d rice-fields, where the autumnal vapors
spread their deathly mists; following along the course of the river,
under tremulous shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills;
and out upon the flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow
through the stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of
Ctesiphon, where the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis
of Seleucia which Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris
and the many channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the
corn-lands--Artaban pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall of
the tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of populous Babylon.

Vasda was almost spent, and he would gladly have turned into the city
to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew that
it was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and
he must reach the place by midnight if he would find his comrades
waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the
stubble-fields.

A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea.
As she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to
pick her way more carefully.

Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to
fall upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her
heart to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it
wisely, as a good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as
the tomb; not a leaf rustled, not a bird sang.

She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and
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 deemed most fitting--the funeral of
the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise