respect truth will, therefore, lie when he can hope to gain more by it.  The man who lies expects to gain something by his lie, and the man who tells the truth hopes that, in so doing, he will establish himself a credit which he can use upon future occasions.[4] But the object is the same.  Tell me, therefore, princess, what did you hope to gain by trying to deceive me?” Darius laughed as he concluded his argument and looked at Nehushta to see what she would say—­Nehushta laughed also, she could hardly tell why.  The king’s brilliant, active humour was catching.  She reached out and thrust her foot into the little slipper that still lay beside her, before she answered.

     [Footnote 4:  Herodotus, book iii. chap. lxxii.]

“What I said was true in one way and not in another,” she said.  “I had been crying bitterly, but I stopped when I heard the king come and stand beside me.  So it was only the tears the king saw and not the weeping.  As for the object,”—­she laughed a little,—­“it was, perhaps, that I might gain time to dry my eyes.”

Darius shifted his position a little.

“I know,” he said gravely.  “And I know why you were weeping, and it is my fault.  Will you forgive me, princess?  I am a hasty man, not accustomed to think twice when I give my commands.”

Nehushta looked up suddenly with an expression of inquiry.

“I sent him away very quickly,” continued the king.  “If I had thought, I would have told him to come and bid you farewell.  He would not have willingly gone without seeing you—­it was my fault.  He will return in twelve days.”

Nehushta was silent and bit her lip as the bitter thought arose in her heart that it was not alone Zoroaster’s sudden departure that had pained her.  Then it floated across her mind that the king had purposely sent away her lover in order that he might himself try to win her heart.

“Why did you send him—­and not another?” she asked, without looking up, and forgetting all formality of speech.

“Because he is the man of all others whom I can trust, and I needed a faithful messenger,” answered Darius, simply.

Nehushta gazed into the king’s face searching for some sign there, but he had spoken earnestly enough.

“I thought—­” she began, and then stopped short, blushing crimson.

“You thought,” answered Darius, “that I had sent him away never to return because I desire you for my wife.  It was natural, but it was unjust.  I sent him because I was obliged to do so.  If you wish it, I will leave you now, and I will promise you that I will not look upon your face till Zoroaster returns.”

Nehushta looked down and she still blushed.  She could hardly believe her ears.

“Indeed,” she faltered, “it were perhaps—­best—­I mean—­” she could not finish the sentence.  Darius rose quietly from his seat: 

“Farewell, princess; it shall be as you desire,” he said gravely, and strode towards the door.  His face was pale and his lips set tight.