Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers and fruit trees, watered by a score of streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds.  But all color was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and half laughing under the shadows.  High above the trees a dim glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master of the house was holding council with his friends.

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests—­a tall, dark man of about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamer and the mouth of soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexible will—­one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born for inward conflict and a life of quest.

His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowing black hair.  It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.

“Welcome!” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another entered the room—­“welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus.  You are all welcome, and this house grows bright with the joy of your presence.”

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the richness of their dress of many-colored silks, and in the massive golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of the followers of Zoroaster.

They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the room, where a tiny flame was burning.  Artaban, standing beside it, and waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils.  Then he began the ancient chant of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the beautiful hymn to Ahura-Mazda: 

We worship the Spirit Divine,
                    all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
                     the givers of bounty and blessing,
We joy in the works of His hands,
                    His truth and His power confessing.

We praise all the things that are pure,
                       for these are His only Creation;
The thoughts that are true,
     and the words and deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him
                       and for these we make adoration.

Hear us, O Mazda!  Thou livest
                     in truth and in heavenly gladness;
Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us
                      from evil and bondage to badness;
Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life
                           on our darkness and sadness.