The prince rose once more; again eyes and ears brought him nothing. “There is naught beholding us save God’s bright stars; and are not the stars best friends to man and maid in love? How shall I persuade Cyrus? Did you not see how he tossed in his mind, and how his heart was torn almost as yours or mine, when he resolved to send you to Belshazzar? Let him hear the tale we have to tell, the tale that will make every ear in Iran from Media to Bactria to tingle with hot wrath, and I know little of men, if Cyrus prove hard of heart. Let Babylon fall, as fall it will, and in these same Hanging Gardens—not then your prison, but your joy—shall they kindle the torch for our marriage feast.” But Atossa glided out of his clasp. “Ah!” said she, outstretching her arms in the starlight, “your words are but as words spoken in a vision; I feel such sweetness cannot be. You wake dear phantoms, but they are phantoms still. I know not why; but there is a voice that tells me now, as it has told me long, that I must not look for any sudden joy. I must learn to be yet stronger, and learn to bear not only these, but new ills also. And Susa and my father are very far away.” “And do you doubt my boast?” he flashed, nigh wrathfully, at her failing to warm to his own sanguine joy. “I doubt you?” she cried, as if scarce understanding his words,—“you? For your least wish, how glad a thing to die! But the power of Angra-Mainyu is strong, and he and his fiends put forth their might against us. Ahura will conquer, but the triumph is delayed. Fly alone; that will be safer—and let the sword of Cyrus be the key to my golden prison.” “Not save _you_?” reëchoed the prince, all the might of his strong nature rising up in refusal at her command. “Hush! Not so loud!” warned she, and again she started; “surely in the thicket—” “There may be other eavesdroppers!” spoke a voice from the covert directly behind them, and the words were the words of Avil-Marduk. A shout from Darius, a cry from Atossa, answered him in the same instant. The sword shot from the prince’s scabbard and flashed in the starlight; one stroke, and Avil would have uttered no more fell counsellings, but the priest stepped deliberately forward and caught the upraised hand before Darius could gather wits enough to smite. “Nothing rashly, your Highness,” was his admonition, he himself perfectly calm. “Your life is in no danger, and I make bold to presume that any hurt that might befall your humble slave would meet with no slow requital.” And even as he spoke there emerged from his hiding-place, or out of the ground of the garden rather, for aught Darius could see in the gloom, the figures of six men, a trembling torch in the hands of one, naked swords borne by the others. Darius stood facing them, his head thrown back haughtily, his weapon still raised high. “Do not think to slay me without dear payment!” rang his despairing boast.