the purple and white bands that none but the king
might wear, and which even for the queen was an undue assumption of the
royal insignia. But Zoroaster did not look at her dress, nor at her
mantle of royal sea-purple, nor at the marvellous white hands that held
together a written scroll. His eyes rested on her face, and he stood
still where he was.

He knew those straight and perfect features, not large nor heavy, but of
such rare mould and faultless type as man has not seen since, neither
will see. The perfect curve of the fresh mouth; the white forward chin
with its sunk depression in the midst, the deep-set, blue eyes and the
straight pencilled brows; the broad smooth forehead and the tiny ear
half hidden in the glory of sun-golden hair; the milk-white skin just
tinged with the faint rose-light that never changed or reddened in heat
or cold, in anger or in joy--he knew them all; the features of royal
Cyrus made soft and womanly in substance, but unchanging still and
faultlessly cold in his great daughter Atossa, the child of kings, the
wife of kings, the mother of kings.

The heavy curtains had fallen together behind her, and she came forward
alone. She had seen Zoroaster before he had seen her, and she moved on
without showing any surprise, the heels of her small golden shoes
clicking sharply on the polished floor. Zoroaster remained standing for
a moment, and then, removing his helmet in salutation, went to one side
of the head of the staircase and waited respectfully for the queen to
pass. As she came on, passing alternately through the shadow cast by the
columns, and the sunlight that blazed between, her advancing figure
flashed with a new illumination at every step. She made as though she
were going straight on, but as she passed over the threshold to the
staircase, she suddenly stopped and turned half round, and looked
straight at Zoroaster.

"Thou art Zoroaster," she said in a smooth and musical voice, like the
ripple of a clear stream flowing through summer meadows.

"I am Zoroaster, thy servant," he answered, bowing his head. He spoke
very coldly.

"I remember thee well," said the queen, lingering by the head of the
staircase. "Thou art little changed, saving that thou art stronger, I
should think, and more of a soldier than formerly."

Zoroaster stood turning his polished helmet in his hands, but he
answered nothing; he cared little for the queen's praises. But she, it
seemed, was desirous of pleasin