Shafts from an Eastern Quiver.
II.—THE JASPER VALE OF THE FALLING STAR.
By Charles J. Mansford, B.A.
Y all that's wonderful!" exclaimed Denviers. "Look yonder, Harold!" and he pointed towards a jagged ridge which rose in majestic grandeur from the mighty volcanic valley of the Lar.
I turned my glance in the direction indicated by my companion, and, for a moment, could not give utterance to my surprise at the strange sight.
"The woman must be mad!"
"The woman must be mad," I blurted out at last; "one false step, or even a breath of wind, will send her headlong down to the valley beneath, a shapeless and lifeless mass."
"Yet that fate would bring her rest and forgetfulness," said Hassan, who stood with us gazing from the height of the Aftcha Pass. There was a strange pathos in the Arab's voice as he spoke, and Denviers, knowing that Hassan had uttered the truth concerning our recent visit to Petra, was silent.
Leaving Petra, we had travelled eastward again, and at last found ourselves traversing this grand pass; for we were now in the heart of Persia, a country which we knew would amply repay us for the long, dreary journey which led from the scene of our last adventure in Arabia.
Owing to the intense heat of the day, we travelled only between sunset and sunrise, passing the rest of the time within the beautifully woven tent which Hassan had procured for us on entering Persia, in place of the rough camel-skin covering which had sheltered us from the sun in Arabia.
At the foot of the pass we had bargained with a nomadic Hilyat for the possession of two black Afghan horses on which we rode, Hassan leading the sumpter mules laden with our baggage.
It was a weird spectacle which met our eyes as we stood gazing at the snow-clad crest of Demavend in the distance, the silvery Lar winding its way down in the valley beneath, while around us were mountain tops, separated by the precipices on either side of the spot on which we stood. In the moonlight that streamed down and flooded the topmost ridge of the mountain before us, stood a woman with her hair hanging in tangled masses, framing the beauty of her olive complexion and lustrous eyes as it fell over her shoulders in wild profusion. The white garment which clothed her was encircled at the waist by a belt, which flashed as the rays of the moon fell upon the jewels which studded it. The expression of an infinite sadness which stamped her features seemed well in accord with Hassan's remark.
"Do you know her history?" asked Denviers, in response to the vague words of Hassan.
"The child of Arabia's desert, to whom the lore of these Eastern countries is known, has indeed heard her story, but it ill be-
