sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breath
of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every muscle,
before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying
across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face
showed that he was probably one of the poor Hebrew exiles who still
dwelt in great numbers in the vicinity. His pallid skin, dry and yellow
as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the
marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as
Artaban released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless
breast.

He turned away with a thought of pity, consigning the body to that
strange burial which the Magians deem most fitting--the funeral of the
desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the
beasts of prey slink furtively away, leaving only a heap of white bones
in the sand.

But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips.
The brown, bony fingers closed convulsively on the hem of the Magian's
robe and held him fast.

Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb
resentment at the importunity of this blind delay. How could he stay
here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger? What claim had
this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassion or his service?
If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reach Borsippa at the
appointed time. His companions would think he had given up the journey.
They would go without him. He would lose his quest.