et his eyes. She must have known it was he, even under the
disguise that hid his features, for, though she walked calmly on, the
angry blood rushed to her face and brow, overspreading her features with
a sudden, dark flush.

Just as she came up to where Zoroaster stood, he thrust his covered head
far out between the soldiers. His eyes gleamed like coals of blue fire
and his voice came low, with a cold, clear ring, like the blade of a
good sword striking upon a piece of iron.

"Faithless!"

That was all he said, but all around heard the cutting tone, that
neither the voices of the singers, nor the clangour of the trumpets
could drown.

Nehushta drew herself up and paused for one moment, and turned upon the
dark-robed figure a look of such unutterable loathing and scorn as one
would not have deemed could be concentrated in a human face. Then she
passed on.

The two spearmen turned quickly upon the man between them, who had
uttered the insult against the new queen, and laid hold of him roughly
by the shoulders. A moment more and his life would have been ended by
their swords. But his strong, white hands stole out like lightning, and
seized each soldier by the wrist, and twisted their arms so suddenly and
with such furious strength, that they cried aloud with pain and fell
headlong at his feet. The people parted for a space in awe and wonder,
and Zoroaster turned, with his dark mantle close drawn around him, and
strode out through the gaping crowd.

"It is a devil of the mountains!" cried one.

"It is Ahriman himself!" said another.

"It is the soul of the priest of Bel whom the king slew at Babylon!"

"It is the Evil Sprit of Cambyses!"

"Nay," quoth one of the spearmen, rubbing his injured hand, "it was
Zoroaster, the captain. I saw his face beneath that hood he wore."

"It may be," answered his fellow. "They say he can break a bar of iron,
as thick as a man's three fingers, with his hand. But I believe it was a
devil of the mountains."

But the procession marched on, and long before the crowd had recovered
enough from its astonishment to give utterance to these surmises,
Zoroaster had passed out of the porch and back through the deserted
courts, and down the wide staircase to the palace gate, and out into the
quiet, starlit night, alone and on foot.

He would have no compromise with his grief; he would be alone with it.
He needed not mortal sympathy and he would not have the pity of man. The
blow had str