Araspes looked down thoughtfully, then shook himself, took a long draught from the wine-cup, and said, “I have my reasons, friends, but I cannot tell them now.”

“Tell them, tell them,” was the answer.

“No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot.  This cup I drain to the health of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my favorite, Darius.”

“Thanks, Araspes!” exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his lips.

“You mean well, I know,” muttered Darius, looking down gloomily.

“What’s this, you son of Hystaspes?” cried the old man, looking more narrowly at the serious face of the youth.  “Dark looks like these don’t sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his dearest one.  Is not Gobryas’ little daughter the noblest of all the young Persian girls after Atossa? and isn’t she beautiful?”

“Artystone has every talent and quality that a daughter of the Achaemenidae ought to possess,” was Darius’s answer, but his brow did not clear as he said the words.

“Well, if you want more than that, you must be very hard to please.”

Darius raised his goblet and looked down into the wine.

“The boy is in love, as sure as my name is Araspes!” exclaimed the elder man.

“What a set of foolish fellows you are,” broke in Zopyrus at this exclamation.  “One of you has remained a bachelor in defiance of all Persian customs; another has been frightened out of marrying by an oracle; Bartja has determined to be content with only one wife; and Darius looks like a Destur chanting the funeral-service, because his father has told him to make himself happy with the most beautiful and aristocratic girl in Persia!”

“Zopyrus is right,” cried Araspes.  “Darius is ungrateful to fortune.”

Bartja meanwhile kept his eyes fixed on the friend, who was thus blamed by the others.  He saw that their jests annoyed him, and feeling his own great happiness doubly in that moment, pressed Darius’s hand, saying:  “I am so sorry that I cannot be present at your wedding.  By the time I come back, I hope you will be reconciled to your father’s choice.”

“Perhaps,” said Darius, “I may be able to show a second and even a third wife by that time.”

“Anahita” grant it!” exclaimed Zopyrus.  “The Achaemenidae would soon become extinct, if every one were to follow such examples as Gyges and Araspes have set us.  And your one wife, Bartja, is really not worth talking about.  It is your duty to marry three wives at once, in order to keep up your father’s family—­the race of Cyrus.”

“I hate our custom of marrying many wives,” answered Bartja.  “Through doing this, we make ourselves inferior to the women, for we expect them to remain faithful to us all our lives, and we, who are bound to respect truth and faithfulness above every thing else, swear inviolable love to one woman to-day, and to another to-morrow.”