“We swear it!” echoed all.
“Do as you say!” answered the Prince. “But I will return. Fear not for me! One higher than I goes with me. Remain here and let the men not move from their places.”
He departed at once to the palace-gate, and, to the guards peering forth from loopholes at its sides he commanded: “Open! I go to the King, bearing peace!”
The door was swung back to admit him. The guards had expected only death at the hands of the savage men who stood around the palace in silent, menacing attitude, and peace they greatly desired. The Prince was conducted to the roof, where he found Prexaspes and the King. The latter had seated himself at a small table and was drinking wine. He turned to the Prince, who was startled at the sight of his haggard face, his bloodshot eyes, and trembling hands—trembling, not in fear, but from nervousness and debauchery. The King’s voice was full of bitterness and hate, as he said: “Prince of Iran, I bid you welcome! Your eyes are doubtless glad to behold your King at the mercy of yonder rabble! What come you for? My crown?”
The Prince saluted the King gravely and looked down upon him with ill-concealed disgust and pity. He said in cold, measured tones: “King of the World, the day has come when even I am unable to restrain the soldiers of Iran. Those men and their fathers made your father King of Kings, King of the World, the Great King. They have added Egypt to your empire. How have you rewarded them? Think you that without these Aryans and their officers whom you have imprisoned, you could sit here in safety one day? Not so! These Egyptians, these Syrians and Babylonians, serve you not because they love you, but because they fear our soldiers. Are you mad? Why have you given yourself over to murder and debauchery? Why have you forsaken your God and allied yourself with the vile Magi? I speak plainly but loyally. I am oath-bound to support you, but I swear that unless you now be advised by me, I will do nothing to save you from these men, who thirst to avenge the blood of Bardya, of Artistone, and of these others you have slain without just cause!”
The King’s face grew purple with rage. He sprang to his feet and half-drew his sword. But his eyes, looking into the eyes of the Prince, saw in them a fierce, savage light and a compelling gaze that drove him back to his seat. He dared not lift his hand against this man. A chill of abject fear ran through his body; and he saw, as if by revelation, a hideous chasm opening before him. Into that chasm of present and eternal destruction he had been about to leap. He drew back and shudderingly covered his face with his hands. His nerves were unstrung by debauchery and by his fearful crimes. He had come to a place where, in the face of death, he realized how evil his life had been. It was true, as he now acknowledged to himself, that the position he held was due to the men he had slighted, insulted, imprisoned, or murdered. He was silent a moment, and as he sank back upon his chair he weakly passed a hand across his eyes and said: “What do you advise? Your words are true! I have been mad, but now I am restored to reason and I see clearly.”
The Prince was surprised. He had not expected such sudden change. He thought rapidly, not only for the present safety of the King, but for the good of the Aryan race. A friendly, cordial note sounded in his voice, as he answered: “Be advised by me, O King! Put away from you the Magi. Put aside these Medean favorites. Surround yourself with men of your own race and fill the high offices of the empire with its nobility. Renounce the witchcraft of the fire-worshipers and proclaim to the world the rule of Ahura-Mazda. Pardon the men in rebellion and release all prisoners. Bestow compensation upon the widows and relatives of those you have slain. Then will the people of Iran support you and yours on the throne forever. Then will your reign become truly great and glorious!”
The King remained silent a long time after the Prince ceased speaking. A good impulse stirred within his heart. Life had been without happiness to him since that fatal night when he had ordered Bardya slain. Hate, envy, and malice towards the best men of his own race had filled his heart. Remorse over his brother’s fate had been with him, but it was as nothing to the remorse and grief gnawing his soul over the death of Artistone, the gentle sister and wife whom he really loved. Could he ever atone? He would try.
“Let it be done as you say,” he commanded, rising unsteadily and shaking himself as if he would shake off a horrible dream. “Prexaspes, you shall write decrees to fulfill all that our beloved Prince advises. So be it! I turn back into the old ways of my fathers. I will dismiss the Magi. I will fill all chief offices with Persians. I will dismiss my new body-guard of Medes, and you, Prince, shall furnish the new Imperial Guard and command it. Write a decree, Prexaspes, making this Prince the chief man in my empire after the King. Evermore will I be guided by his advice. The Magi must go down and back to their haunts in the hills. The temples of Ahura-Mazda shall open; and I will offer a thousand sacrifices to atone for my sins. Order the prisoners released. Write an address to be read to the army, telling of my new resolve. I will go down to the soldiers and tell them this myself!”
“Not so, O King!” said the Prince. “Let me deal with these men. Let your decrees be prepared and signed at once. I will go down, release the imprisoned officers and return to the army with them. This, O King, may be a great day for good to the Aryan race!”