natural, and unjust deed, and he shuddered at the thought. It
seemed fearful, unbearable, to be called an assassin. He had already
caused the death of many a man without the least compunction, but that
had been done either in fair fight, or openly before the world. He was
king, and what the king did was right. Had he killed Bartja with his own
hand, his conscience would not have reproached him; but to have had him
privately put out of the way, after he had given so many proofs of
possessing first-rate manly qualities, which deserved the highest
praise--this tortured him with a feeling of rage at his own want of
principle,-a feeling of shame and remorse which he had never known
before. He began to despise himself. The consciousness of having acted,
and wished to act justly, forsook him, and he began to fancy, that every
one who had been executed by his orders, had been, like Bartja, an
innocent victim of his fierce anger. These thoughts became so
intolerable, that he began to drink once more in the hope of drowning
them. But now the wine had precisely the opposite effect, and brought
such tormenting thoughts, that, worn out as he was already by epileptic
fits and his habit of drinking, both body and mind threatened to give way
to the agitation caused by the events of the last months. Burning and
shivering by turns, he was at last forced to lie down. While the
attendants were disrobing him, he remembered his brother's present, had
the box fetched and opened, and then desired to be left alone. The
Egyptian paintings on the outside of the box reminded him of Nitetis, and
then he asked himself what she would have said to his deed. Fever had
already begun, and his mind was wandering as he took the beautiful wax
bust out of the box. He stared in horror at the dull, immovable eyes. The
likeness was so perfect, and his judgment so weakened by wine and fever,
that he fancied himself the victim of some spell, and yet could not turn
his eyes from those dear features. Suddenly the eyes seemed to move. He
was seized with terror, and, in a kind of convulsion, hurled what he
thought had become a living head against the wall. The hollow, brittle
wax broke into a thousand fragments, and Cambyses sank back on to his bed
with a groan.

From that moment the fever increased. In his delirium the banished Phanes
appeared, singing a scornful Greek song and deriding him in such infamous
words, that his fists clenched with rage. Then he saw his fr