ted lips
were white. She looked as one dead. Her white linen tiara had almost
fallen from her heavy hair, and the long black locks streamed upon the
stone in thick confusion. Her fingers were tightly clenched, and on her
face was such an expression of agony, as Darius had never dreamed of,
nor seen in those dead in battle.

The king started back in horror as he caught sight of the prostrate
figure. He thought she was dead--murdered, perhaps--until, as he gazed,
he saw a faint movement of breathing. Then he sprang forward, and
kneeled, and raised her head upon his knee, and chafed her temples and
her hands. He could reach the little fountain as he knelt, and he
gathered some water in his palm and sprinkled it upon her face.

At last she opened her eyes--then closed them wearily again--then opened
them once more in quick astonishment, and recognised the king. She would
have made an effort to rise, but he checked her, and she let her head
sink back upon his knee. Still he chafed her temples with his broad,
brown hand, and gazed with anxious tenderness into her eyes, that looked
at him for a moment, and then wandered and then looked again.

"What is this?" she asked, vacantly, at last.

"I know not," answered the king. "I found you here--lying upon the
floor. Are you hurt?" he asked tenderly.

"Hurt? No--yes, I am hurt--hurt even to death," she added suddenly. "Oh,
Darius, I would I could tell you! Are you really my friend?"

She raised herself without his help and sat up. The hot blood rushed
back to her cheeks and her eyes regained their light.

"Can you doubt that I am your friend, your best friend?" asked the king.

Nehushta rose to her feet and paced the little hall in great emotion.
Her hands played nervously with the golden tassels of her mantle, her
head-dress had fallen quite back upon her shoulders, and the masses of
her hair were let loose. From time to time she glanced at the king, who
eyed her anxiously as he stood beside the fountain.

Presently she stopped before him, and very gravely fixed her eyes on
him.

"I will tell you something," she said, beginning in low tones. "I will
tell you this--I cannot tell you all. I have been horribly deceived,
betrayed, made a sport of. I cannot tell you how--you will believe me,
will you not? This man I loved--I love him not--has cast me off as an
old garment, as a thing of no price--as a shoe that is worn out and that
is not fit for his feet to tread upon. I lo