l
ivory box in which the ominous piece of writing lay, saying: "There it
is; read it; but do not hide or alter a single word, for to-morrow I
shall have it read over again by one of the merchants from Sinope."

Croesus' hopes revived; he seemed to breathe again as he took the paper.
But when he had read it over, his eyes filled with tears and he murmured:
"The fable of Pandora is only too true; I dare not be angry any longer
with those poets who have written severely against women. Alas, they are
all false and faithless! O Kassandane, how the Gods deceive us! they
grant us the gift of old age, only to strip us bare like trees in winter,
and show us that all our fancied gold was dross and all our pleasant and
refreshing drinks poison!"

Kassandane wept aloud and tore her costly robes; but Cambyses clenched
his fist while Croesus was reading the following words:

"Nitetis, daughter of Amasis of Egypt, to Bartja, son of the great Cyrus:

"I have something important to tell you; I can tell it to no one but
yourself. To-morrow I hope I shall meet you in your mother's apartments.
It lies in your power to comfort a sad and loving heart, and to give it
one happy moment before death. I have a great deal to tell you, and some
very sad news; I repeat that I must see you soon."

The desperate laughter, which burst from her son cut his mother to the
heart. She stooped down and was going to kiss him, but Cambyses resisted
her caresses, saying: "It is rather a doubtful honor, mother, to be one
of your favorites. Bartja did not wait to be sent for twice by that
treacherous woman, and has disgraced himself by swearing falsely. His
friends, the flower of our young men, have covered themselves with
indelible infamy for his sake; and through him, your best beloved
daughter . . . but no! Bartja had no share in the corruption of that
fiend in Peri's form. Her life was made up of hypocrisy and deceit, and
her death shall prove that I know how to punish. Now leave me, for I must
be alone."

They had scarcely left the room, when he sprang up and paced backwards
and forwards like a madman, till the first crow of the sacred bird
Parodar. When the sun had risen, he threw himself on his bed again, and
fell into a sleep that was like a swoon.

Meanwhile Bartja had written Sappho a farewell letter, and was sitting
over the wine with his fellow-prisoners and their elder friend Araspes.
"Let us be merry," said Zopyrus, "for I believe it will soo