How could he?  How was it possible?  He said he loved her, and now, when he was sent away for many days, his only thought had been to write to the queen—­not to herself!  An agony of jealousy overwhelmed her, and she could have torn out her very soul, and trampled her own heart under her feet in her anger.  Passionately she clasped her hands to her temples; her head seemed splitting with a new and dreadful pain that swallowed all her thoughts for a moment, until the cold weight seemed again to fall upon her breast and all her passion gushed out in abundant tears.  Suddenly a thought struck her.  She roused herself, leaning upon one hand, and stared vacantly a moment at her small gilded shoe which had fallen from her bare foot upon the marble pavement.  She absently reached forward and took the thing in her hand, and gravely contemplated the delicate embroidery and thick gilding, through her tears,—­as one will do a foolish and meaningless thing in the midst of a great sorrow.

Was it possible that the queen had deceived her?  How she wished she had let her read the writing as she had offered to do.  She did not imagine at first that the letter was for herself and had gone astray.  But she thought the queen might easily have pretended to have received something, or had even scratched a few words upon a bit of parchment, meaning to pass it off upon her as a letter from Zoroaster.  She longed to possess the thing and to judge of it with her own eyes.  It would hardly be possible to say whether it were written by him or not, as far as the handwriting was concerned; but Nehushta was sure she should recognise some word, some turn of language that would assure her that it was his.  She could almost have risen and gone in search of the queen at once, to prove the lie upon her—­to challenge her to show the writing.  But her pride forbade her.  She had been so weak—­she should not have let Atossa see, even for a moment, that she was hurt, not even that she loved Zoroaster.  She had tried to conceal her feelings, but Atossa had gone too far, had tortured her beyond all endurance, and she knew that, even if she had known what to expect, she could not have easily borne the soft, infuriating, deadly, caressing, goading taunts of that fair, cruel woman.

Then again, the whole possibility of Zoroaster’s unfaithfulness came and took shape before her.  He had known and loved Atossa of old, perhaps, and now the old love had risen up and killed the new—­he had sworn so truly under the ivory moonlight in Ecbatana.  And yet—­he had written to this other woman and not to her.  Was it true?  Was it Atossa’s cruel lie?  In a storm of doubt and furious passion, her tears welled forth again; and once more she hid her face in the pale yellow cushions, and her whole beautiful body trembled and was wrung with her sobs.

Suddenly she was aware that some one entered the little hall and stood beside her.  She dared not look up at first; she was unstrung and wretched in her grief and anger, and it was the strong, firm tread of a man.  The footsteps ceased, and the intruder, whoever he might be, was standing still; she took courage and looked quickly up.  It was the king himself.  Indeed, she might have known that no other man would dare to penetrate into the recesses of the garden set apart for the ladies of the palace.