twenty young and beautiful wives."

"Look after your own affairs," answered Araspes. "In your place, I
certainly should not have waited to marry till I was thirty."

"An oracle has forbidden my marrying."

"Folly? how can a sensible man care for what an oracle says? It is only
by dreams, that the gods announce the future to men. I should have
thought that your own father was example enough of the shameful way in
which those lying priests deceive their best friends."

"That is a matter which you do not understand, Araspes."

"And never wish to, boy, for you only believe in oracles because you
don't understand them, and in your short-sightedness call everything that
is beyond your comprehension a miracle. And you place more confidence in
anything that seems to you miraculous, than in the plain simple truth
that lies before your face. An oracle deceived your father and plunged
him into ruin, but the oracle is miraculous, and so you too, in perfect
confidence, allow it to rob you of happiness!"

"That is blasphemy, Araspes. Are the gods to be blamed because we
misunderstand their words?"

"Certainly: for if they wished to benefit us they would give us, with the
words, the necessary penetration for discovering their meaning. What good
does a beautiful speech do me, if it is in a foreign language that I do
not understand?"

"Leave off this useless discussion," said Darius, "and tell us instead,
Araspes, how it is that, though you congratulate every man on becoming a
bridegroom, you yourself have so long submitted to be blamed by the
priests, slighted at all entertainments and festivals, and abused by the
women, only because you choose to live and die a bachelor?"

Araspes looked down thoughtfully, then shook himself, took a long draught
from the wine-cup, and said, "I have my reasons, friends, but I cannot
tell them now."

"Tell them, tell them," was the answer.

"No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot. This cup I drain to the health
of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my
favorite, Darius."

"Thanks, Araspes!" exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his
lips.

"You mean well, I know," muttered Darius, looking down gloomily.

"What's this, you son of Hystaspes?" cried the old man, looking more
narrowly at the serious face of the youth. "Dark looks like these don't
sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his
dearest one. Is not Gobryas' little daughte