he evening are but one eternal day, where
the mighty unison of the heavenly chorus sends up its grand plain-chant
to God Most High.

CHAPTER XIII.

Far in the wild mountains of the south, where a primeval race of
shepherds pastures its flocks of shaggy goats upon the scanty vegetation
of rocky slopes, there is a deep gorge whither men seldom penetrate, and
where the rays of the sun fall but for a short hour at noonday. A man
may walk, or rather climb, along the side of the little stream that
rushes impetuously down among the black rocks, for a full hour and a
half before he reaches the end of the narrow valley. Then he will come
upon a sunken place, like a great natural amphitheatre, the steep walls
of boulders rising on all sides to a lofty circle of dark crags. In the
midst of this open space a spring rises suddenly from beneath a mass of
black stone, with a rushing, gurgling sound, and makes a broad pool,
whence the waters flow down in a little torrent through the gorge till
they emerge far below into the fertile plain and empty themselves into
the Araxes, which flows by the towers and palaces of lordly Stakhar,
more than two days' journey from the hidden circle in the mountains.

It would have been a hard thing to recognise Zoroaster in the man who
sat day after day beside the spring, absorbed in profound meditation.
His tall figure was wasted almost to emaciation by fasting and exposure;
his hair and beard had turned snow-white, and hung down in abundant
masses to his waist, and his fair young face was pale and transparent.
But in his deep blue eyes there was a light different from the light of
other days--the strange calm fire of a sight that looks on wondrous
things, and sees what the eyes of men may not see, and live.

Nearly three years had passed since he went forth from the palace of
Shushan, to wander southwards in search of a resting-place, and he was
but three-and-thirty years of age. But between him and the past there
was a great gulf--the interval between the man and the prophet, between
the cares of mortality and the divine calm of the higher life.

From time to time indeed, he ascended the steep path he had made among
the stones and rocks, to the summit of the mountain; and there he met
one of the shepherds of the hills, who brought him once every month a
bag of parched grain and a few small, hard cheeses of goats' milk; and
in return for these scanty provisions, he gave the man each time a