sleeplessness.  She was not always the same, saving that she was always unhappy.  There were days when she was resigned to her lot and merely hoped that it would soon be over; and she wondered how it was that she did not slip out of the gardens at evening, and go and sink her care and her great sorrow in the cool waves of the Araxes, far down below.  But then the thought came over her that she must see his face once more; and it was always once more, so that the last time never came.  And again, there were days when she hoped all things, madly, indiscriminately, without sequence—­the king might die, Zoroaster might again love her, all might be well.  But the mood of a hope that is senseless is very fleet, and despair follows close in its footsteps.  Nehushta grew each time more sad, as she grew more certain that for her there was no hope.

At least it seemed as though Atossa had given up loving Zoroaster and thought no more of him than of another.  Indeed Atossa seemed more anxious to please the king than formerly, in proportion as Darius seemed less easily pleased by her.  But over all, Zoroaster’s supremacy was felt in the palace, and though he was never known to be angry with any one, he was more feared than the fierce king himself, for his calm clear eyes were hard to meet and the words that fell from his lips had in them the ring of fate.  Moreover, he was known and his power was dreaded from one end of the kingdom to the other, and his name was like the king’s signet, which sealed all things, and there was no appeal.

Upon a fair morning in the spring-time, when the sun was shining outside upon the roses still wet with dew, the king sat in an inner hall, half lying upon a broad couch, on which the warm rays of the sun fell through an upper window.  He was watching with absorbed attention the tricks of an Indian juggler who had lately arrived at the court, and whom he had summoned that morning to amuse a leisure hour, for when the king was not actively engaged in business, or fighting, he loved some amusement, being of a restless temper and mind that needed constant occupation.

Atossa sat near him, upon a carved chair, turning over and over in her fingers a string of pearls as she gazed at the performances of the juggler.  Two spearmen, clad in blue and scarlet and gold, stood motionless by the door, and Darius and Atossa watched the sleight-handed Indian alone.

The man tossed a knife into the air and caught it, then two, then three, increasing the number in rapid succession till a score of bright blades made a shining circle in the air as he quickly tossed them up and passed them from hand to hand and tossed them again.  Darius laughed at the man’s skill, and looked up at the queen.

“You remind me of that fellow,” said Darius.

“The king is very gracious to his handmaiden,” answered Atossa, smiling, “I think I am less skilful, but more fair.”

“You are fairer, it is true,” returned the king; “but as for your skill, I know not.  You seem always to be playing with knives, but you never wound yourself any more than he does.”