The Prince walked slowly, his mind revolving the plan suggested for his escape, his head bent and his eyes cast down. He did not see his sister, Athura, coming towards him until he heard her soft voice.
“Brother, why so downcast? Why so thoughtful and preoccupied?”
His countenance lighted with pleasure. There existed between these two a sincere affection. He leaned much upon this sister, whose mind, like that of her great father, was acute and whose judgment was sound.
“How beautiful is my sister!” he said, quoting one of the poets—“Fairer than all the women of earth, more to be beloved than wealth! Her breath is as fragrant as the breath of the rose; her eyes are deeper than the dark vault of heavens at night; her heart is as pure as the white snow on Demavend!”
“Wait till you behold some maiden who will find favor in your sight! Then your sister will be remembered only as your very good friend and your songs of praise will be another’s,” she said. “Did I not see that man, Prexaspes, with you a moment ago?”
“Yes, Princess. I have something to tell you. Let us go yonder to that seat beneath the oak tree. It is apart from all others, so that no one may overhear.”
They went to a rustic seat beneath the spreading branches of a great oak and sat down side by side, and he related all that Prexaspes had said.
“What do you advise?” he asked.
Athura listened closely, her countenance expressing distrust, surprise, and incredulity. She took from the wide belt, that gathered her beautiful robe loosely about her waist, a small roll of papyrus.
“Here is a letter from my Prince which has somewhat to say of this danger you are in,” she said. “I advise that you distrust Prexaspes.”