“Press the nail nearest the middle,” said a small voice behind her.  Nehushta started and looked round.  It was the little Syrian slave, who had followed her out of the palace, and stood watching her in the dark.  Nehushta put her hand upon the round head of the nail and pressed, as the slave told her to do.  The door opened, turning slowly and noiselessly upon its hinges.  Both women entered; the Syrian girl looked cautiously back and pushed the heavy bronze back to its place.  The Egyptian artisan who had made the lock, had told one of the queen’s women whom he loved the secret by which it was opened, and the Syrian had heard it repeated and remembered it.

Once inside, Nehushta ran quickly through the corridor between the walls and rushing into the inner temple, found herself behind the screen and in a moment more she stood before all the priests and before Zoroaster himself.  But even as she entered, the Syrian slave, who had lingered to close the gates, heard the rushing of many feet outside, and the yelling of hoarse voices, mixed with the clang of arms.

Solemnly the chant rose around the sacred fire that seemed to burn by unearthly means upon the black stone altar.  Zoroaster stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer, and his waxen face and snow-white beard illuminated by the dazzling effulgence.

The seventy priests, in even rank, stood around the walls, their hands raised in like manner as their chief priest’s; their voices going up in a rich chorus, strong and tuneful, in the grand plain-chant.  But Nehushta broke upon their melody, with a sudden cry, as she rushed before them.

“Zoroaster—­fly—­there is yet time.  The enemy are come in thousands—­they are in the palace.  There is barely time!” As she cried to him and to them all, she rushed forward and laid one hand upon his shoulder.

But the high priest turned calmly upon her, his face unmoved, although all the priests ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in sudden fear.  As their voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without, as though the ocean were beating at the gates.

Zoroaster gently took Nehushta’s hand from his shoulder.

“Go thou, and save thyself,” he said kindly.  “I will not go.  If it be the will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar.  Go thou quickly, and save thyself while there is yet time.”

But Nehushta took his hand in hers, that trembled with the great emotion, and gazed into his calm eyes as he spoke—­her look was very loving and very sad.

“Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with any other?  I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will not leave thee.”  Her soft voice trembled—­for she was uttering her own sentence of death.

“There is no more time!” cried the voice of the little Syrian maid, as she came running into the temple.  “There is no more time!  Ye are all dead men!  Behold, they are breaking down the doors!”