“It grows late, my lord,” admonished the chamberlain, after a discreet interval; “will you go to the vizier’s feast?”
“I will go,” replied the master, testily, and he suffered the servants to dress him.
As he went to the palace court to take chariot, the inevitable multitude of palace servants and guardsmen crowded around, bowing and scraping. The press was so dense that the staff-bearers had no little ado before clearing the way. Suddenly, out of the crowd, Darius recognized a familiar face—the old eunuch, Masistes. The two were side by side only for an instant.
“Your lady is well?” demanded Darius, eagerly.
“She is well,” was the cautious answer, “but do not seem to speak to me. Read this in secret. It is from her.”
Masistes was swallowed in the throng before Darius had time to startle.
“The chariots are ready, my lord,” Boges was shouting.
The prince felt something like a tiny roll of papyrus thrust up his sleeve; but he curbed his curiosity and guarded it carefully until he was back at his own chamber that night. Then with all precaution he read this note, written in Atossa’s own hand, in their native Persian:—
“Atossa, consort of Belshazzar, to the great prince Darius. Many things hid to the world without are revealed in the king’s harem. Do not seek to know how I learn this thing, but wait Ahura’s good time. Beware of the royal hunt on the morrow. Of all things beware of the king’s tame lions. For you they may not be so tame. As you love me, return to Susa when you may, and forget my name, as I pray Ahura I may forget yours. I dare write no more. Masistes’ craft will bring you this. Farewell.”