“How sayest thou that thou art a prophet?  Who art thou?” he asked.

“Thou knowest me and hast sent for me,” answered the white-haired man, in his calm tones; but his fiery eyes rested on the king’s, and Darius almost quailed under the glance.  “I am Zoroaster; I am come to proclaim the truth to thee and to these miserable men, thy priests.”

The fear they felt had restored the frenzied men to their senses.  One by one, they rose and crept back towards the high priest himself, who had struggled to his feet, and stood upon the basement of the mortar above all the rest.

Then Darius looked, and he knew that it was Zoroaster, but he knew not the strange look upon his face, and the light in his eyes was not as the light of other days.  He turned to the priests.

“Ye are unworthy priests,” he cried angrily, “for ye are drunk with your own sacrifice, and ye defile God’s temple with unseemly cries.  Behold this man—­can ye tell me whether he be indeed a prophet?” Darius, whose anger was fast taking the place of the awe he had felt when he first saw Zoroaster beside him, strode a step forward, with his hand upon his sword-hilt, as though he would take summary vengeance upon the desecrators of the temple.

“He is surely a liar!” cried the high priest from his position beyond the altar, as though hurling defiance at Zoroaster through the flames.

“He is surely a liar!” repeated all the priests together, following their head.

“He is a Magian, a worshipper of idols, a liar and the father of lies!  Down with him!  Slay him before the altar; destroy the unbeliever that entereth the temple of Ahura Mazda!”

“Down with the Magian!  Down with the idolater!” cried the priests, and moved forward in a body toward the thin white-haired man who stood facing them, serene and high.

Darius drew his short sword and rushed before Zoroaster to strike down the foremost of the priests.  But Zoroaster seized the keen blade in the air as though it had been a reed, and wrenched it from the king’s strong grip, and broke it in pieces like glass, and cast the fragments at his feet.  Darius staggered back in amazement, and the herd of angry men, in whose eyes still blazed the drunkenness of the Haoma, huddled together for a moment like frightened sheep.

“I have no need of swords,” said Zoroaster, in his cold, clear voice.

Then the high priest cried aloud, and ran forward and seized a brand from the sacred fire.

“It is Angramainyus, the Power of Evil,” he yelled fiercely.  “He is come to fight with Auramazda in his temple!  But the fire of the Lord shall destroy him!”

As the priest rushed upon him, with the blazing brand raised high to strike, Zoroaster faced him and fixed his eyes upon the angry man.  The priest suddenly stood still, his hand in mid-air, and the stout piece of burning wood fell to the floor, and lay smouldering and smoking upon the pavement.