“It’s not the metal that the cup is made of,” said Bartja, “but the wormwood of death, that gives the wine its bitter taste.”

“No, really, you’re quite out there,” exclaimed Zopyrus.  “Why I had nearly forgotten that strangling generally causes death.”  As he said this, he touched Gyges and whispered:  “Be as cheerful as you can! don’t you see that it’s very hard for Bartja to take leave of this world?  What were you saying, Darius?”

“That I thought Oropastes’ idea the only admissible one, that a Div had taken the likeness of Bartja and visited the Egyptian in order to ruin us.”

“Folly!  I don’t believe in such things.”

“But don’t you remember the legend of the Div, who took the beautiful form of a minstrel and appeared before king Kawus?”

“Of course,” cried Araspes.  “Cyrus had this legend so often recited at the banquets, that I know it by heart.

“Kai Kawus hearkened to the words of the disguised Div and went to Masenderan, and was beaten there by the Divs and deprived of his eyesight.”

“But,” broke in Darius, “Rustem, the great hero, came and conquered Erscheng and the other bad spirits, freed the captives and restored sight to the blind, by dropping the blood of the slaughtered Divs into their eyes.  And so it will be with us, my friends!  We shall be set free, and the eyes of Cambyses and of our blind and infatuated fathers will be opened to see our innocence.  Listen, Bischen; if we really should be executed, go to the Magi, the Chaldwans, and Nebenchari the Egyptian, and tell them they had better not study the stars any longer, for that those very stars had proved themselves liars and deceivers to Darius.”

“Yes,” interrupted Araspes, “I always said that dreams were the only real prophecies.  Before Abradatas fell in the battle of Sardis, the peerless Panthea dreamt that she saw him pierced by a Lydian arrow.”

“You cruel fellow!” exclaimed Zopyrus.  “Why do you remind us, that it is much more glorious to die in battle than to have our necks wrung off”

“Quite right,” answered the elder man; “I confess that I have seen many a death, which I should prefer to our own,—­indeed to life itself.  Ah, boys, there was a time when things went better than they do now.”

“Tell us something about those times.”

“And tell us why you never married.  It won’t matter to you in the next world, if we do let out your secret.”

“There’s no secret; any of your own fathers could tell you what you want to hear from me.  Listen then.  When I was young, I used to amuse myself with women, but I laughed at the idea of love.  It occurred, however, that Panthea, the most beautiful of all women, fell into our hands, and Cyrus gave her into my charge, because I had always boasted that my heart was invulnerable.  I saw her everyday, and learnt, my friends, that love is stronger than a man’s will.  However, she refused all my