While Hystaspes first, and then all the heads of the six other highest families in Persia, were using their utmost efforts to bend this monster weapon in vain, the king emptied goblet after goblet of wine, his spirits rising as he watched their vain endeavors to solve the Ethiopian’s problem.  At last Darius, who was famous for his skill in archery, took the bow.  Nearly the same result.  The wood was inflexible as iron and all his efforts only availed to move it one finger’s breadth.  The king gave him a friendly nod in reward for his success, and then, looking round on his friends and relations in a manner that betokened the most perfect assurance, he said:  “Give me the bow now, Darius.  I will show you, that there is only one man in Persia who deserves the name of king;—­only one who can venture to take the field against the Ethiopians;—­only one who can bend this bow.”

He grasped it tightly with his left hand, taking the string, which was as thick as a man’s finger and made from the intestines of a lion, in his right, fetched a deep breath, bent his mighty back and pulled and pulled; collected all his strength for greater and greater efforts, strained his sinews till they threatened to break, and the veins in his forehead were swollen to bursting, did not even disdain to use his feet and legs, but all in vain.  After a quarter of an hour of almost superhuman exertion, his strength gave way, the ebony, which he had succeeded in bending even farther than Darius, flew back and set all his further endeavors at nought.  At last, feeling himself thoroughly exhausted, he dashed the bow on to the ground in a passion, crying:  “The Ethiopian is a liar! no mortal man has ever bent that bow.  What is impossible for my arm is possible for no other.  In three days we will start for Ethiopia.  I will challenge the impostor to a single combat, and ye shall see which is the stronger.  Take up the bow, Prexaspes, and keep it carefully.  The black liar shall be strangled with his own bow-string.  This wood is really harder than iron, and I confess that the man who could bend it, would really be my master.  I should not be ashamed to call him so, for he must be of better stuff than I.”

As he finished speaking, Bartja appeared in the circle of assembled Persians.  His glorious figure was set off to advantage by his rich dress, his features were bright with happiness and a feeling of conscious strength.  He passed through the ranks of the Achaemenidae with many a friendly nod, which was warmly returned, and going straight to his brother, kissed his robe, looked up frankly and cheerfully into his gloomy eyes, and said:  “I am a little late, and ask your forgiveness, my lord and brother.  Or have I really come in time?  Yes, yes, I see there’s no arrow in the target yet, so I am sure you, the best archer in the world, cannot have tried your strength yet.  But you look so enquiringly at me.  Then I will confess that our child kept me.  The