“You shall hear the end now,” she said, holding the knife firmly in her hand.  “You shall not escape hearing the end now, and you shall not murder me with your Indian poisoner here.”  She laughed again as she glanced at the ugly curve of the dagger.  “I was talking with Zoroaster,” she continued, “when I saw you upon the stairs, and then—­oh, it was so sweet!  I cried out that he should never leave me again, and I threw my arms about his neck—­his lordly neck that you so loved!—­and I fell, so that he had to hold me up.  And you saw him.  Oh, it was sweet!  It was the sweetest moment of my life when I heard you groan and hurry away and leave us!  It was to hurt you that I did it—­that I humbled my queenliness before him; but I loved him, though—­and he, he your lover, whom you despised then and cast away for this black-faced king of ours—­he thrust me from him, and pushed me off, and drove me weeping to my chamber, and he said he loved me not, nor wished my love.  Ay, that was bitter, for I was ashamed—­I who never was shamed of man or woman.  But there was more sweetness in your torment than bitterness in my shame.  He never knew you were there.  He screamed out to you from the crowd in the procession his parting curse on your unfaithfulness and went out—­but he nearly killed those two strong spearmen who tried to seize him.  How strong he was then, how brave!  What a noble lover for any woman!  So tall and delicate and fair with all his strength!  He never knew why you left him—­he thought it was to wear the king’s purple, to thrust a bit of gold in your hair!  He must have suffered—­you have suffered too—­such delicious torture, I have often soothed myself to sleep with the thought of it.  It is very sweet for me to see you lying there with my wound in your heart.  It will rankle long; you cannot get it out—­you are married to the king now, and Zoroaster has turned priest for love of you.  I think even the king would hardly love you if he could see you now—­you look so pale.  I will send for the Chaldean physician—­you might die.  I should be sorry if you died, you could not suffer any more then.  I could not give up the pleasure of hurting you—­you have no idea how delicious it is.  Oh, how I hate you!”

Atossa rose suddenly to her feet, with flashing eyes.  Nehushta, in sheer horror of such hideous cruelty, had fallen back against the door-post, and stood grasping the curtain with one hand while the other was pressed to her heart, as though to control the desperate agony she suffered.  Her face was paler than the dead, and her long, black hair fell forward over her ghastly cheeks.

“Shall I tell you more?” Atossa began again.  “Should you like to hear more of the truth?  I could tell you how the king——­”

But as she spoke, Nehushta threw up her hands and pressed them to her throbbing temples; and with a low wail, she turned and fled through the doorway between the thick curtains, that parted with her weight and fell together again when she had passed.