to
perish. Perhaps He was already dying. Could it be the same who had been
born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had
appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?

Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful
apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within
himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it
may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of His
enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for His ransom before
He dies."

So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps
towards the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the
guard-house a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street,
dragging a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the
Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from
the hands of her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping
him around the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle
on his breast.

"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God of
Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by
the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am
seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than
death."

Artaban trembled.

It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the
palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict
between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the
gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn
from his hand to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the
ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.

Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not
tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was
inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?

One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helpless
girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the
soul?

He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so
radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of
the slave.

"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I
kept for the King."

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened, and shuddering
tremors ran through the earth, heaving co