have recognised
him that evening, had she not known that he was in the palace. He looked
more like the aged Daniel whom he had buried at Ecbatana than like the
lordly warrior of three years ago. She wondered, as she thought of the
sound of his voice in the, garden, how she could ever have doubted him,
and the remembrance of his clear eyes was both bitter and sweet to her.

She lay upon her silken pillows and wept hot tears for him she had loved
long ago, for him and for herself--most of all for the pain she had
made him suffer, for that bitter agony that had turned his young, fair
locks to snowy white; she wept the tears for him that she could fancy he
must have shed in those long years for her. She buried her face and
sobbed aloud, so that even the black fan-girl who stood waving the long
palm-leaf over her in the dim light of the bedchamber--even the poor
black creature from the farther desert, whom her mistress did not half
believe human, felt pity for the royal sorrow she saw, and took one hand
from the fan to brush the tears from her small red eyes.

Nehushta's heart was broken, and from that day none saw her smile. In
one hour the whole misery of all possible miseries came upon her, and
bowed her to the ground, and crushed out the life and the light of her
nature. As she lay there, she longed to die, as she had never longed for
anything while she lived, and she would have had small hesitation in
killing the heart that beat with such agonising pain in her breast--saving
that one thought prevented her. She cared not for revenge
any more. What was the life of that cold, cruel thing, the queen, worth,
that by taking it, she could gain comfort? But she felt and knew that,
before she died, she must see Zoroaster once more, and tell him that she
knew all the truth--that she knew he had not deceived her, and that she
implored his forgiveness for the wrong she had done him. He would let
her rest her head upon his breast and weep out her heartful of piteous
sorrow once before she died. And then--the quiet stream of the Araxes
flowed softly, cold and clear, among the rose-gardens below the
palace. The kindly water would take her to its bosom, beneath the
summer's moon, and the nightingales she loved would sing her a gentle
good-night--good-night for ever, while the cool wave flowed over her
weary breast and aching head.

CHAPTER XVII.

On the next day, in the cool of the evening, Nehushta walked again in
the gard