our lives be wasted!  Thou canst drink well, thou golden-haired Persian!  Truly the great gods have endowed thee not only with beautiful eyes, and blooming beauty, but with a good throat!  Let me embrace thee, thou glorious youth, thou rogue!  What thinkest thou Croesus? my daughter Tachot can speak of nothing else than of this beardless youth, who seems to have quite turned her little head with his sweet looks and words.  Thou needest not to blush, young madcap!  A man such as thou art, may well look at king’s daughters; but wert thou thy father Cyrus himself, I could not allow my Tachot to leave me for Persia!”

“Father!” whispered the crown-prince Psamtik, interrupting this conversation.  “Father, take care what you say, and remember Phanes.”  The king turned a frowning glance on his son; but following his advice, took much less part in the conversation, which now became more general.

The seat at the banquet-table, occupied by Aristomachus, placed him nearly opposite to Croesus, on whom, in total silence and without once indulging in a smile at the king’s jests, his eyes had been fixed from the beginning of the revel.  When the Pharaoh ceased to speak, he accosted Croesus suddenly with the following question:  “I would know, Lydian, whether the snow still covered the mountains, when ye left Persia.”

Smiling, and a little surprised at this strange speech, Croesus answered:  “Most of the Persian mountains were green when we started for Egypt four months ago; but there are heights in the land of Cambyses on which, even in the hottest seasons, the snow never melts, and the glimmer of their white crests we could still perceive, as we descended into the plains.”

The Spartan’s face brightened visibly, and Croesus, attracted by this serious, earnest man, asked his name.  “My name is Aristomachus.”

“That name seems known to me.”

“You were acquainted with many Hellenes, and my name is common among them.”

“Your dialect would bespeak you my opinion a Spartan.”

“I was one once.”

“And now no more?”

“He who forsakes his native land without permission, is worthy of death.”

“Have you forsaken it with your own free-will?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“To escape dishonor.”

“What was your crime?”

“I had committed none.”

“You were accused unjustly?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the author of your ill-fortune?”

“Yourself.”

Croesus started from his seat.  The serious tone and gloomy face of the Spartan proved that this was no jest, and those who sat near the speakers, and had been following this strange dialogue, were alarmed and begged Aristomachus to explain his words.

He hesitated and seemed unwilling to speak; at last, however, at the king’s summons, he began thus: