“Go—­my love—­only that,” she murmured, and he left her standing by the marble balustrade, while the yellow moon turned slowly pale as she rose in the heavens, and the song of the lorn nightingale re-echoed in the still night, from the gardens to the towers, in long sweet cries of burning love, and soft, complaining, silvery notes of mingled sorrow and joy.

CHAPTER III.

In the prophet’s chamber, also, the moonbeams fell upon the marble floor; but a seven-beaked Hebrew lamp of bronze shed a warmer light around, soft and mellow, yet strong enough to illuminate the scroll that lay open upon the old man’s knee.  His brows were knit together, and the furrows on his face were shaded deeply by the high light, as he sat propped among many cushions and wrapped in his ample purple cloak that was thickly lined with fur and drawn together over his snowy beard; for the years of his life were nearly accomplished, and the warmth of his body was even then leaving him.

Zoroaster raised the heavy curtain of carpet that hung before the low square door, and came and bowed himself before the teacher of his youth and the friend of his manhood.  The prophet looked up keenly, and something like a smile crossed his stern features as his eyes rested on the young officer in his magnificent armour; Zoroaster held his helmet in his hand, and his fair hair fell like a glory to his shoulders, mingling with his silky beard upon his breastplate.  His dark blue eyes met his master’s fearlessly.

“Hail! and live for ever, chosen of the Lord!” he said in salutation.  “I bring tidings of great moment and importance.  If it be thy pleasure, I will speak; but if not, I will come at another season.”

“Sit upon my right hand, Zoroaster, and tell me all that thou hast to tell.  Art thou not my beloved son, whom the Lord hath given me to comfort mine old age?”

“I am thy servant and the servant of thine house, my father,” answered Zoroaster, seating himself upon a carved chair at a little distance from the prophet.

“Speak, my son,—­what tidings hast thou?”

“There is a messenger come in haste from Shushan, bearing tidings and letters.  The seven princes have slain Smerdis in his house, and have chosen Darius the son of Gushtasp to be king.”

“Praise be to the Lord who hath chosen a just man!” exclaimed the prophet devoutly.  “So may good come out of evil, and salvation by the shedding of blood.”

“Even so, my master,” answered Zoroaster.  “It is also written that Darius, may he live for ever, will establish himself very surely upon the throne of the Medes and Persians.  There are letters by the hand of the same messenger, sealed with the signet of the Great King, wherein I am bidden to bring the kinsfolk of Jehoiakim, who was king over Judah, to Shushan without delay, that the Great King may do them honour as is meet and right; but what that honour may be that he would do to them, I know not.”