Cambyses noticed it now for the first time, examined its enormous size and rare beauty with the eye of a connoisseur, and said:  “Who grew this wonderful pomegranate?”

“Thy servant Oropastes,” answered the chief of the Magi, with a low obeisance.  “For many years I have studied the art of gardening, and have ventured to lay this, the most beautiful fruit of my labors, at the feet of my king.”

“I owe you thanks,” cried the king:  “My friends, this pomegranate will assist me in the choice of a governor at home when we go out to war, for, by Mithras, the man who can cherish and foster a little tree so carefully will do greater things than these.  What a splendid fruit!  Surely it’s like was never seen before.  I thank you again, Oropastes, and as the thanks of a king must never consist of empty words alone, I name you at once vicegerent of my entire kingdom, in case of war.  For we shall not dream away our time much longer in this idle rest, my friends.  A Persian gets low-spirited without the joys of war.”

A murmur of applause ran through the ranks of the Achaemenidae and fresh shouts of “Victory to the king” resounded through the hall.  Their anger on account of the humiliation of a woman was quickly forgotten; thoughts of coming battles, undying renown and conqueror’s laurels to be won by deeds of arms, and recollections of their former mighty deeds raised the spirits of the revellers.

The king himself was more moderate than usual to-day, but he encouraged his guests to drink, enjoying their noisy merriment and overflowing mirth; taking, however, far more pleasure still in the fascinating beauty of the Egyptian Princess, who sat at his side, paler than usual, and thoroughly exhausted by the exertions of the morning and the unaccustomed weight of the high tiara.  He had never felt so happy as on this day.  What indeed could he wish for more than he already possessed?  Had not the gods given him every thing that a man could desire? and, over and above all this, had not they flung into his lap the precious gift of love?  His usual inflexibility seemed to have changed into benevolence, and his stern severity into good-nature, as he turned to his brother Bartja with the words:  “Come brother, have you forgotten my promise?  Don’t you know that to-day you are sure of gaining the dearest wish of your heart from me?  That’s right, drain the goblet, and take courage! but do not ask anything small, for I am in the mood to give largely to-day.  Ah, it is a secret! come nearer then.  I am really curious to know what the most fortunate youth in my entire kingdom can long for so much, that he blushes like a girl when his wish is spoken of.”

Bartja, whose cheeks were really glowing from agitation, bent his head close to his brother’s ear, and whispered shortly the story of his love.  Sappho’s father had helped to defend his native town Phocaea against the hosts of Cyrus, and this fact the boy cleverly brought forward, speaking of the girl he loved as the daughter of a Greek warrior of noble birth.  In so saying he spoke the truth, but at the same time he suppressed the facts that this very father had acquired great riches by mercantile undertakings.