streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made
musical by innumerable birds. But all colour was lost in the
soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all
sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save the
plashing of the water, like a voice half-sobbing and
half-laughing under the shadows. High above the trees a dim
glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper
chamber, where the master of the house was holding council
with his friends.

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark
man of about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together
under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin
lips; the brow of a dreamer and the mouth of a soldier, a man of
sensitive feeling but inflexible will--one of those who, in
whatever age they may live, are born for inward conflict and a
life of quest.

His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of
silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides,
rested on his flowing black hair. It was the dress of the
ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.

"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one
after another entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with
you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus.
You are all welcome. This house grows bright with the joy of
your presence."

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but