He retired to his apartment in the palace with a burden of unhappiness and evil presentiment that was new to him.  It was very different from the sincere sorrow he had felt and still suffered for the death of his master and friend.  That misfortune had not affected him as regarded Nehushta.  But now he had been separated from her during all the week by the exigencies of the funeral ceremonies, and he had looked forward to meeting her this evening as to a great joy after so much mourning, and he was disappointed.  She had affected to be offended with him, yet his reason told him that he had acted naturally and rightly.  Could he, the bearer of the prophet’s body, the captain of all the fortress, the man of all others upon whom all eyes were turned, have exchanged love glances or spoken soft words to the princess by his side at such a time?  It was absurd; she had no right to expect such a thing.

However, he reflected that a new kind of life was to begin on the morrow.  For the best part of a month he would ride by her litter all day long, and sit at her table at noonday and evening; he would watch over her and take care of her, and see that her slightest wants were instantly supplied; a thousand incidents would occur whereby he might re-establish all the loving intimacy which seemed to have been so unexpectedly shaken.  And so, consoling himself with the hopes of the future, and striving to overlook the present, he fell asleep, wearied with the fatigues and sorrows of the day.

But Nehushta lay all night upon her silken cushions, and watched the flickering little lamp and the strange shadows it cast among the rich, painted carvings of the ceiling.  She slept little, but waking she dreamed of the gold and the glitter of Shushan, of the magnificence of the young king, and of the brilliant hard-featured beauty of Atossa, whom she already hated or had determined to hate.  The king interested her most.  She tried to recall his features and manner as he had appeared when he tarried one night in the fortress a year previous.  She remembered a black-browed man in the prime of youth, with heavy brows and an eagle nose; his young beard growing black and square about his strong dark features, which would have seemed coarse saving for his bright eyes that looked every man fearlessly in the face.  A short man he seemed in her memory, square built and powerful as a bloodhound, of quick and decisive speech, expecting to be understood before he had half spoken his thoughts; a man, she fancied, who must be untiring and violent of temper, inflexible and brave in the execution of his purpose—­a strong contrast outwardly to her tall and graceful lover.  Zoroaster’s faultless beauty was a constant delight to her eyes; his soft deep voice sounded voluptuously passionate when he spoke to herself, coldly and deliberately dominating when addressing others.  He moved with perfect certainty and assurance of purpose, his whole presence breathed a high and superior wisdom and untainted