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 convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro.  Stones were loosened and crashed into the street.  Dust clouds filled the air.  The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men.  But Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.