She sat upon a moss-bank, and felt for the little cool weeds at her feet, pulling them one by one. There was a sweet northeast wind crooning over the Gardens, and setting all the groves to whispering. “The breeze is from my own Iran,” she spoke aloud, while the hidden crickets answered her; “it has blown over Ecbatana and Susa; it has kissed the mouth of my mother, my father; it bears their kisses to me.” She shook her coronal of golden hair, and let the soft breeze caress her neck. The Gardens were growing very still. Once or twice arose a distant chant from the river boatmen, singing as they plied their oars. Save for that, she might have dreamed herself a thousand furlongs removed from human kind. As the silent night crept onward there spread an earthy smell about, the smell of green things growing, and the very odour made the breeze a delight. The great trees above her head continued their murmur,—the cadence just varied enough by the puffing wind to make music sweeter than that of harp or flute. She was letting the dreamy mood possess her, when her ear caught the snap of a twig under gentle stepping sandals. Some one had mounted the privy staircase; a form was approaching through the soft darkness. Atossa sprang to her feet; she gave one little cry. The stranger bounded toward her; and she heard the voice and felt the touch of Darius, son of Hystaspes.... They sat and talked together upon the cool moss, for a long while, in tones so low that the sage old thrush who had stirred on his bough over their two heads gathered nothing, though he listened long. But at last, when their minds passed down from heaven to earth, their voices grew stronger, for their lips were no longer so near. “Lady mine,” spoke Darius, his strong arm still holding fast, “do you know what Isaiah the Jew has told me? Do you know for what end Belshazzar brought you here?” “Have I not heard from Isaiah’s own lips the story of what befell in these same Gardens and of the king’s unholy guile?” “You know all and are yet so calm?” She looked into his face almost defiantly. “Because Ahura grants to you the fame of being ‘King of the Bow’ and of swinging the stoutest sword in wide Iran, has he denied that I also should be strong to bear? Am I not Cyrus’s own child, and must I show these ‘lie-loving’ Chaldees only tears and pain?” “By Mithra, Lord of Light, I think it is I that must gain the courage out of you, for when I hear of your state, and the treachery with which Belshazzar had ensnared you, I was close to weeping like a maid, and doing deeds of madness!” A faint sound, as of something moving, startled her. “What is this?” she cried, leaping from the moss-bank. “There is danger!” The sound, be it what it might, had vanished. Darius peered into the gloom; black shadows, the dim tracery of leafage, the distant sheen of the star mist—that seemed all.