ist stretched like a lake. But where
the distant peak of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky was
clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame
about to blend in one.

As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the
darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendours to a crimson
sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a
point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in
every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in
the Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living heart
of light. He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.

"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet
him."

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant of
morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from the
plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the
high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.

How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words. They drink at the
same way-side springs, and sleep under the same guardian stars. They are
conscious together of the subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening
joy of daybreak. The master shares his evening meal with his hungry
companion, and feels the soft, moist lips caressing the palm of his hand
as they close over the morsel of bread. In the gray dawn he is roused
from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a warm, sweet breath over his
sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes of his faithful
fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the day. Surely,
unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he calls upon
his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb
affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double blessing--God
bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our souls from death!

And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their
spirited music along the road, k