“Will the king condescend to be present at the feast appointed for to-night to the captains of the army?”
A weary sigh, and more silence. Then Cyrus replied, almost bitterly, “Would to Ahura I had not ordered it! How can I sit over wine this night? Yet I must not dishonour the princes. Go to the high steward and say that I can touch no food, though I thank him for his pains. Yet say that when the evening advances, and the wine is brought, I will come and sit with the captains.”
“And the king requires nothing for himself?”
“Only this—that you leave me.”
Atrobanes kissed the cushioned footstool at his master’s feet, and vanished behind the heavy draperies. There was profound stillness, save for the vague hum of the busy camp and the clatter of plate and dishes many hands were bearing to the banqueting tent. The king sat for a long time motionless, the grip on the sword-hilt ever tightening. Then, letting the weapon rest, he fumbled in his bosom, drew forth a locket, and gazed on it as on treasure untold. “The locket of Atossa. It has been close against her own pure breast.” He pressed it to his lips, once, twice, thrust it back in his mantle, slipped from the high seat, and began treading to and fro, his feet noiseless on the carpets.
“Live forever, O king, O lord of all goodness! Live forever!” As he repeated the words he was smiling, but not with mirth. “Praised be the All-Merciful, these flatteries are but flatteries, nothing more!”
Voices sounded at the tent door.
“I come to report to the king from Artaphernes, commander of the skirmishers.”
“Unless you have definite news, his Majesty is not to be troubled.”
“Wait, then; I have only to declare that our scouts bring in nothing.”