“I did not call you,” she said, covering him with her eyes in the moonlight, but making as though she would withdraw herself a little from him, as he drew her with his hand, and with his arm, and with his eyes.

“And yet I heard you call me, my beloved,” answered Zoroaster.  “I heard your voice singing very sweet things in your own language—­and so I came, for you did call me.”

“But did you pride yourself it was for you?” laughed Nehushta.  “I sang of the desert, and of tents, and of whirling sand—­there is none of these things here.”

“You said that your beloved brought roses in his hand—­and so I do.  I will crown you with them.  May I?  No—­I shall spoil your head-dress.  Take them and do as you will with them.”

“I will take them—­and—­I always do as I will.”

“Then will to take the giver also,” answered Zoroaster, letting his arm steal about her, as he half sat upon the balustrade.  Nehushta looked at him again, for he was good to see, and perhaps she loved his straight calm features the better in that his face was fair, and not dark like hers.

“Methinks I have taken the giver already,” she answered.

“Not yet—­not all,” said Zoroaster in a low voice, and a shadow of sadness crossed his noble face that looked white in the moonlight.  Nehushta sighed softly and presently she laid her cheek upon his shoulder where the folding of his purple mantle made a pillow between her face and the polished golden scales of his breastplate.

“I have strange news to tell you, beloved,” said Zoroaster presently.  Nehushta started and looked up, for his voice was sad.  “Nay, fear not!” he continued, “there is no harm in it, I trust; but there are great changes in the kingdom, and there will be greater changes yet.  The seven princes have slain Smerdis in Shushan, and Darius is chosen king, the son of Gushtasp, whom the Greeks call Hystaspes.”

“He who came hither last year?” asked Nehushta quickly.  “He is not fair, this new king.”

“Not fair,” replied the Persian, “but a brave man and a good.  He has, moreover, sent for me to go to Shushan—­”

“For you!” cried Nehushta, suddenly laying her two hands on Zoroaster’s shoulders and gazing into his eyes.  His face was to the moonlight, while hers was in the dark, and she could see every shade of expression.  He smiled.  “You laugh at me!” she cried indignantly.  “You mock me—­you are going away and you are glad!”

She would have turned away from him, but he held her two hands.

“Not alone,” he answered.  “The Great King has sent an order that I shall bring to Shushan the kinsfolk of Jehoiakim, saving only Daniel, our master, for he is so old that he cannot perform the journey.  The king would honour the royal seed of Judah, and to that end he sends for you, most noble and most beloved princess.”

Nehushta was silent and thoughtful; her hand slipped from Zoroaster’s grasp, and her eyes looked dreamily out at the river, on which the beams of the now fully-risen moon glanced, as on the scales of a silver serpent.