seven days. Enraged at her insolence, her enemy, looking up, asked, "Who
in the palace is on my side?" At these words, some officers of the
household cast her down from the window: thus ingloriously she died, and
the prancing horses of the chariot trampled over her. He who now was
universally acknowledged to be the king, soon gave orders that she
should be buried, observing that, wretch as she was, she was of royal
blood. But the vulture and the jackal had been before him: naught
remained of that haughty, revengeful, and heaven-defying woman, save the
skull, the feet, and the palms of her hands. Thus, to the very letter,
was fulfilled the prediction of a prophet, one of her contemporaries: it
was the same individual who had sent an epistle to her son-in-law, the
late husband of our heroine, announcing his fate. This fearless reprover
of kings did not live to see the accomplishment of the divine messages
he was commissioned to deliver, and yet he had not died: read me that
riddle, if you can.

When the queen, who, from one distinguishing act of her life, I have
called _the good grandmother_, heard the sad tidings of the death of her
only son, of her mother, and of all her kin, what did she? mourn, and
weep, and give herself up to melancholy? she was quite incapable of such
weakness. If she had no children left, she at least had
grandchildren--she must take care of them--the tender little playful
babes, her own flesh and blood, and all that was left upon the earth of
her late son. And she did take care of them--the care that Pharaoh took
of the Israelitish infants--the care that Herod took of the nurslings at
Bethlehem--the care that the tiger takes of the lamb. She was worse than
the tigress; for the latter will at least defend her young ones from all
attacks, even at the peril of her own life. But she--shame of her
sex!--commanded the immediate execution of all the children of her son,
that she might reign alone, and never be called upon to resign the
sceptre to a lawful heir.

They are slain! The shouts and laughter of that band of little ones is
stopped forever--the galleries will never more re-echo to their youthful
voices; vainly did they rush into the arms of their nurses for
protection. They are slain; all save one! For if they have a grandmother
they also have an aunt, and one who is ruled by different principles.
She is the sister of their father, but probably had not the same mother
as he: she early chose the