From that moment the fever increased.  In his delirium the banished Phanes appeared, singing a scornful Greek song and deriding him in such infamous words, that his fists clenched with rage.  Then he saw his friend and adviser, Croesus, threatening him in the very same words of warning, which he had used when Bartja had been sentenced to death by his command on account of Nitetis:  “Beware of shedding a brother’s blood; the smoke thereof will rise to heaven and become a cloud, that must darken the days of the murderer, and at last cast down the lightnings of heaven upon his head.”

And in his delirious fancy this figure of speech became a reality.  A rain of blood streamed down upon him from dark clouds; his clothes and hands were wet with the loathsome moisture.  He went down to the Nile to cleanse himself, and suddenly saw Nitetis coming towards him.  She had the same sweet smile with which Theodorus had modelled her.  Enchanted with this lovely vision, he fell down before her and took her hand, but he had scarcely touched it, when drops of blood appeared at the tips of her delicate fingers, and she turned away from him with every sign of horror.  He humbly implored her to forgive him and come back; she remained inexorable.  He grew angry, and threatened her, first with his wrath, and then with awful punishments.  At last, as she only answered his threats by a low scornful laugh, he ventured to throw his dagger at her.  She crumbled at once into a thousand pieces, like the wax statue.  But the derisive laughter echoed on, and became louder.  Many voices joined in it, each trying to outbid the other.  And the voices of Bartja and Nitetis were the loudest,—­their tone the most bitter.  At last he could bear these fearful sounds no longer and stopped his ears; this was of no use, and he buried his head, first in the glowing desert-sand and then in the icy cold Nile-water, until his senses forsook him.  On awaking, the actual state of things seemed incomprehensible to him.  He had gone to bed in the evening, and yet he now saw, by the direction of the sun’s rays which fell on his bed, that, instead of dawning as he had expected, the day was growing dark.  There could be no mistake; he heard the chorus of priests singing farewell to the setting Mithras.

Then he heard a number of people moving behind a curtain, which had been hung up at the head of his bed.  He tried to turn in his bed, but could not; he was too weak.  At last, finding it impossible to discover whether he was in real life or still in a dream, he called for his dressers and the courtiers, who were accustomed to be present when he rose.  They appeared in a moment, and with them his mother, Prexaspes, a number of the learned among the Magi, and some Egyptians who were unknown to him.  They told him, that he had been lying in a violent fever for weeks, and had only escaped death by the special mercy of the gods, the skill of the physicians, and the unwearied nursing of his mother.  He looked enquiringly first at Kassandane, then at Prexaspes, lost consciousness again, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke the next morning with renewed strength.