mentations by saying: "I feel fearfully
exhausted; I cannot bear these sobs and lamentations any longer. Nitetis
has been proved guilty. A man was seen to leave her sleeping-apartment
in the night, and that man was not a thief, but the handsomest man
in Persia, and one to whom she had dared to send a letter yesterday
evening."

"Do you know the contents of that letter?" asked Croesus, coming up to
the bed.

"No; it was written in Greek. The faithless creature made use of
characters, which no one at this court can read."

"Will you permit me to translate the letter?" Cambyses pointed to a
small ivory box in which the ominous piece of writing lay, saying:
"There it is; read it; but do not hide or alter a single word, for
to-morrow I shall have it read over again by one of the merchants from
Sinope."

Croesus' hopes revived; he seemed to breathe again as he took the
paper. But when he had read it over, his eyes filled with tears and he
murmured: "The fable of Pandora is only too true; I dare not be angry
any longer with those poets who have written severely against women.
Alas, they are all false and faithless! O Kassandane, how the Gods
deceive us! they grant us the gift of old age, only to strip us bare
like trees in winter, and show us that all our fancied gold was dross
and all our pleasant and refreshing drinks poison!"

Kassandane wept aloud and tore her costly robes; but Cambyses clenched
his fist while Croesus was reading the following words:

"Nitetis, daughter of Amasis of Egypt, to Bartja, son of the great
Cyrus:

"I have something important to tell you; I can tell it to no one but
yourself. To-morrow I hope I shall meet you in your mother's apartments.
It lies in your power to comfort a sad and loving heart, and to give it
one happy moment before death. I have a great deal to tell you, and some
very sad news; I repeat that I must see you soon."

The desperate laughter, which burst from her son cut his mother to the
heart. She stooped down and was going to kiss him, but Cambyses resisted
her caresses, saying: "It is rather a doubtful honor, mother, to be
one of your favorites. Bartja did not wait to be sent for twice by that
treacherous woman, and has disgraced himself by swearing falsely. His
friends, the flower of our young men, have covered themselves with
indelible infamy for his sake; and through him, your best beloved
daughter... but no! Bartja had no share in the corruption of that fiend
in Per