them forth. The winters are short,
the summers bright and long. Neither too much rain nor burning heat. The
Paradise by Sardis is nothing beside them. One breathes in the roses, and
hearkens to the bulbuls--our Aryan nightingales--all day and all night long.
The streams bubble with cool water. At Susa the palace is fairer than word
may tell. Hither the court comes each summer from the tedious glories of
Babylon. The columns of the palace reach up to heaven, but no walls
engirdle them, only curtains green, white, and blue,--whilst the warm sweet
breeze blows always thither from green prairies."

"You draw a picture fair as the plains of Elysium, dear lady," spoke
Glaucon, his own gaze following the light that burned in hers, "and yet I
would not seek refuge even in the king's court with all its beauty. There
are times when I long to pray the god, 'Give to me wings, eagle wings from
Zeus's own bird, and let me go to the ends of the earth, and there in some
charmed valley I may find at last the spring of Lethe water, the water of
forgetfulness that gives peace.' "

Roxana looked on him; pity was in her eyes, and he knew he was taking
pleasure in her pitying.

"The magic water you ask is not to be drunk from goblets," she answered
him, "but the charmed valley lies in the vales of Bactria, the 'Roof of
the World,' high amid mountains crowned with immortal snows. Every good
tree and flower are here, and here winds the mystic Oxus, the great river
sweeping northward. And here, if anywhere, on Mazda's wide, green earth,
can the trouble-tossed have peace."

"Then it is so beautiful?" said the Athenian.

"Beautiful," answered Mardonius and Artazostra together. And Roxana, with
an approving nod from her brother, arose and crossed the tent where hung a
simple harp.

"Will my Lord Prexaspes listen," she asked, "if I sing him one of the
homely songs of the Aryans in praise of the vales by the Oxus? My skill is
small."

"It should suffice to turn the heart of Persephone, even as did Orpheus,"
answered the Athenian, never taking his gaze from her.

The soft light of the swinging lamps, the heavy fragrance of the
frankincense which smouldered on the brazier, the dark lustre of the
singer's eyes--all held Glaucon as by a spell. Roxana struck the harp. Her
voice was sweet, and more than desire to please throbbed through the
strings and song.

"O far away is gliding
The pleasant Oxus's stream,
I see the green glades da