“I forgave thee long ago,” answered the high priest.

“I did thee a bitter wrong—­but the wrong I did myself was even greater.  I never knew till I went and asked—­her!” At the thought of Atossa, the Hebrew woman’s eyes flashed fire, and her small fingers clenched upon her palm.  But, in an instant, her sad, weary look returned.

“That is all—­if you forgive me,” she said, and turned her head away.  It seemed to her that there was nothing more to be said.  He did not love her—­he was far beyond love.

“Now, by Ahura Mazda, I have indeed forgiven thee.  The blessing of the All-Wise be upon thee!” Zoroaster bent again, as though to take his leave, and he would have gone from her.

But when she heard his first footsteps, Nehushta raised herself a little and turned quickly towards him.  It seemed as though the only light she knew were departing from her day.

“You loved me once,” she said, and stopped, with an appealing look on her pale face.  It was very, weak of her; but oh! she was far spent with sorrow and grief.  Zoroaster paused, and looked back upon her, very calmly, very gently.

“Ay—­I loved you once—­but not now.  There is no more love in the earth for me.  But I bless you for the love you gave me.”

“I loved you so well,” said Nehushta.  “I love you still,” she added, suddenly raising herself and gazing on him with a wild look in her eyes.  “Oh, I love you still!” she cried passionately.  “I thought I had put you away—­forgotten you—­trodden out your memory that I so hated I could not bear to hear your name!  Ah! why did I do it, miserable woman that I am!  I love you now—­I love you—­I love you with my whole heart—­and it is too late!” She fell back upon her cushion, and covered her face with her hands, and her breast heaved with passionate, tearless sobbing.

Zoroaster stood still, and a deep melancholy came over his beautiful, ethereal face.  No regret stirred his breast, no touch of the love that had been waked his heart that slept for ever in the peace of the higher life.  He would not have changed from himself to the young lover of three years ago, if he had been able.  But he stood calm and sorrowful, as an angel from heaven gazing on the grief of the world—­his thoughts full of sympathy for the pains of men, his soul still breathing the painless peace of the outer firmament whence he had come and whither he would return.

“Nehushta,” he said at last, seeing that her sobbing did not cease, “it is not meet that you should thus weep for anything that is past.  Be comforted; the years of life are few, and you are one of the great ones of the earth.  It is needful that all should suffer.  Forget not that although your heart be heavy, you are a queen, and must bear yourself as a queen.  Take your life strongly in your hands and live it.  The end is not far and your peace is at hand.”

Nehushta looked up suddenly and grew very grave as he spoke.  Her heavy eyes rested on his, and she sighed—­but the sigh was still broken, by the trembling of her past sobs.