s, was surely the Great King. A figure of
august height was set off nobly by the flowing purple caftan and the
purple cap which crowned the curling black hair. The riches of satrapies
were in the rubies and topazes on sword sheath and baldric. The head was
raised. The face was not regular, but of a proud, aquiline beauty. The
skin was olive, the eyes dark, a little pensive. If there were weak lines
about the mouth, the curling beard covered them. The king looked straight
on, unmoved by the kneeling thousands, but as he came abreast of the
balcony, chance made him look upward. Perhaps the sight of the beautiful
Greek caused Xerxes to smile winsomely. The smile of a god can intoxicate.
Caught away from himself, Glaucon the Alcmaeonid joined in the great salvo
of cheering.

"Victory to Xerxes! Let the king of kings reign forever!"

The chariot was gone almost instantly, a vast retinue--cooks, eunuchs,
grooms, hunters, and many closed litters bearing the royal
concubines--followed, but all these passed before Glaucon shook off the
spell the sight of royalty cast on him.

* * * * * * *

That night in the palace Xerxes gave a feast in honour of the new
campaign. The splendours of a royal banquet in the East need no retelling.
Silver lamps, carpets of Kerman rugs or of the petals of fresh roses, a
thousand lutes and dulcimers, precious Helbon wine flowing like water,
cups of Phoenician crystal, tables groaning with wild boars roasted whole,
dancing women none too modest,--these were but the incidentals of a
gorgeous confusion. To Glaucon, with the chaste loveliness of the
Panathenaea before his mind, the scene was one of vast wonderment but
scarcely of pleasure. The Persian did nothing by halves. In battle a hero,
at his cups he became a satyr. Many of the scenes before the guests
emptied the last of the tall silver tankards were indescribable.

* * * * * * *

On the high dais above the roaring hall sat Xerxes the king,--adored,
envied, pitiable.

When Spitames, the seneschal, brought him the cup, the bearer bowed his
face, not daring to look on his dread lord's eyes.

When Artabanus, the vizier, approached with a message, he first kissed the
carpet below the dais.

When Hydarnes, commander of the Life Guard, drew near to receive the
watchword for the night, he held his mantle before his mouth, lest his
breath pollute the world monarch.

Yet of all forms o