little creature laughed to-day for the first time, and was so charming with its mother, that I forgot how time was passing while I watched them.  You have all full leave to laugh at my folly; I really don’t know how to excuse myself.  See, the little one has pulled my star from the chain.  But I think, my brother, you will give me a new one to-day if I should hit the bull’s eye.  Shall I shoot first, or will you begin, my Sovereign?”

“Give him the bow, Prexaspes,” said Cambyses, not even deigning to look at his brother.

Bartja took it and was proceeding to examine the wood and the string, when Cambyses suddenly called out, with a mocking laugh:  “By Mithras, I believe you want to try your sweet looks on the bow, and win its favor in that fashion, as you do the hearts of men.  Give it back to Prexaspes.  It’s easier to play with beautiful women and laughing children, than with a weapon like this, which mocks the strength even of real men.”

Bartja blushed with anger and annoyance at this speech, which was uttered in the bitterest tone, picked up the giant arrow that lay before him, placed himself opposite the target, summoned all his strength, bent the bow, by an almost superhuman effort, and sent the arrow into the very centre of the target, where its iron point remained, while the wooden shaft split into a hundred shivers.

[Herodotus tells this story (III, 30.), and we are indebted to him also for our information of the events which follow.  The following inscription, said to have been placed over the grave of Darius, and communicated by Onesikritus, (Strabo 730.) proves that the Persians were very proud of being reputed good archers:  “I was a friend to my friends, the best rider and archer, a first-rate hunter; I could do everything.”]

Most of the Achaemenidae burst into loud shouts of delight at this marvellous proof of strength; but Bartja’s nearest friends turned pale and were silent; they were watching the king, who literally quivered with rage, and Bartja, who was radiant with pride and joy.

Cambyses was a fearful sight at that moment.  It seemed to him as if that arrow, in piercing the target, had pierced his own heart, his strength, dignity and honor.  Sparks floated before his eyes, in his ears was a sound like the breaking of a stormy sea on the shore; his cheeks glowed and he grasped the arm of Prexaspes who was at his side.  Prexaspes only too well understood what that pressure meant, when given by a royal hand, and murmured:  “Poor Bartja!”

At last the king succeeded in recovering his presence of mind.  Without saying a word, he threw a gold chain to his brother, ordered his nobles to follow him, and left the garden, but only to wander restlessly up and down his apartments, and try to drown his rage in wine.  Suddenly he seemed to have formed a resolution and ordered all the courtiers, except Prexaspes, to leave the hall.  When they were alone, he called out in a hoarse voice and with a look that proved the extent of his intoxication:  “This life is not to be borne!  Rid me of my enemy, and I will call you my friend and benefactor.”