“Who allowed you, a foreigner, to use the posthorses?”

“The pass drawn out for the son of Croesus, which came by chance into my hands, when once, in order to save my life, he forced me to change clothes with him.”

“A Lydian can outwit a fox, and a Syrian a Lydian, but an Ionian is a match for both,” muttered the king, smiling for the first time; “Croesus told me this story—­poor Croesus!” and then the old gloomy expression came over his face and he passed his hand across his forehead, as if trying to smooth the lines of care away.  The Athenian went on:  “I met with no hindrances on my journey till this morning at the first hour after midnight, when I was detained by a strange occurrence.”

The king began to listen more attentively, and reminded the Athenian, who spoke Persian with difficulty, that there was no time to lose.

“We had reached the last station but one,” continued he, “and hoped to be in Babylon by sunrise.  I was thinking over my past stirring life, and was so haunted by the remembrance of evil deeds unrevenged that I could not sleep; the old Egyptian at my side, however, slept and dreamt peacefully enough, lulled by the monotonous tones of the harness bells, the sound of the horses’ hoofs and the murmur of the Euphrates.  It was a wonderfully still, beautiful night; the moon and stars were so brilliant, that our road and the landscape were lighted up almost with the brightness of day.  For the last hour we had not seen a single vehicle, foot-passenger, or horseman; we had heard that all the neighboring population had assembled in Babylon to celebrate your birthday, gaze with wonder at the splendor of your court, and enjoy your liberality.  At last the irregular beat of horses’ hoofs, and the sound of bells struck my ear, and a few minutes later I distinctly heard cries of distress.  My resolve was taken at once; I made my Persian servant dismount, sprang into his saddle, told the driver of the cart in which my slaves were sitting not to spare his mules, loosened my dagger and sword in their scabbards, and spurred my horse towards the place from whence the cries came.  They grew louder and louder.  I had not ridden a minute, when I came on a fearful scene.  Three wild-looking fellows had just pulled a youth, dressed in the white robes of a Magian, from his horse, stunned him with heavy blows, and, just as I reached them, were on the point of throwing him into the Euphrates, which at that place washes the roots of the palms and fig-trees bordering the high-road.  I uttered my Greek war-cry, which has made many an enemy tremble before now, and rushed on the murderers.  Such fellows are always cowards; the moment they saw one of their accomplices mortally wounded, they fled.  I did not pursue them, but stooped down to examine the poor boy, who was severely wounded.  How can I describe my horror at seeing, as I believed, your brother Bartja?  Yes, they were the very same features that I had seen, first at Naukratis and then in Theodorus’ workshop, they were . . .”