“An oracle has forbidden my marrying.” “Folly? how can a sensible man care for what an oracle says? It is only by dreams, that the gods announce the future to men. I should have thought that your own father was example enough of the shameful way in which those lying priests deceive their best friends.” “That is a matter which you do not understand, Araspes.” “And never wish to, boy, for you only believe in oracles because you don’t understand them, and in your short-sightedness call everything that is beyond your comprehension a miracle. And you place more confidence in anything that seems to you miraculous, than in the plain simple truth that lies before your face. An oracle deceived your father and plunged him into ruin, but the oracle is miraculous, and so you too, in perfect confidence, allow it to rob you of happiness!” “That is blasphemy, Araspes. Are the gods to be blamed because we misunderstand their words?” “Certainly: for if they wished to benefit us they would give us, with the words, the necessary penetration for discovering their meaning. What good does a beautiful speech do me, if it is in a foreign language that I do not understand?” “Leave off this useless discussion,” said Darius, “and tell us instead, Araspes, how it is that, though you congratulate every man on becoming a bridegroom, you yourself have so long submitted to be blamed by the priests, slighted at all entertainments and festivals, and abused by the women, only because you choose to live and die a bachelor?” Araspes looked down thoughtfully, then shook himself, took a long draught from the wine-cup, and said, “I have my reasons, friends, but I cannot tell them now.” “Tell them, tell them,” was the answer. “No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot. This cup I drain to the health of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my favorite, Darius.” “Thanks, Araspes!” exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his lips. “You mean well, I know,” muttered Darius, looking down gloomily. “What’s this, you son of Hystaspes?” cried the old man, looking more narrowly at the serious face of the youth. “Dark looks like these don’t sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his dearest one. Is not Gobryas’ little daughter the noblest of all the young Persian girls after Atossa? and isn’t she beautiful?” “Artystone has every talent and quality that a daughter of the Achaemenidae ought to possess,” was Darius’s answer, but his brow did not clear as he said the words. “Well, if you want more than that, you must be very hard to please.” Darius raised his goblet and looked down into the wine. “The boy is in love, as sure as my name is Araspes!” exclaimed the elder man.