The good-natured, thoughtless girl called herself a wretched murderess unceasingly, resolved again and again to confess the whole truth and so to save Nitetis; but love of life and fear of death gained the victory over her weak heart every time.  To confess was certain death, and she felt as if she had been made for life; she had so many hopes for the future, and the grave seemed so dreadful.  She thought she could perhaps have confessed the whole truth, if perpetual imprisonment had been all she had to fear; but death! no, she could not resolve on that.  And besides, would her confession really save the already condemned Nitetis?

Had she not sent a message to Bartja herself by that unfortunate gardener’s boy?  This secret correspondence had been discovered, and that was enough of itself to ruin Nitetis, even if she, Mandane, had done nothing in the matter.  We are never so clever as when we have to find excuses for our own sins.

At sunrise, Mandane was kneeling by her mistress’s couch, weeping bitterly and wondering that Nitetis could sleep so calmly.

Boges, the eunuch, had passed a sleepless night too, but a very happy one.  His hated colleague, Kandaules, whom he had used as a substitute for himself, had been already executed, by the king’s command, for negligence, and on the supposition that he had accepted a bribe; Nitetis was not only ruined, but certain to die a shameful death.  The influence of the king’s mother had suffered a severe shock; and lastly, he had the pleasure of knowing, not only that he had outwitted every one and succeeded in all his plans, but that through his favorite Phaedime he might hope once more to become the all-powerful favorite of former days.  That sentence of death had been pronounced on Croesus and the young heroes, was by no means an unwelcome thought either, as they might have been instrumental in bringing his intrigues to light.

In the grey of the morning he left the king’s apartment and went to Phaedime.  The proud Persian had taken no rest.  She was waiting for him with feverish anxiety, as a rumor of all that had happened had already reached the harem and penetrated to her apartments.  She was lying on a purple couch in her dressing-room; a thin silken chemise and yellow slippers thickly sown with turquoises and pearls composed her entire dress.  Twenty attendants were standing round her, but the moment she heard Boges she sent her slaves away, sprang up to meet him, and overwhelmed him with a stream of incoherent questions, all referring to her enemy Nitetis.

“Gently, gently, my little bird,” said Boges, laying his hand on her shoulder.  “If you can’t make up your mind to be as quiet as a little mouse while I tell my story, and not to ask one question, you won’t hear a syllable of it to-day.  Yes, indeed, my golden queen, I’ve so much to tell that I shall not have finished till to-morrow, if you are to interrupt me as often as you like.  Ah, my little lamb, and I’ve still