“I have never been able to understand the importance of religion,” said the beautiful queen, spreading her white hand upon the purple of her mantle, and contemplating its delicate outline tenderly.  “For my own part, I am fond of the sacrifices and the music and the chants.  I love to see the priests go up to the altar, two and two, in their white robes,—­and then to see how they struggle to hold up the bullock’s head, so that his eyes may see the sun,—­and how the red blood gushes out like a beautiful fountain.  Have you ever seen a great sacrifice?”

“Oh yes!  I remember when I was quite a little girl, when Cambyses—­I mean—­when the king came to the throne—­it was magnificent!” Nehushta was not used to hesitate in her speech, but as she recalled the day when Cambyses was made king, it suddenly came over her that any reminiscences of the past might be painful to the extraordinary woman by her side.  But Atossa showed no signs of being disturbed.  On the contrary, she smiled more sweetly than ever, though there was perhaps a slight affectation of sadness in her voice as she answered: 

“Do not fear to hurt me by referring to those times, dear princess.  I am accustomed to speak of them well enough.  Yes, indeed I remember that great day, with the bright sun shining upon the procession, and the cars with four horses that they dedicated to the sun, and the milk-white horse that they slaughtered upon the steps of the temple.  How I cried for him, poor beast!  It seemed so cruel to sacrifice a horse!  Even a few black slaves would have been a more natural offering, or a couple of Scythians.”

“I remember,” said Nehushta, somewhat relieved at the queen’s tone.  “Of course I have now and then seen processions in Ecbatana, but Daniel would not let me go to the temple.  They say Ecbatana is very much changed since the Great King has not gone there in summer.  It is very quiet—­it is given over to horse-merchants and grain-sellers, and they bring all the salted fish there from the Hyrcanian sea, so that some of the streets smell horribly.”

Atossa laughed at the description, more out of courtesy than because it amused her.

“In my time,” she answered, “the horse-market was in the meadow by the road toward Zagros, and the fish-sellers were not allowed to come within a farsang of the city.  The royal nostrils were delicate.  But everything is changed—­here, everywhere.  We have had several—­revolutions—­religious ones, I mean of course, and so many people have been killed that there is a savour of death in the air.  It is amazing how much trouble people will give themselves about the question of sacrificing a horse to the sun, or a calf to Auramazda, or an Ethiopian to Nabon or Ashtaroth!  And these Magians!  They are really no more descendants of the priests in the Aryan home than I am a Greek.  Half of them are nearly black—­they are Hindus and speak Persian with an accent.  They believe in a vast number of gods of all sizes