“A fair petition! Let the king grant it!” shouted twenty; while others more wise whispered, “This was not done without foreknowledge by Mardonius.”
Xerxes smiled benignantly and rubbed his nose with the lion’s fat while deliberating.
“An evil precedent, lady, an evil precedent when women demand husbands and do not wait for their fathers’ or brothers’ good pleasure. But I have promised. The word of the king is not to be broken. Daughter of Gobryas, your petition is granted. Come hither, Mardonius,”—the bow-bearer approached the throne,—“you have heard the bold desire of your sister, and my answer. I must command you to bestow on her a husband.”
The bow-bearer bowed obediently.
“I hear the word of the king, and all his mandates are good. This is no meet time for marriage festivities, when the Lord of the World and all the Aryan power goes forth to war. Yet as soon as the impious rebels amongst the Hellenes shall be subdued, I will rejoice to bestow my sister upon whatsoever fortunate servant the king may deign to honour.”
“You hear him, lady,”—the royal features assumed a grin, which was reflected throughout the pavilion. “A husband you shall have, but Mardonius shall be revenged. Your fate is in my hands. And shall not I,—guardian of the households of my empire,—give a warning to all bold maidens against lifting their wills too proudly, or presuming upon an overindulgent king? What then shall be just [pg 214]punishment?” The king bent his head, still rubbing his nose, and trying to persuade all about that he was meditating.
“Bardas, satrap of Sogandia, is old; he has but one eye; they say he beats his eleven wives daily with a whip of rhinoceros hide. It would be just if I gave him this woman also in marriage. What think you, Hydarnes?”
“If your Eternity bestows this woman on Bardas, every husband and father in all your kingdoms will applaud your act,” smiled the commander.
The threatened lady fell again on her knees, outstretching her hands and beseeching mercy,—never a more charming picture of misery and contrition.
“You tremble, lady,” went on the sovran, “and justly. It were better for my empire if my heart were less hard. After all, you danced so elegantly that I must be mollified. There is the young Prince Zophyrus, son of Datis the general,—he has only five wives already. True, he is usually the worse for wine, is not handsome, and killed one of his women not long since because she did not sing to please him. Yes—you shall have Zophyrus—he will surely rule you—”