The shepherd did not return till the shades of night were falling. His surprise and indignation were great when he found that some one had entered his cabin, eaten his bread and meat, and taken some of his grain; but he was delighted when he found lying in the bread-box a gold piece. He tried the coin with his teeth and excitedly turned it over and over in his palm. Then he hid it safely in the earth at one corner of his hut.
“Truly,” he muttered, “some god must have rested here, or a spirit of the hills! But no, they would not eat my food. May luck go with this patron of mine forever!”
It was after noon when Athura left the shepherd’s hut and rode out of the canyon to the highway. She turned her face westward and rode as rapidly as the steep grades and dangerous passes would permit, anxiously scanning every reach ahead lest she meet a caravan, an inquisitive traveler, or a band of robbers. Outlaws frequently attacked caravans in those days and places, as they do yet. Travel except with guards or in large companies was dangerous. Once as she rode past the mouth of a canyon she observed several men sitting around a camp-fire a hundred paces from the road. When they observed her, they shouted and ran to their horses, which were grazing near by them. She spoke to her horse and urged him to greater speed. He responded nobly. The hiss of an arrow passed over her head. Her horse, as if realizing the need of haste, fled with frightful speed. Once she looked back and saw the pursuers; but, as they were mounted on small mountain ponies, they were soon left far behind and gave over the pursuit.
With an occasional halt at the crest of ridges over which the road passed, the fugitive pressed onward till night fell. After stopping a short time to allow the horse to graze and rest, she continued the flight during the night hours. The brawling river along whose course the way led filled the canyons with its murmur. The cry of night birds and the howl of wolves sounded dismally from the heights. Once her horse snorted and sprang away at a rapid pace from the shadow of a clump of bushes. At another time he shook his head and dashed madly at several dark, slinking forms in the road; these leaped aside from his charge, snarling and chattering. It required all her will to restrain the fear of unknown and unseen dangers of the darkness and hills which gripped at her heart. She allowed her intelligent horse to pick his own way, and he did not fail her.
At midnight she emerged from the mountain gorges and entered the little plain of Bagistan, where she halted at the base of the celebrated rock of Behistun. She recognized this great rock, on which was engraved in huge letters the legend of Semiramis. As she looked up at its bold, jagged skyline, she wondered whether the time would ever come when she, like Semiramis, might stand there the queen of the world. Years afterwards she did stand there as queen of the world and watched the workmen of her husband erase the story of Semiramis and carve thereon a short history of his own exploits. She dismounted and, standing by the side of her horse, leaned wearily against him and meditated what road to take. For here was a parting of the ways. To her right, the road led to Nineveh, Damascus, and Sardis, where she might find her Prince; to the left lay the road to Susa and Persepolis. Should she go to the Prince of Iran and thus plunge him into war with Cambyses, or should she seek the protection of the lords of Persia? It was a grave question, hard to solve, and she almost wept because of her own indecision.
“All hail and live forever, Princess Athura! Be not afraid!” A voice came to her out of the darkness near the great rock.
Gasping with dismay, she sprang into the saddle and was about to flee.
“Be not afraid!” said the voice again, and the tone was strangely familiar and reassuring.
“Who speaks?” she demanded.
“Your servant, Belteshazzer, the Hebrew, gracious lady!”