For the next few days messages came continually, urging her to haste to a youth dying for her sake, whom her presence would revive effectually.  She steadily refused, but how much her refusal cost her!  She wept, she wrung her hands, she called for death and execrated her nurture.  With that strange appetite for self-torment which almost seems to diminish the pangs of the wretched, she collected books on poisons, studied all the symptoms described, and fancied her hapless lover undergoing them all in turn.  At length a message came which admitted of no evasion.  The King commanded her presence.  Admonished by past experience, she provided herself with a veil and mask, and repaired to the palace.

The old King seemed labouring under deep affliction; under happier circumstances he must have been joyous and debonair.  He addressed her with austerity, yet with kindness.

“Maiden,” he began, “thy unaccountable cruelty to my son——­”

“Thy son!” she exclaimed, “The Prince!  O father, thou art avenged for my disobedience!”

“Surpasses what history hath hitherto recorded of the most obdurate monsters.  Thou art indebted to him for thy honour, to preserve which he has risked his life.  Thou bringest him to the verge of the grave by thy cruelty, and when a smile, a look from thee would restore him, thou wilt not bestow it.”

“Alas! great King,” she replied, “I know too well what your Majesty’s opinion of me must be.  I must bear it as I may.  Believe me, the sight of me could effect nothing towards the restoration of thy son.”

“Of that I shall judge,” said the King, “when thou hast divested thyself of that veil and mask.”

Mithridata reluctantly complied.

“By Heaven!” exclaimed the King, “such a sight might recall the departing soul from Paradise.  Haste to my son, and instantly; it is not yet too late.”

“O King,” urged Mithridata, “how could this countenance do thy son any good?  Is he not suffering from the effects of seventy-two poisons?”

“I am not aware of that,” said the King.

“Are not his entrails burned up with fire?  Is not his flesh in a state of deliquescence?  Has not his skin already peeled off his body?  Is he not tormented by incessant gripes and vomitings?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said the King.  “The symptoms, as I understand, are not unlike those which I remember to have experienced myself, in a milder form, certainly.  He lies in bed, eats and drinks nothing, and incessantly calls upon thee.”

“This is most incomprehensible,” said Mithridata.  “There was no drug in my father’s laboratory that could have produced such an effect.”

“The sum of the matter is,” continued the King, “that either thou wilt repair forthwith to my son’s chamber, and subsequently to church; or else unto the scaffold.”

“If it must be so, I choose the scaffold,” said Mithridata resolutely.  “Believe me, O King, my appearance in thy son’s chamber would but destroy whatever feeble hope of recovery may remain.  I love him beyond everything on earth, and not for worlds would I have his blood on my soul.”