"Whither has he gone?" gasped Hadassah.
"I know not—he told me not whither," answered Cimon, surveying his questioner with compassion and curiosity. "Months have elapsed since the Athenian lord, after honouring this roof by his sojourn under it, suddenly disappeared. Search was made for him in vain. I feared that evil had happened to my guest, and as time rolled on and brought no tidings, I sent word to his friends in Athens, asking what should be done with property left under my charge by him who, as I deemed, had met an untimely end. Ere the answer arrived, the Lord Lycidas himself appeared at my door, but in evil plight, weak in body and troubled in mind. He would give no account of the past; he said not where he had sojourned; and yester-morn, though scarcely strong enough to keep the saddle, he mounted his horse, and rode off—I know not whither; nor said he when he would return. If the lady be a friend of the Lord Lycidas," continued the Athenian, whose curiosity was strongly excited, "perhaps she may favour me by throwing light upon the mystery which attends his movements."
But Hadassah had come to gain information, not to impart it. "I cannot linger here," she said, "but if Lycidas return tell him, I earnestly charge you, that the child of one who nursed him in sickness is now the prisoner of the Syrian king!"
Grievously disappointed and disheartened by her failure, Hadassah then turned away from the dwelling of the Greek.
"Oh, lady, rest, or you will sink from fatigue!" cried Anna, whose own sturdy frame was suffering from the effect of efforts of half of which, a day before, she would have dreamed her mistress utterly incapable.
Hadassah made no reply; she sank rather than seated herself under the narrow strip of shade afforded by a dead wall. The lady covered her face; Anna knew from the slight movement of her bowed head that Hadassah was praying.
Presently the Hebrew lady raised her head; she was deadly pale, but calm.
"I cannot stay here," she murmured. "I must know the fate of my child. Anna, let us return to the prison." Even with the aid of her handmaid, the lady was scarcely able to rise.
The twain reached the gate of the prison. A group of Syrian guards kept watch there. The appearance of the venerable sufferer, bowed down under such a weight of affliction, moved one of the soldiers to pity.
"You come on a fruitless errand, lady," he said, "the maiden whom you seek is not here."