in a state of extraordinary excitement: his eyes
sparkled with enthusiasm; a feverish rosiness tinted his cheeks; his
dilated nostrils inhaled the air with unusual effort.

'Well, Gyges,' continued Candaules, without appearing to notice the
uneasiness of his favourite, 'I am that diver. Amid this dark ocean of
humanity, wherein confusedly move so many defective or misshapen beings,
so many forms incomplete or degraded, so many types of bestial ugliness,
wretched outlines of nature's experimental essays, I have found beauty,
pure, radiant, without spot, without flaw, the ideal made real, the
dream accomplished, a form which no painter or sculptor has ever been
able to translate upon canvas or into marble--I have found Nyssia!'

'Although the queen has the timid modesty of the women of the Orient,
and that no man save her husband has ever beheld her features, Fame,
hundred-tongued and hundred-eared, has celebrated her praise throughout
the world,' answered Gyges, respectfully inclining his head as he spoke.

'Mere vague, insignificant rumours. They say of her, as of all women not
actually ugly, that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite or Helen; but
no person could form even the most remote idea of such perfection. In
vain have I besought Nyssia to appear unveiled at some public festival,
some solemn sacrifice, or to show herself for an instant leaning over
the royal terrace, bestowing upon her people the immense favour of
one look, the prodigality of one profile view, more generous than the
goddesses who permit their worshippers to behold only pale simulacra of
ivory or alabaster. She would never consent to that. Now there is one
strange thing which I blush to acknowledge even to you, dear Gyges.
Formerly I was jealous; I wished to conceal my amours from all eyes, no
shadow was thick enough, no mystery sufficiently impenetrable. Now I can
no longer recognise myself. I have the feelings neither of a lover nor
a husband; my love has melted in adoration like thin wax in a fiery
brazier. All petty feelings of jealousy or possession have vanished. No,
the most finished work that heaven has ever given to earth, since the
day that Prometheus held the flame under the right breast of the
statue of clay, cannot thus be kept hidden in the chill shadow of the
gynaeceum. Were I to die, then the secret of this beauty would for ever
remain shrouded beneath the sombre draperies of widowhood! I feel myself
culpable in its concealment, a