afts from the
arbors.

Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But
where the distant peak of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky
was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent
flame about to blend in one.

As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the
darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendors to a crimson
sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a
point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in
every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in
the Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living
heart of light.

He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.

"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet
him."

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant
of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from
the plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along
the high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.

How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favorite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.

They drink at the same wayside springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes
of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the
day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name
he calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy,
this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our
souls from death!

And then, through the keen morning ai