” On hearing this the boy looked imploringly up at the king, and held out a little papyrus roll.

      Cambyses snatched it out of his hand, but the next moment stamped furiously on the ground at seeing that the letter was written in Greek, which he could not read.

      He

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