O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it was like the voice of spring to old winecasks.

When the swords ran among one another like red-spotted serpents, then did our fathers become fond of life; the sun of every peace seemed to them languid and lukewarm; the long peace, however, made them ashamed.

How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on the wall brightly furbished, dried-up swords! Like those they thirsted for war. For a sword thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire.’

When the kings thus discoursed and talked eagerly of the happiness of their fathers, there came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at their eagerness; for evidently they were very peaceable kings whom he saw before him, kings with old and refined features. But he restrained himself. Well, said he, thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra; and this day is to have a long evening! At present, however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from you.

It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it; but, to be sure, ye will have to wait long!

Well, what of that! Where doth one at present learn better to wait than at courts? And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto them — is it not called today: ability to wait?’

Thus spake Zarathustra.