Darius tried to push her from him, but she would not go, and he was forced to look at her, and his anger melted, and he smiled somewhat grimly, though his brows were bent.

“Go to,” he said, “I jested.  It is impossible for a man to slay anything so beautiful as you.”

Atossa’s colour returned to her cheeks, and bending down, she kissed the king’s knees and his hands, and her golden hair fell all about her and upon the king’s lap.  But Darius rose impatiently, and left her kneeling by the couch.  He was already angry with himself for having forgiven her, and he hated his own weakness bitterly.

“I will myself go hence at once with the guards, and I will take half the force from the fortress of Stakhar and go to Shushan, and thence, with the army that is there, I will be in Ecbatana in a few days.  And I will utterly crush out these rebels who speak lies and do not acknowledge me.  Remain here, Zoroaster, and govern this province until I return in triumph.”

Darius glanced once more at Atossa, who lay by the couch, half upon it and half upon the floor, seemingly dazed at what had occurred; and then he turned upon his heel and strode out of the room between the two spearmen of the guard, who raised their weapons as he passed, and followed him with a quick, rhythmical tread down the broad corridor outside.

Zoroaster was left alone with the queen.

As soon as Darius was gone, Atossa rose to her feet, and with all possible calmness proceeded to rearrange her disordered hair and to place her head-dress upon her head.  Zoroaster stood and watched her; her hand trembled a little, but she seemed otherwise unmoved by what had occurred.  She glanced up at him from under her eyelids as she stood with her head bent down and her hands raised, to arrange her hair.

“Why did you beg the king to spare my life?” she asked.  “You, of all men, must wish me dead.”

“I do not wish you dead,” he answered coldly.  “You have yet much evil to do in the world, but it will not be all evil.  Neither did I need to intercede for you.  Your time is not come, and though the king’s hand were raised to strike you, it would not fall upon you, for you are fated to accomplish many things.”

“Do you not hate me, Zoroaster?”

It was one of the queen’s chief characteristics that she never attempted concealment when it could be of no use, and in such cases affected an almost brutal frankness.  She almost laughed as she asked the question—­it seemed so foolish, and yet she asked it.

“I do not hate you,” answered the priest.  “You are beneath hatred.”

“And I presume you are far above it?” she said very scornfully, and eyed him in silence for a moment.  “You are a poor creature,” she pursued, presently.  “I heartily despise you.  You suffered yourself to be deceived by a mere trick; you let the woman you loved go from you without an effort to keep her.  You might have been a queen’s lover, and you despised her.  And now, when you could have the woman who did you a mortal injury be led forth to death before your eyes, you interceded for her and saved her life.  You are a fool.  I despise you.”