“There is news from Syria,” he said.
“And is it good or bad?” asked his wife.
“That I can hardly say,” was Seraiah’s reply. At the same time he signalled to his wife that she should take the child out of the room. The signal, however, was too late. The quick-witted little fellow had heard what had been said, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that something had been heard about the boy-King. His mind was occupied, it might almost be said, day and night with the thought of the young Eupator. He scarcely knew whether he hated or loved him; but the brilliant figure of the lad had caught his imagination. He lived, as imaginative children often will, a sort of second life in thinking of him.
“Oh! father,” he now cried, “I am sure that you have something to tell me about the boy-King. Is he coming here again? I should like to see him, though he did break his promise so shamefully.”
“My boy,” said his father, “you will never see him again.”
“Oh! Why?”
“He is dead. This letter tells me all about him.”
The boy burst into a passionate fit of tears, which all his mother’s caresses and attempts at consolation were for some time unable to stop. When the violence of his grief had spent itself he said—
“Oh! father, tell me about him. Were they very cruel to him? And how did it happen? I thought that kings killed people, but I did not know that any one could kill them.”
“Listen, my child, and I will try to explain it to you. The father of Eupator, the boy who is just dead, was not rightfully King. He came after his elder brother, and this elder brother had a son named Demetrius, who ought to have succeeded his father. But this son had been sent to Rome as a hostage.”