But, looking down, she saw at her feet the little Syrian maid, looking with imploring eyes to her face.

“Why do you not go with the rest?” asked Nehushta, stooping down and laying one hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

“I have eaten thy bread—­shall I leave thee in the hour of death?” asked the little slave, humbly.

“Go, child,” replied Nehushta, very kindly.  “I have seen thy devotion and truth—­thou must not perish.”

But the Syrian leaped to her feet, and there was pride in her small face, as she answered: 

“I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art.  Though all the others leave thee, I will not.  It may be I can help thee.”

“Thou art a brave child,” said Nehushta; and she drew the girl to her and pressed her kindly.  “I must go to Zoroaster—­stay thou here, hide thyself among the curtains—­escape by the window, if any come to harm thee.”  She turned and went rapidly out between the curtains, as calm and as pale as death.

The din in the palace had partially subsided, and new and strange cries re-echoed through the vast halls and corridors.  An occasional wild scream—­a momentary distant crash as of a door breaking down and thundering upon the marble pavement; and then again, the long, strange cries, mingled with a dull, low sound as of a great moaning—­all came up together, and seemed to meet Nehushta as she lifted the curtains and went out.

But the little Syrian maid grasped the Indian knife in her girdle, and stole stealthily upon her mistress’s steps.

CHAPTER XX.

Nehushta glided like a ghost along the corridors and dimly-lighted halls.  As yet, the confusion seemed to be all in the lower story of the palace, but the roaring din rose louder every moment—­the shrieks of wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and arms, and, occasionally, a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows that had missed their mark struck the wall together.

Onward she flew, not pausing to listen, lest in a moment more the tide of fight should be forced up the stairs and overtake her.  She shuddered as she passed the head of the great staircase and heard, as though but a few steps from her, a wild shriek that died suddenly into a gurgling death hiss.

She passed the treasury, whence the guards had fled, and in a moment more she was above the staircase that led down to the temple behind the palace.  There was no one there as yet, as far as she could see in the starlight.  The doors were shut, and the massive square building frowned through the gloom, blacker than its own black shadow.

Nehushta paused as she reached the door, and listened.  Very faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of the evening chant.  The priests were all within with Zoroaster, unconscious of their danger and of all that was going on in the palace, singing the hymns of the sacrifice before the sacred fire,—­chanting, as it were, a dirge for themselves.  Nehushta tried the door.  The great bronze gates were locked together, and though she pushed, with her whole strength, they would not move a hair’s breadth.