In order to keep out the noonday sun and produce a salutary half-light for the blind queen’s eyes, her windows were shaded by curtains of green Indian silk.  The floor was covered with a thick Babylonian carpet, soft as moss under the foot.  The walls were faced with a mosaic of ivory, tortoise-shell, gold, silver, malachite, lapis-lazuli, ebony and amber.  The seats and couches were of gold covered with lions’ skins, and a table of silver stood by the side of the blind queen.  Kassandane was seated in a costly arm-chair.  She wore a robe of violet-blue, embroidered with silver, and over her snow-white hair lay a long veil of delicate lace, woven in Egypt, the ends of which were wound round her neck and tied in a large bow beneath her chin.  She was between sixty and seventy years old; her face, framed, as it were, into a picture by the lace veil, was exquisitely symmetrical in its form, intellectual, kind and benevolent in its expression.

The blind eyes were closed, but those who gazed on her felt that, if open, they would shine with the gentle light of stars.  Even when sitting, her attitude and height showed a tall and stately figure.  Indeed her entire appearance was worthy the widow of the great and good Cyrus.

On a low seat at her feet, drawing long threads from a golden spindle, sat the queen’s youngest child Atossa, born to her late in life.  Cambyses was standing before her, and behind, hardly visible in the dim light, Nebenchari, the Egyptian oculist.

As Nitetis entered, Cambyses came towards her and led her to his mother.  The daughter of Amasis fell on her knees before this venerable woman, and kissed her hand with real affection.

“Be welcome here!” exclaimed the blind queen, feeling her way to the young girl’s head, on which she laid her hand, “I have heard much in your praise, and hope to gain in you a dear and loving daughter.”

Nitetis kissed the gentle, delicate hand again, saying in a low voice:  “O how I thank you for these words!  Will you, the wife of the great Cyrus, permit me to call you mother?  My tongue has been so long accustomed to this sweet word; and now after long weeks of silence, I tremble with joy at the thought that I may say ‘my mother’ once more!  I will indeed try to deserve your love and kindness; and you—­you will be to me all that your loving countenance seems to promise?  Advise and teach me; let me find a refuge at your feet, if sometimes the longing for home becomes too strong, and my poor heart too weak to bear its grief or joy alone.  Oh, be my mother! that one word includes all else!”

The blind queen felt the warm tears fall on her hand; she pressed her lips kindly on the weeping girl’s forehead, and answered:  “I can understand your feelings.  My apartments shall be always open to you, my heart ready to welcome you here.  Come when you will, and call me your mother with the same perfect confidence with which I, from my whole heart, name you my daughter.  In a few months you will be my son’s wife, and then the gods may grant you that gift, which, by implanting within you the feelings of a mother, will prevent you from feeling the need of one.”