“Live forever, O king, O lord of all goodness! Live forever!” As he repeated the words he was smiling, but not with mirth. “Praised be the All-Merciful, these flatteries are but flatteries, nothing more!” Voices sounded at the tent door. “I come to report to the king from Artaphernes, commander of the skirmishers.” “Unless you have definite news, his Majesty is not to be troubled.” “Wait, then; I have only to declare that our scouts bring in nothing.” The pacings of the king grew swift and feverish. “Nothing, nothing; well, it was to be expected. Are you waxed so old, Cyrus, son of Cambyses, that you will pin your faith on an open face and a ready tongue? The Jew spoke fair, but is like all men of every race saving our own—a liar. If he but come within my power after betraying thus—” There was a javelin standing against a tent-pole; the king grasped and almost poised it. But the royal mood shifted; Cyrus replaced the weapon, and ran on, communing with himself darkly:— “I am lord of a million sword-hands; at my word nations sink down in ruin. Men worship me as being a god on earth. Holy Ahura, when Thou madest me king, why did I not cease to be a man; why could I not cease loving, losing, longing? The garment of life is woven of the same stuff, whether for the vilest slave or the lord of the Aryans. I have godlike powers, but I am miserable!” A noise without—the sentries passing the watchword for the night, as they changed the guard, “Vengeance for Darius!” Again the king touched the javelin. “Of course the Jew failed, and that without playing falsely. His project was a mad one. Darius has long since died under Belshazzar’s torments. Died; ay, and by Mithra the _dæva_-smiter, the watchword shall not prove vain! Men call me merciful; but to the son of Nabonidus and all his perjured brood, Angra-Mainyu, the arch-fiend, and his demons shall seem more compassionate than I. But ah! though I slay all Babylon, I may not breathe life into one form once stilled, nor woo back a loved spirit with all the rubies of Ecbatana!” Again a voice at the tent door, and Cyrus, recognizing, commanded, “Enter.” Hystaspes passed within. The prince was in his coat of shining scale armour, for years had not made him too feeble to keep the saddle. The short Persian spear was in his hand, the sword dangled at his thigh. The king attempted to brighten before his friend, and threw out boldly:— “Well, comrade, has not the country been scoured, and all the farms so well sacked, that a man of your hale years need ride with the skirmishers?” The other laughed, though none too heartily. “The young hotbloods who lead your Majesty’s cavalry troops are all valour and no prudence. An older eye is needed to see that Sirusur with his Babylonish chariots does not dash down on us unawares, and fling us, man and beast, into the Tigris.”