ed her own heart under her
feet in her anger. Passionately she clasped her hands to her temples;
her head seemed splitting with a new and dreadful pain that swallowed
all her thoughts for a moment, until the cold weight seemed again to
fall upon her breast and all her passion gushed out in abundant tears.
Suddenly a thought struck her. She roused herself, leaning upon one
hand, and stared vacantly a moment at her small gilded shoe which had
fallen from her bare foot upon the marble pavement. She absently reached
forward and took the thing in her hand, and gravely contemplated the
delicate embroidery and thick gilding, through her tears,--as one will
do a foolish and meaningless thing in the midst of a great sorrow.

Was it possible that the queen had deceived her? How she wished she had
let her read the writing as she had offered to do. She did not imagine
at first that the letter was for herself and had gone astray. But she
thought the queen might easily have pretended to have received
something, or had even scratched a few words upon a bit of parchment,
meaning to pass it off upon her as a letter from Zoroaster. She longed
to possess the thing and to judge of it with her own eyes. It would
hardly be possible to say whether it were written by him or not, as far
as the handwriting was concerned; but Nehushta was sure she should
recognise some word, some turn of language that would assure her that it
was his. She could almost have risen and gone in search of the queen at
once, to prove the lie upon her--to challenge her to show the writing.
But her pride forbade her. She had been so weak--she should not have let
Atossa see, even for a moment, that she was hurt, not even that she
loved Zoroaster. She had tried to conceal her feelings, but Atossa had
gone too far, had tortured her beyond all endurance, and she knew that,
even if she had known what to expect, she could not have easily borne
the soft, infuriating, deadly, caressing, goading taunts of that fair,
cruel woman.

Then again, the whole possibility of Zoroaster's unfaithfulness came and
took shape before her. He had known and loved Atossa of old, perhaps,
and now the old love had risen up and killed the new--he had sworn so
truly under the ivory moonlight in Ecbatana. And yet--he had written to
this other woman and not to her. Was it true? Was it Atossa's cruel lie?
In a storm of doubt and furious passion, her tears welled forth again;
and once more she hid her fa