She was lying on a heap of cushions beneath the shade of deeply-fringed shawls, which had been looped curtain-wise from tree to tree. At her pillow leaned a lady who had evidently been fanning her mistress, for a plume of peacock's feathers had fallen from her hand. At a little distance a negress sat, or crouched, her long white muslin robe shining in startling contrast to the dusky skin.

The ripple of the river, the humming of the honey bees, the heavy scent of Indian flowers, had soothed the princess into sleep, and her attendants whilst watching her sleeping had fallen into sleep themselves.

Timur Bec stood above them and looked at them silently. Only a yard or two divided him from her now, but yet the path swept round some distance before a flight of steps should lead him down to her side. How lovely she looked lying there, the thick lashes of her eyes curled upwards from the clear olive cheek, and one rounded arm flung lightly above her head.

But even as his glance rested on her in the greatness of his joy he saw what made the blood run back to his heart in horror.

Twisted half round the stem of a young palm tree, and half lying straight along the earth shone the scaly folds of a snake. Its hooded black head was lifted in the air, its keen gleaming eyes were fixed on the princess, its forked tongue played over its cruel thin lips. Would it strike her? or was it gliding harmlessly away?

The emperor held his breath, clasping his hands together in his agony. Powerful as he might be he was helpless as a child to save her; long before he could reach the spot the snake would have bitten or left her; and a movement, even the slightest on his part, might startle the creature, and provoke it to do its worst.

Presently the sleeping lady moved and muttered in her slumber; the brown eyes half unclosed, the shapely arm was tossed restlessly out amongst the cool green leaves. Timur could see the veins shining through the clear skin,

he could see the delicate wrist, and the soft curves of the elbow, and the next instant he saw it fall directly across the narrow neck of the deadly snake.

There was a stir, a sharp shriek; and the emperor sprang by the shortest path to reach her as quickly as he might; but even as he took hold of her arm he saw the small red mark of the poison-fang, and the purple circle spreading slowly in a dusky halo.

She was doomed ! He knew it perfectly; he knew that there was no discovered antidote for that cobra bite. She would droop, and stiffen, and die, although he held her in his clasp, although he was lord of all the riches and wisdom, of all the glory of all the East; she must die even as though she had been the wife of the humblest soldier that followed his fortune.

The blazing sun sank below the ridge of plain that bounded the sharp horizon; the evening had come, and the birds were singing their farewell song in the hush and the cool of the day. In the Garden of the Golden Throne the emperor bent over the lifeless body of Aglen Aga, the fair "Eastern Moonlight" that should never smile again amongst the flowers she loved.

"What is stronger than death? what is as cruel as the grave?" he said, lifting his gaze to the sky that spread blue and silent above him. The religion of Mohammed had no message of comfort for him. It could tell him of no strength that could support his weakness, of no purity that could wash away his guilt, of no full, satisfying, all perfect love that should reach even beyond the grave.

They came to him, his great lords and his captains, standing silently by until he bade them speak; they had come to tell him the banquet was ready, the feast of joy he had bidden them prepare. "Joy!" what a mockery it sounded to him now. He would have given his year of victories for one glance of those close-shut eyes, for one smile of those ice-cold lips.

He left her in her beautiful palace while her women

dressed her for her tomb, and hours afterwards he came to look his last upon her, ere she was borne from his sight for ever.

As he entered the death-chamber the lamps were burning dimly, but he could see that Aglen Aga lay on her couch in the centre of the room, with jewels shining on her brow and arms, the very same jewels that had been showered upon her when she was a bride.

He stepped noiselessly over the carpets, and as he came near he saw kneeling at the foot of the bier the small crouching figure of a little Coptic slave. The child did not perceive him. She was talking to herself, apparently, and Timur scarcely gave her a thought or a glance as he bent over his dead wife. But presently the muttered words reached his ear: what was it she was saying?

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Alone, quite alone, Great God! and yet Thou art with me. A poor child torn from home and friends, a slave in a strange land, but Thou dost love me. And death--it will come to me as it has come to Aglen Aga-but when it comes Thou will take me to Thy land to be with Thee." Her voice sank lower. "It is hard to believe it;" she went on, "but Thou hast said it: hast Thou not promised to help me and love me, and save me, for the dear sake of Christ my Lord ?"

Timur understood it now. The Coptic girl was of the hated religion of the Christians, the people who believed that Jesus, the crucified Nazarite, was a prophet greater than Mahomet, a King whose kingdom yet should come.

Poor child! her faith must needs be false, but the emperor found it in his heart to envy it as he turned away. "Help," "Love," Care," the words sounded as sweet as they were strange.

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They came back to him often, in the sad days that followed. The glitter and glory that surrounded him seemed hollow and horrible now; the throne he had lifted so high, the wide empire he had won, all the pleasures and beauty at his command might crumble and vanish in an hour. The

stroke of a dagger, the tooth of a snake might snatch him away from it all, and then what would remain? What?

Was he walking so close to a precipice down which he might fall at any moment? For the first time in all his life he felt himself to be a weak helpless mortal, too weak to stand alone, too helpless to dare either to live or die.

Should he bow his pride to learn faith of a Coptic slave? Scarcely the words of the Koran had been enough for his fathers, they should be enough for him.

And so the veil of darkness fell again upon his soul; the light, faint as it had been, was quenched-and Timur Bec turned again to find happiness and forgetfulness in the things he loved. His armies again swept over the world; his victories again were sung by bards and wept over by the conquered his kingly power rose to yet greater height. But the home of Aglen Aga remained silent and unvisited for evermore.

He could not stir again the memories that lingered in the Garden of the Golden Throne. The memories of his lost love and of the glimpse of faith and safety which had come to him there. In the darkness he lived, and in the darkness he died.

The light which had reached him was but a gleam, and amidst all that dazzled him in his earthly life he forgot that his soul had been sick and sad as it stood on the verge of the Unknown.

But for us the light has arisen that cannot be darkened. It shines upon us, that sweet steady ray, telling of forgiveness and comfort and goodness bought for us by Christ's blood. There are those of us who are far from being emperors and conquerors, who have no showered jewels, no gardens of delight; but we have our hours of wearyheartedness when the things of this world seem mean and poor beside the realities which lie beyond the shadow of death.

Shall we not listen to our Lord's "comfortable words," "Come unto Me"? Shall we not remember how brief a

of Christ as giving Himself to prayer, and as living a life of devotion, that we almost overlook the thought that it was astonishing that He should ever pray, and that He should ever assume a character and place Himself in circumstances in which prayer should be desirable and necessary, even for Him. We wonder how He felt, and what petitions He presented, when He offered His first prayer.

We have on record His last prayer, the prayer which He offered in His manhood, just before He suffered in Gethsemane and Calvary; and we could almost wish that there had been left on record His first prayer, the prayer of His childhood. We are to recollect that prayer was altogether a new exercise to Him. Ere He came into our world a boundless eternity had been the lifetime of His existence; but, during that eternity, He had never prayed. He never would have prayed had He not become the Mediator between God and man. It was our redemption which caused Him to pray, as well as to suffer and bleed and die. Redeeming love shines in His prayers.

As Man and as Mediator He felt His need of prayer. It was a great work which He came to accomplish, and great were the difficulties with which He had to contend, and great were the enemies which He had to overcome, and great were the sufferings which He had to endure. He prayed for Himself, and for His disciples, and for all His people. Believers have an interest, not only in His present intercession, but in His past prayers. His prayers were always effectual, fervent prayers. His heart was always prepared to pray. No reluctance, no wandering thought, no lukewarm feeling. The atmosphere of devotion was that in which He lived and moved and had His being. The fire of fervency always burned with a bright and glowing ardour on the altar of His heart. Lord, teach us how to pray!

H. C.