Therefore, in Menon's missive, the King found goodly food for thought; and yet, on the other hand there seemed a haunting something underneath, a something which caused him to taste with care ere he swallowed whole.
"Now as I live," mused Ninus to his inward self, "my Menon loveth me with a love that is rare amongst the sons of men; or else, full cry, he followeth the trail of a woman other than Sozana. A woman of wit! A dreadless woman—a guileful and a wise."
The monarch pondered deeply for a space, while he combed at his beard and gazed toward the walls of Nineveh; then, suddenly, he frowned and leaned across the parapet.
"Zomar!" he called to a mounted man-at-arms below, "ride out to yonder chief of labourers by the western gate and admonish him to ply his whip with a higher diligence; for it cometh to me that the villain's head is balanced over-lightly on his neck."
* * * * *
Across the Syrian hills, beneath the splendour of a million stars, rode Menon and Semiramis, side by side. Their hearts were full with the fullness of a joy which conquers speech and leaves them to beat with a voiceless pulse of peace. Their eyes alone told secrets, tender, deep, for each had hunted through the desert for a grain of sand, and, finding it, was glad, for they knew that its name was love.
Before them, silent too, rode Huzim, his head bowed low upon his mighty chest, for a worm of jealousy had entered him because of this love of a master for his bride. Was a slave not human? Should his lowly mind be proof against the poison of forgetfulness? A slave! And yet—the master's hand had freed him of his chains, while he himself had riveted them again. What now? Were the cloaks of love not strange and manifold? So gratitude rose up to choke the jealous worm; then Huzim raised his head once more and crooned the songs of those who dwell where the Indus runs and the sun is warm.
For league on league they journeyed through the night, each heart a slave, each thought a link in the chain of loving servitude. In the van rode Huzim, singing softly in his native tongue; behind him came Menon and Semiramis, hand in hand, while, still again, as a rear-guard of the march, the wise, untroubled Habal trotted at their heels.
* * * * *
On the hills of Syria the shepherds built their fires against the chill of night; and many a youth looked long amongst the flames for the eyes of Shammuramat—strange eyes that peered from the embers impishly, half veiled in coils of smoke. They danced! They mocked! Now laughing when some green young twig was burned; now falling into darkness with its blackened ash. How sad they were, these ashes of a dream—as sad as the bleat of a wandering sheep as the cry came floating down the wind. And yet—what, then, should a goddess have to do with the herders of browsing beasts, or they with her? Should an ox lick salt from off the stars? Nay, not so!