“Indeed I would that you did not love me,” said Nehushta very gravely.  She looked down.  The pleasure of hearing the king’s words was indeed exquisite, and she feared that her eyes might betray her.  But she did not love him.  She wondered what he would say next.

“You might as well wish that dry pastures should not burn when the sun shines on them, and there is no rain,” he answered with a passing bitterness.  “It is at least a satisfaction that my love does not harm you—­that you are willing to have me for your friend—­”

“Willing!  Your friendship is almost the sweetest thing I know,” exclaimed the princess.  The king’s eyes flashed darkly.

“Almost!  Yes, truly—­my friendship and another man’s love are the sweetest things!  What would my friendship be without his love?  By Auramazda and the six Amshaspands of Heaven, I would it were my love and his friendship!  I would that Zoroaster were the king, and I Zoroaster, the king’s servant!  I would give all Persia and Media, Babylon and Egypt, and all the uttermost parts of my kingdom, to hear your sweet voice say:  ‘Darius, I love thee!’ I would give my right hand, I would give my heart from my breast and my soul from my body—­my life and my strength, and my glory and my kingdom would I give to hear you say:  ‘Come, my beloved, and put thine arms about me!’ Ah, child! you know not what my love is—­how it is higher than the heavens in worshipping you, and broader than the earth to be filled with you, and deeper than the depths of the sea, to change not, but to abide for you always.”

The king’s voice was strong, and the power of his words found wings in it, and seemed to fly forth irresistibly with a message that demanded an answer.  Nehushta regretted within herself that she had let him speak—­but for all the world she could not have given up the possession of the words he had spoken.  She covered her eyes with one hand and remained silent—­for she could say nothing.  A new emotion had got possession of her, and seemed to close her lips.

“You are silent,” continued the king.  “You are right.  What should you answer me?  My voice sounds like the raving of a madman, chained by a chain that he cannot break.  If I had the strength of the mountains, I could not move you.  I know it.  All things I have but this—­this love of yours that you have given to another.  I would I had it!  I should have the strength to surpass the deeds of men, had I your love!  Who is this whom you love?  A captain?  A warrior?  I tell you because you have so honoured him, so raised him upon the throne of your heart, I will honour him too, and I will raise him above all men, and all the nation shall bow before him.  I will make a decree that he shall be worshipped as a god—­this man whom you have made a god of by your love.  I will build a great temple for you two, and I will go up with all the people, and fall down and bow before you, and worship you, and love you with every sinew and bone of my body, and with every hope and joy and sorrow of my soul.  He whom you love shall ask, and whatsoever he asks I will give to him and to you.  There shall not be anything left in the whole world that you desire, but I will give it to you.  Am I not the king of the whole earth—­the king of all living things but you?”