“If it is not bad, it is foolish,” said Darius, resting his chin upon his hand and leaning forward.  “I would rather it were foolish than bad—­I fear me it is both.”

Nehushta could guess well enough what it was he would say.  She knew she could have turned the subject, or laughed, or interrupted him in many ways; but she did none of these things.  An indescribable longing seized her to hear him say that he loved her.  What could it matter?  He was so loyal and good that he could never be more than a friend.  He was the king of the world—­had he not been honest and kind, he would have needed no wooing to do as he pleased to do, utterly and entirely.  A word from his lips and the name of Zoroaster would be but the memory of a man dead; and again a word, and Nehushta would be the king’s wife!  What need had he of concealment, or of devious ways?  He was the king of the earth, whose shadow was life and death, whose slightest wish was a law to be enforced by hundreds of thousands of warriors!  There was nothing between him and his desires—­nothing but that inborn justice and truth, in which he so royally believed.  Nehushta felt that she could trust him, and she longed—­out of mere curiosity, she thought—­to hear him speak words of love to her.  It would only be for a moment—­they would be so soon spoken; and at her desire, he would surely not speak them again.  It seemed so sweet, she knew not why, to make this giant of despotic power do as she pleased; to feel that she could check him, or let him speak—­him whom all obeyed and feared, as they feared death itself.

She looked up quietly, as she answered: 

“How can it be either bad or foolish of you to make others so happy?”

“It seems as though it could be neither—­and yet, all my reason tells me it is both,” replied the king earnestly.  “Here I sit beside you, day after day, deceiving myself with the thought that I am making your time pass pleasantly till—­”

“There is not any deception in that,” interrupted Nehushta gently.  Somehow she did not wish him to pronounce Zoroaster’s name.  “I can never tell you how grateful I am—­”

“It is I who am grateful,” interrupted the king in his turn.  “It is I who am grateful that I am allowed to be daily with you, and that you speak with me, and seem glad when I come—­” He hesitated and stopped.

“What is there that is bad and foolish in that?” asked Nehushta, with a sudden smile, as she looked up into his face.

“There is more than I like to think,” answered the king.  “You say the time passes pleasantly for you.  Do you think it is less pleasant for me?” His voice sank to a deep, soft tone, as he continued:  “I sit here day after day, and day after day I love you more and more.  I love you—­where is the use of concealing that—­if I could conceal it?  You know it.  Perhaps you pity me, for you do not love me.  You pity me who hold the whole earth under my feet as an Egyptian juggler stands upon a ball, and rolls it whither he will.”  He ceased suddenly.