In spite of her love for him, her strong and dominating temper often chafed at his calmness, and resented the resolute superiority of his intelligence; and then, being conscious that her own dignity suffered by the storms of her temper, she was even more angry than before, with herself, with him, with every one.  But Zoroaster was as impassive as marble, saving that now and then his brow flushed, and paled quickly; and his words, if he spoke at all, had a chilled icy ring in them.  Sooner or later, Nehushta’s passionate temper cooled, and she found him the same as ever, devoted and gentle and loving; then her heart went out to him anew, and all her being was filled with the love of him, even to overflowing.

She had been disappointed now, and would speak to no one.  She moved still farther from the crowd of slaves and tent-pitchers, followed at a respectful distance by her handmaidens, who whispered together as they went; and again she stood still and looked westward.

As the sun neared the horizon, his low rays caught upon a raising cloud of dust, small and distant as the smoke of a fire, in the plain towards Babylon, but whirling quickly upwards.  Nehushta’s eye rested on the far-off point, and she raised one hand to shade her sight.  She remembered how, when she was a girl, she had watched the line of that very road from the palace above, and had seen a cloud of dust arise out of a mere speck, as a body of horsemen galloped into view.  There was no mistaking what it was.  A troop of horse were coming—­perhaps the king himself.  Instinctively she turned and looked for Zoroaster, and started, as she saw him standing at a little distance from her, with folded arms, his eyes bent on the horizon.  She moved towards him in sudden excitement.

“What is it?” she asked in low tones.

“It is the Great King—­may he live for ever!” answered Zoroaster.  “None but he would ride so fast along the royal road.”

For a moment they stood side by side, watching the dust cloud; and as they stood, Nehushta’s hand stole out from her cloak and touched the warrior’s arm, softly, with a trembling of the fingers, as though she timidly sought something she would not ask for.  Zoroaster turned his head and saw that her eyes were moistened with tears; he understood, but he would not take her hand, for there were many slaves near, besides Nehushta’s kinsfolk, and he would not have had them see; but he looked on her tenderly, and on a sudden, his eyes grew less sad, and the light returned in them.

“My beloved!” he said softly.

“I was wrong, Zoroaster—­forgive me,” she murmured.  She suffered him to lead her to her tent, which was already pitched; and he left her there, sitting at the door and watching his movements, while he called together his men and drew them up in a compact rank by the roadside, to be ready to salute the king.