“Go, therefore, and take up your body, and do with it the deeds of the body among men; for you have deeds to do, and unless they are done in their time, which is now, they will be unfulfilled for ever, and you will become an imperfect spirit.”

“The imperfect spirit shall be finally destroyed, for nothing that is imperfect shall endure.  To be perfect all things must be fulfilled, all deeds done, in the season while the spirit is in darkness with the body.  The deeds perish, and the body which doeth them, but the soul of the perfect man is eternal, and the reflection of what he has done, abides for ever in the light.”

“Hasten, for your time is short.  You have learned all things that are lawful to be learnt, and your deeds shall be sooner accomplished.”

“Hasten, for one moment is as another, and there is no difference between the value of one time and of another time.”

“The moment which passes returns not, and the thing which a man should do in one time cannot be done in another time.”

The voice ceased, and the spirit of Zoroaster returned to his body in the cave, and his eyes opened.  Then he rose, and standing within the circle, cast sand upon the portion towards the east; and so soon as the circle was broken, it was extinguished and there remained nothing but the marks Zoroaster had traced with his fingers upon the black sand.

He drew his tattered mantle around him, and went to the entrance of the cave, and passed out.  And it was night.

Overhead, the full moon cast her broad rays vertically into the little valley, and the smooth black stones gleamed darkly.  The reflection caught the surface of the little pool by the spring, and it was turned to a silver shield of light.

Zoroaster came forward and stood beside the fountain, and the glory of the moon fell upon his white locks and beard and on the long white hand he laid upon the rock.

His acute senses, sharpened beyond those of men by long solitude and fasting, distinguished the step of a man far up the height on the distant crags, and his keen sight soon detected a figure descending cautiously, but surely, towards the deep abyss where Zoroaster stood.  More and more clearly he saw him, till the man was near, and stood upon an overhanging boulder within speaking distance.  He was the shepherd who, from time to time, brought food to the solitary mystic; and who alone, of all the goatherds in those hills, would have dared to invade the sacred precincts of Zoroaster’s retreat.  He was a brave fellow, but the sight of the lonely man by the fountain awed him; it seemed as though his white hair emitted a light of its own under the rays of the moon, and he paused in fear lest the unearthly ascetic should do him some mortal hurt.

“Wilt thou harm me if I descend?” he called out timidly.

“I harm no man,” answered Zoroaster.  “Come in peace.”

The active shepherd swung himself from the boulder, and in a few moments he stood among the stones at the bottom, a few paces from the man he sought.  He was a dark fellow, clad in goat-skins, with pieces of leather bound around his short, stout legs.  His voice was hoarse, perhaps with some still unconquered fear, and his staff rattled as he steadied himself among the stones.