“Tell them, tell them,” was the answer.
“No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot. This cup I drain to the health of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my favorite, Darius.”
“Thanks, Araspes!” exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his lips.
“You mean well, I know,” muttered Darius, looking down gloomily.
“What’s this, you son of Hystaspes?” cried the old man, looking more narrowly at the serious face of the youth. “Dark looks like these don’t sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his dearest one. Is not Gobryas’ little daughter the noblest of all the young Persian girls after Atossa? and isn’t she beautiful?”
“Artystone has every talent and quality that a daughter of the Achaemenidae ought to possess,” was Darius’s answer, but his brow did not clear as he said the words.
“Well, if you want more than that, you must be very hard to please.”
Darius raised his goblet and looked down into the wine.
“The boy is in love, as sure as my name is Araspes!” exclaimed the elder man.
“What a set of foolish fellows you are,” broke in Zopyrus at this exclamation. “One of you has remained a bachelor in defiance of all Persian customs; another has been frightened out of marrying by an oracle; Bartja has determined to be content with only one wife; and Darius looks like a Destur chanting the funeral-service, because his father has told him to make himself happy with the most beautiful and aristocratic girl in Persia!”