lemnly the chant rose around the sacred fire that seemed to burn by
unearthly means upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster stood before it,
his hands lifted in prayer, and his waxen face and snow-white beard
illuminated by the dazzling effulgence.

The seventy priests, in even rank, stood around the walls, their hands
raised in like manner as their chief priest's; their voices going up in
a rich chorus, strong and tuneful, in the grand plain-chant. But
Nehushta broke upon their melody, with a sudden cry, as she rushed
before them.

"Zoroaster--fly--there is yet time. The enemy are come in
thousands--they are in the palace. There is barely time!" As she cried
to him and to them all, she rushed forward and laid one hand upon his
shoulder.

But the high priest turned calmly upon her, his face unmoved, although
all the priests ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in
sudden fear. As their voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without,
as though the ocean were beating at the gates.

Zoroaster gently took Nehushta's hand from his shoulder.

"Go thou, and save thyself," he said kindly. "I will not go. If it be
the will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar.
Go thou quickly, and save thyself while there is yet time."

But Nehushta took his hand in hers, that trembled with the great
emotion, and gazed into his calm eyes as he spoke--her look was very
loving and very sad.

"Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than
live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will
not leave thee." Her soft voice trembled--for she was uttering her own
sentence of death.

"There is no more time!" cried the voice of the little Syrian maid, as
she came running into the temple. "There is no more time! Ye are all
dead men! Behold, they are breaking down the doors!"

As she spoke, the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze
gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus
of hideous yells rose, wild and long-drawn-out, as though the fiends of
hell were screaming in joy over the souls of the lost.

The priests drew together, trembling with fear, brave and devoted though
they were. Some of them would have run towards the door, but the Syrian
maid stood before them.

"Ye are dead men and there is no salvation--ye must die like men," said
the little maid, quietly. "Let me go to my mistress." And she pushed
through the cr