“But I can teach you better,” said Nitetis.  “It is true that in Themiscyra and Comana there are a number of women who wear soldier’s armor; but they are only priestesses, and clothe themselves like the warlike goddess they serve, in order to present to the worshippers a manifestation of the divinity in human form.  Croesus says that an army of Amazons has never existed, but that the Greeks, (always ready and able to turn anything into a beautiful myth), having seen these priestesses, at once transformed the armed virgins dedicated to the goddess into a nation of fighting women.”

“Then they are liars!” exclaimed the disappointed girl.

“It is true, that the Greeks have not the same reverence for truth as you have,” answered Nitetis, “but they do not call the men who invent these beautiful stories liars; they are called poets.”

“Just as it is with ourselves,” said Kassandane.  “The poets, who sing the praises of my husband, have altered and adorned his early life in a marvellous manner; yet no one calls them liars.  But tell me, my daughter, is it true that these Greeks are more beautiful than other men, and understand art better even than the Egyptians?”

“On that subject I should not venture to pronounce a judgment.  There is such a great difference between the Greek and Egyptian works of art.  When I went into our own gigantic temples to pray, I always felt as if I must prostrate myself in the dust before the greatness of the gods, and entreat them not to crush so insignificant a worm; but in the temple of Hera at Samos, I could only raise my hands to heaven in joyful thanksgiving, that the gods had made the earth so beautiful.  In Egypt I always believed as I had been taught:  ’Life is asleep; we shall not awake to our true existence in the kingdom of Osiris till the hour of death;’ but in Greece I thought:  ’I am born to live and to enjoy this cheerful, bright and blooming world.’”

“Ah! tell us something more about Greece,” cried Atossa; “but first Nebenchari must put a fresh bandage on my mother’s eyes.”

The oculist, a tall, grave man in the white robes of an Egyptian priest, came forward to perform the necessary operation, and after being kindly greeted by Nitetis, withdrew once more silently into the background.  At the same time a eunuch entered to enquire whether Croesus might be allowed to pay his respectful homage to the king’s mother.

The aged king soon appeared, and was welcomed as the old and tried friend of the Persian royal family.  Atossa, with her usual impetuosity, fell on the neck of the friend she had so sorely missed during his absence; the queen gave him her hand, and Nitetis met him like a loving daughter.

“I thank the gods, that I am permitted to see you again,” said Croesus.  “The young can look at life as a possession, as a thing understood and sure, but at my age every year must be accepted as an undeserved gift from the gods, for which a man must be thankful.”