Whispering to an archer, he bade him run with all speed, and apprise Agron of the difficulty, but showed no disposition to relax his own vigilance at the gate.
"Fool!" exclaimed Ishtar, in the same deep tones. "Will you wear your head to-morrow at sunrise? or do you wish it set here over the gate, while your body is flung from the wall to make a morning meal for the jackals? Know you not this token? Do you dare disavow the signet of Ninyas in his own royal abode?"
She held out the ring stripped from the Prince's finger in his drunken sleep, and was not surprised to see the Assyrian officer prostrate himself humbly before the jewel. He thought the manner of its forthcoming unaccountable and irregular, the hand that tendered it strangely white and delicate; but that was no affair of his. The Prince's signet, here in Ascalon, conferred supreme authority on its bearer, and he must simply obey.
He lowered his spear; the archers unstrung their bows; the heavy gate swung back; the dromedary paced leisurely through; and Sarchedon was alone with Ishtar in the desert—free!
They made but little haste while within bowshot of the walls. To arouse suspicion would have been fatal. The stars gave light enough for a practised archer to make sure of his mark. But when they had traversed a few furlongs, Sarchedon could not resist a smothered cry of triumph, while he urged the dromedary to its speed. The air from the sea blew fresh and pleasant, lifting his locks and cooling his temples as he hurried on, while every sense seemed sharpened, every muscle strengthened by the rapidity of his flight. Behind him was sorrow, outrage, and imprisonment; before him freedom, love, and joy. He could scarce control his feelings; for was not Ishtar leaning on his shoulder? and had he not gained all he desired in the world?
Looking back in the beloved face of her who was to share his future, it startled him to see it so pale, that in the starlight it was like the face of a corpse.
She had borne up bravely through difficulty and danger; but when the crisis was past, and she knew her lover in safety, the strength that self-sacrifice and devotion afford a woman at her need failed her without warning; and she sank heavily against Sarchedon, faint, helpless, inanimate, but clinging round him to the last.
So the stars paled, the sky brightened, turning to pearly gray, and clear faint green, primrose, orange, crimson, and molten gold. The sun rose in his glory, bathing earth and heaven in floods of dazzling light. The sand glowed, the waste widened, and still the dromedary travelled on with free, unfaltering strides, swift, straight, and noiseless like an arrow from a bow.
Ninyas, waking out of his heavy slumbers, looked about him in a dim confusion of thoughts that gradually resolved themselves to a sense of irritation tinged with shame.
The voice of Ishtar still seemed ringing in his ears, signs of her presence—jewels, garments, articles of feminine luxury—were strewed about the apartment; but she who made the charm of all was nowhere to be found. He called, he clapped his hands, he rose, yawned, stretched himself, and observing his finger bared of its accustomed jewel, the whole truth flashed on him at a glance.