It happened one day that Farhat, the great Persian sculptor, passed at the foot of the rock with his pickaxe on his shoulder. He was aroused suddenly from the deep meditation in which he had been lost by the sound of horns and trumpets. He stopped. Greyhounds and hawk-bearers appeared, gay and thoughtless riders burst into sight like a storm, then passed away from sight like a storm. The dim, shadowy outline of a face remained in his heart; that vision stole away his peace of mind. Every day at the same hour he was to be seen on the road waiting,—waiting with the tenderest feelings of his heart aroused. The beloved vision would appear, and after throwing a careless glance at him would pass by like a flash of lightning. He lost his peace of mind, abandoned his Art, and wandered like one beside himself in the solitudes of the mountains. Days passed, weeks passed, and months passed. One day he was sitting there waiting. She appeared. But this time there were neither greyhounds nor hawk-bearers with her. She was alone, with a number of her maidens. She urged her horse on and came up to Farhat. “Hail, great Master,” she said. “What has chained thee to these mountains—to the solitudes of these desert places? I ever see thee here.” “The joy of sometimes seeing a transcendently beautiful vision light up the solitudes of these desert places,” answered Farhat. “Is thy love so great, then?” she asked, smiling. “Who can help loving her that has not a peer amongst the immortals? Who can help loving her whose breath gives life, whose one glance confers eternal happiness? Do you think that the heart of him that is ever occupied with the stone and the chisel becomes so hardened that there is no room left in it for beauty?” “I think not so. He that can give form and life to a shapeless stone, he that creates beautiful beings out of cold marble, cannot but love what is beautiful himself. But listen, Artist—to win the heart of the daughter of the Arian King requires great sacrifices.” “I know that great goddesses require great sacrifices.” “I do not demand what is impossible—I only wish to try thy love. Look, Farhat, dost thou see yonder rock?” and she pointed to the sharp crag. “Thou must create palaces for me out of that rock, so that I may look down from the summit with delight, and watch how the Tigris threads the beautiful plains of Assyria with its silvery curves, or how the tall palm-trees of Baghistan wave at the breathing of the gentle zephyrs. And in the heart of the rock thou must make storehouses for my treasures, and underneath there must be dwelling-places for my horses. When all this is ready I shall be thine.” She spoke, and rode away.