The king was short, but in his thick-set broad shoulders and knotted arms there lurked the strength of a bull and the quickness of a tiger.  Zoroaster had the advantage, for his right arm was round Darius’s neck, but while one might count a score, neither moved a hairbreadth, and the blue veins stood out like cords on the tall man’s arm.  The fiery might of the southern prince was matched against the stately strength of the fair northerner, whose face grew as white as death, while the king’s brow was purple with the agony of effort.  They both breathed hard between their clenched teeth, but neither uttered a word.

Nehushta had leaped to her feet in terror at the first sign of the coming strife, but she did not cry out, nor call in the slaves or guards.  She stood, holding the tent-pole with one hand, and gathering her mantle to her breast with the other, gazing in absolute fascination at the fearful life and death struggle, at the unspeakable and tremendous strength so silently exerted by the two men before her.

Suddenly they moved and swayed.  Darius had attempted to trip Zoroaster with one foot, but slipping on the carpet wet with wine, had been bent nearly double to the ground; then by a violent effort, he regained his footing.  But the great exertion had weakened his strength.  Nehushta thought a smile nickered on Zoroaster’s pale face and his flashing dark blue eyes met hers for a moment, and then the end began.  Slowly, and by imperceptible degrees, Zoroaster forced the king down before him, doubling him backwards with irresistible strength, till it seemed as though bone and sinew and muscle must be broken and torn asunder in the desperate resistance.  Then, at last, when his head almost touched the ground, Darius groaned and his limbs relaxed.  Instantly Zoroaster threw him on his back and kneeled with his whole weight upon his chest,—­the gilded scales of the corselet cracking beneath the burden, and he held the king’s hands down on either side, pinioned to the floor.  Darius struggled desperately twice and then lay quite still.  Zoroaster gazed down upon him with blazing eyes.

“Thou who wouldst crucify me upon Shushan,” he said through his teeth.  “I will slay thee here even as thou didst slay Smerdis.  Hast thou anything to say?  Speak quickly, for thy hour is come.”

Even in the extremity of his agony, vanquished and at the point of death, Darius was brave, as brave men are, to the very last.  He would indeed have called for help now, but there was no breath in him.  He still gazed fearlessly into the eyes of his terrible conqueror.  His voice came in a hoarse whisper.

“I fear not death.  Slay on if thou wilt—­thou—­hast—­conquered.”

Nehushta had come near.  She trembled now that the fight was over, and looked anxiously to the heavy curtains of the tent-door.

“Tell him,” she whispered to Zoroaster, “that you will spare him if he will do no harm to you, nor to me.”