rays could not penetrate to the darkling path by which they now threaded a tangled thicket of verdure—the tender flickering of green leaves above their heads, the sweet carol of song-birds in their ears, and a carpet of velvet turf beneath their steps—while they followed the course of a rippling stream, guiding them by its murmur, rather than its leap and sparkle, back to the light of day. Emerging from this grateful shade, they found a broad sheet of water spread at their feet, its surface dotted with wild fowl, its banks fringed with flowers, reflecting in its dazzling mirror a temple of silver and ivory raised in honour of Dagon, the fish-god, and much affected by the Great Queen, who, leaving her own especial palace, loved to retire here with her women and wile away the hottest hours of the summer's day.

One of these attendants seemed in expectation of the priest; for, appearing suddenly in the portico of the temple, she made him a sign to follow, and led the way, wrapping her veil so carelessly about her as to afford ample opportunity for contemplation of her charms. At another time Sarchedon might have observed with greater interest the jetty locks and rich Southern colouring of this smiling dame; but besides his new-born taste for beauty of a fairer, paler, and more gentle type, his heart was beating, as it had never beat in the hurtle of chariots and press of horsemen, at the thought that he was about to enter her presence with whose name the whole world rang.

Immediately within the entrance of this temple hung a curtain of crimson silk embroidered in lotus-flowers of gold. Assarac raised the hangings, and stepping quickly aside, gave place while he let them fall behind his comrade. Sarchedon, prostrating his forehead till it touched the cool shining floor, found himself alone with the Great Queen.

The temple was circular, paved, panelled, vaulted, in ivory and silver, the latter wrought and frosted with exceeding taste and skill, the former carved into a thousand fantastic patterns, delicate and elaborate as needlework. In the midst, a fountain threw its jets of silver to the roof, falling back in silvery showers to an ivory basin, of which the sparkling waters were thus continually moved with a refreshing drip and murmur. White doves flitted about the building, or cooed their drowsy love-song, perched peacefully on pinnacle and shaft. An odour of some subtle perfume, like incense mingled with the scent of flowers, stole on Sarchedon's senses; while he became aware of a figure reclining on the couch of silver and ivory over against the entrance. He dared not raise his eyes, and it was but the hem of her garment that he looked on, while he heard the low musical tones of that enchantress who was destined to subjugate the world.

"Rise, trusty messenger," said Semiramis; "fear not to tell me your tidings for good or evil, and speak with me face to face. He must needs be welcome who carries a token from my lord the king."

Sarchedon sprang to his feet at her bidding, and stood before the queen, as fair a specimen of youth, manhood, and warlike grace as could have been selected from the countless myriads that formed her husband's hosts. He averted his eyes, nevertheless, and kept his head bent down while, plucking from his breast the jewel that had already gained him admission, he replied:

"The light of the queen's countenance dazzles the eyes of her servant. Let him take courage to look but once, and be blind for evermore!"

While he spoke he laid the signet on a silken cushion under her feet. She glanced at it carelessly enough, and bent her eyes on the young warrior with a smile, half soft, half scornful.

"Am I then so dangerous to look upon?" said she; "the face of a queen should be gracious to a faithful servant. I say to you, Look and live!"

A thrill of intense triumph and pleasure shot through him with her words. He took courage to scan the form and features of that celebrated woman, whose intellect and beauty had already made her mistress of the mightiest nation in the East.

She was beautiful no doubt, in the nameless beauty that wins, no less than in the lofty beauty that compels. Her form was matchless in symmetry, so that her every gesture, in the saddle or on the throne, was womanly, dignified, and graceful, while each dress she wore, from royal robe and jewelled tiara to steel breastplate and golden headpiece, seemed that in which she looked her best. With a man's strength of body, she possessed more than a man's power of mind and force of will. A shrewd observer would have detected in those bright eyes, despite their thick lashes and loving glance, the genius that can command an army and found an empire; in that delicate, exquisitely chiselled face, the lines that tell of tameless pride and unbending resolution; in the full curves of that rosy mouth, in the clean-cut jaw and prominence of the beautifully-moulded chin, a cold recklessness that could harden on occasion to pitiless cruelty—stern, impracticable, immovable as fate.

But Sarchedon only saw a lovely woman of queenly bearing, glancing approval on his glowing face. His Southern nature seemed to expand like a flower in the sunshine of her smiles.

His looks could not fail to express admiration, and she, who might have been satiated with homage, seemed well pleased to accept as much as he had to offer.

Bending towards him with a gesture of condescension, that was almost a caress, she bade him advance yet nearer to her couch.

"And now," said she, "that you have looked on this terrible face of mine without perdition, tell me your tidings from the camp. What of the war? what of the host? what of my lord the king?"

"The war is ended," he answered briefly; "the host is victorious. My lord the king will return in triumph ere another day be past."

She started, but controlled herself with an effort.

"Enough," she answered haughtily and coldly; "you have done your duty—you are dismissed!"

Then she clapped her hands, and from behind the silken hangings appeared the woman who had guided Sarchedon into the temple.

"Kalmim," said the queen, still in the same constrained voice, "take this messenger to Assarac without delay; bid the priest report to me, at sunset, all the details he can learn from him regarding the host. But stay"—her tone changed to one of winning sweetness, soft, sad, and irresistible—"not till he has had food and rest. You have ridden day and night through the desert; you have looked on your queen's face and lived. Take courage, you may live to look on it again."

With the last words she turned on him one of her rare intoxicating smiles, and the strong soldier left her presence helpless, confused, staggering like a man who wakes out of a dream.

Within the gardens, or paradise, belonging to the royal palace stood a vast pile of building, dedicated to the worship of Baal, and surrounding the lofty tower of Belus, raised on the same site, and nearly to the same altitude, as that by which human rebellion presumed to offend after the Flood. Here, at the head of a thousand priests, dwelt Assarac in solemn state and splendour, officiating daily in sacrifices offered to the gods of Assyria, and their numerous satellites—Assarac, who combined in his own person the leadership of religion and of politics; for, during the absence of Ninus on his Egyptian expedition, it had been the ambitious eunuch's aim to share, if he could not guide, the queen's counsels, and, as far as he dared, to centre in his own person the executive of government.

Sarchedon found himself, therefore, again threading the shady paths by which he had come, but on this occasion under the conduct of a guide less swift of foot than the priest but, as became her sex, more nimble of tongue. Kalmim made no scruple of unveiling, to afford her companion the whole benefit of her charms.

"A good beginning indeed," said this saucy dame, with a smile that did justice to the reddest lips and wickedest eyes in Babylon; "you are in favour,