reasury. From his roof he could look over the rising battlements
of black and white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to
the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like
a jewel in a sevenfold crown.

Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers
and fruit-trees, watered by a score of streams descending from the
slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But all
colour was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September
night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save
the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and half laughing
under the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of light shone
through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master of
the house was holding council with his friends.

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of about
forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow,
and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamer
and the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexible
will--one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born for
inward conflict and a life of quest.

His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a
white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowing
black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi,
called the fire-worshippers.

"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another
entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and
Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome, and this
house grows bright with the joy of your presence."

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the
richness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the massive
golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and
in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of
the followers of Zoroaster.

They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the
room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it, and
waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with
dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant of
the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the beautiful hymn
to Ahura-Mazda:

We worship the Spirit Divine