“No, I may not curse. I am born a king’s daughter,—and therefore a slave,—a slave to the welfare of my people. Better that I should dash my wings and beat out my little life against the bars of this cage, than that thousands of our Aryan sword-hands pour out their blood in war with Babylon. I am but a maid; but I am wise enough to know this,—king’s child and peasant have alike one heart, and in it the same pains. Happy for the world, if the grief of the first may spare grief to the thousand others!” “The world says, ‘Let the thousand suffer, that the one may laugh.’” Atossa threw back her head again. “Yes—so Belshazzar would say, but not Cyrus; therefore, my father is a great king, and Ahura prospers him.” “Peace, little mistress,” exhorted the faithful fellow, tenderly; “let us say no more. Verily, your heart is emptied now!” They paced side by side, measuring the ample circuit of the harem roof, each striving desperately to talk on indifferent matters. Presently they were both startled by a slight scuffling as of feet, in one of the small courts at the farther extremity of the walk. They leaned across the parapet, but the court seemed unoccupied save for a dozen white doves who were plashing in a little fountain, prinking their feathers, and admiring themselves in the rippling water. Atossa tossed a bit of loose mortar downward into the fountain. There was one whir of wings, and the doves returned to their stations. She was turning away, when, as if in answer to her missile, a tiny brick was flung upon the parapet beside her. She looked across—the court was still empty, but the brick was covered with writing. She read these words:— “If the Lady Atossa is alone upon the roof of the harem, or with those she may trust to the uttermost, let her throw back this letter, as sign that I may mount to her. Some danger must be faced, for the danger of Prince Darius is yet greater.” Atossa knew perfectly well that the stranger who penetrated the harem of the king ran the risk of being sawn asunder. The consequences to herself of a stolen interview might be more than disagreeable. But the princess was in no mood for prudent counsels. Masistes had naught but fears. “What danger could lurk for the sacred person of the envoy? An insolent interloper! Summon help, and give alarm at once.” She would have nothing of his caution. None could overlook the harem roof. The others had been bidden to keep below stairs; a shout could bring aid if there was the least need. “Danger to Darius” whispered by a flitting breeze would have made her open to far more desperate recourses. With a heavy heart Masistes saw her fling the brick down beside the fountain.