with the
reflection of the cloudless sky. The swallows now and then shot in under
the overhanging roof and flew up and down the covered terrace; then with
a quick rush, they sped forth again into the dancing sunshine with clean
sudden sweep, as when a sharp sword is whirled in the air. Far below,
the soft mist of the dawn still lay upon the city, whence the distant
cries of the water-carriers and fruitsellers came echoing up from the
waking streets, the call of the women to one another from the housetops,
and now and then the neighing of a horse far out upon the meadows; while
the fleet swallows circled over all in swift wide curves, with a silvery
fresh stream of unceasing twittering music.

Zoroaster paced the balcony alone. He was fully armed, with his helmet
upon his head; the crest of the winged wheels was replaced by the ensign
Darius had chosen for himself,--the half-figure of a likeness of the
king with long straight wings on either side, of wrought gold and very
fine workmanship. The long purple mantle hung to his heels and the royal
chain of gold was about his neck. As he walked the gilded leather of his
shoes was reflected in the polished marble pavement and he trod
cautiously, for the clean surface was slippery as the face of a mirror.
At one end of the terrace a stairway led down to the lower story of the
palace, and at the other end a high square door was masked by a heavy
curtain of rich purple and gold stuff, that fell in thick folds to the
glassy floor. Each time his walk brought him to this end Zoroaster
paused, as though expecting that some one should come out. But as it
generally happens when a man is waiting for something or some one that
the object or person appears unexpectedly, so it occurred that as he
turned back from the staircase towards the curtain, he saw that some one
had already advanced half the length of the balcony to meet him--and it
was not the person for whom he was looking.

At first, he was dazzled for a moment, but his memory served him
instantly and he recognised the face and form of a woman he had known
and often seen before. She was not tall, but so perfectly proportioned
that it was impossible to wish that she were taller. Her close tunic of
palest blue, bordered with a gold embroidery at the neck, betrayed the
matchless symmetry of her figure, the unspeakable grace of development
of a woman in the fullest bloom of beauty. From her knees to her feet,
her under tunic showed