“Strange ways you have!” exclaimed Atossa, in a low voice.  She was fiercely angry, but there was no change in her face.  She dangled a little chain upon her finger, and tapped the ground with her foot as she sat.  That was all.

“I am not come here to wrangle with you about your slaves.  They will obey me without wrangling.  I met Zoroaster in the gardens an hour since.”

“By a previous arrangement, of course?” suggested Atossa, with a sneer.  But her clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Nehushta with a strange and deadly look.

“Hold your peace and listen to me,” said Nehushta in a fierce, low voice, and her slender hand stole to the haft of the knife by her side.

Atossa was a brave woman, false though she was; but she saw that the Hebrew princess had her in her power—­she saw the knife and she saw the gleam in those black eyes.  They were riveted on her face, and she grew grave and remained silent.

“Tell me the truth,” pursued Nehushta hurriedly.  “Did Zoroaster love you three years ago—­when I saw you in his arms upon the terrace the morning when he came back from Ecbatana?”

But she little knew the woman with whom she had to deal.  Atossa had found time in that brief moment to calculate her chances of safety.  A weaker woman would have lied; but the fair queen saw that the moment had come wherein she could reap a rich harvest of vengeance upon her rival, and she trusted to her coolness and strength to deliver her if Nehushta actually drew the knife she wore.

“I loved him,” she said slowly.  “I love him yet, and I hate you more than I love him.  Do you understand?”

“Speak—­go on!” cried Nehushta, half breathless with anger.

“I loved him, and I hated you.  I hate you still,” repeated the queen slowly and gravely.  “The letter I had from him was written to you—­but it was brought to me.  Nay—­be not so angry, it was very long ago.  Of course you can murder me, if you please—­you have me in your power, and you are but a cowardly Jew, like twenty of my slave-women.  I fear you not.  Perhaps you would like to hear the end?”

Nehushta had come nearer and stood looking down at the beautiful woman, her arms folded before her.  Atossa never stirred as Nehushta approached, but kept her eye steadily fixed on hers.  Nehushta’s arms were folded, and the knife hung below her girdle in its loose sheath.

Atossa’s white arm went suddenly out and laid hold of the haft, and the keen blue steel flashed out of its scabbard with a sheen like dark lightning on a summer’s evening.

Nehushta started back as she saw the sharp weapon in her enemy’s hand.  But Atossa laughed a low sweet laugh of triumph.