il he arrived, at nightfall on the tenth day, beneath
the shattered walls of populous Babylon.

Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would gladly have turned into the
city to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew
that it was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres,
and he must reach the place by midnight if he would find his
comrades waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the
stubble-fields.

A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea. As
she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to pick
her way more carefully.

Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to fall
upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her heart
to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a
good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a
leaf rustled, not a bird sang.

She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and
sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breath
of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every muscle,
before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying
across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face
showed that he was probably one of the Hebrews who still dwelt in great
numbers around the city. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment,
bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in
autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban
released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.

He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to that strange
burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of the desert,
from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts of
prey slink furtively away. When they are gone there is only a heap of
white bones on the sand.

But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips.
The bony fingers gripped the hem of the Magian's robe and held him fast.

Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb
resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.

How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger?
What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassion
or his service? If he ling