to sink. On the boatmen crying for help, the royal bark, which was
following, had come up and taken the supposed Phanes on board, but had
prevented the rowers from leaving their benches. They all went down with
the leaking boat, the daring Sebek alone excepted. Gyges is on board the
royal boat; Phanes has escaped, for that whistle must have been intended
for the soldiers in ambush at the garden-gate. I searched the bushes,
the soldiers were gone, and I could hear the sound of their voices and
weapons on their way back to Sais."

The guests listened with eager attention to this tale. At its close a
mingled feeling of relief and anxiety was felt by all; relief that their
favorite companion had escaped so fearful a danger, anxiety for the
brave young Lydian who had risked his life to save him. They praised his
generosity, congratulated Croesus on possessing such a son, and finally
agreed in the conclusion, that, when the crown-prince discovered the
error into which his emissaries had fallen, he must certainly release
Gyges, and even make him compensation for what he had suffered at their
hands.

The friendship already shown by Amasis, and the fear in which he
evidently stood of the Persian power, were the thoughts which had power
to calm Croesus, who soon left, in order to pass the night at the house
of Theopompus, the Milesian merchant. At parting, Aristomachus said:
"Salute Gyges in my name; tell him I ask his forgiveness, and hope one
day either to enjoy his friendship, or, if that cannot be, to meet him
as a fair foe on the field of battle."

"Who knows what the future may bring?" answered Croesus giving his hand
to the Spartan.

CHAPTER IX.

The sun of a new day had risen over Egypt, but was still low in the
east; the copious dew, which, on the Nile, supplies the place of rain,
lay sparkling like jewels on the leaves and blossoms, and the morning
air, freshened by a north-west wind, invited those to enjoy it who could
not bear the heat of mid-day.

Through the door of the country-house, now so well known to us, two
female figures have just passed; Melitta, the old slave, and Sappho, the
grandchild of Rhodopis.

The latter is not less lovely now, than when we saw her last, asleep.
She moves through the garden with a light quick step, her white morning
robe with its wide sleeves falling in graceful drapery over her lithe
limbs, the thick brown hair straying from beneath the purple kerchief
over her head