"My lord spoke of the Assyrian," interrupted Ishtar. "Is he safe? Is he alive?"
"That he is alive, my daughter," replied the merchant, "if care and good usage can keep the life in a valuable captive, I will answer with my head. We bought him at a remunerative price, and my brother is even less likely than myself to let one suffer damage whose welfare is of such marketable value. That he is safe with the other goods I have sufficient reason to hope. Surely they joined a caravan guarded by more than five hundred horsemen of the desert. Ere now they must have reached the pleasant confines of my home—the broad-leaved oaks, the cool green valleys, and the breezy mountains of the north."
"The north!" repeated Ishtar, aghast and discomfited. "What! beyond Nineveh?"
"Far beyond Nineveh," said the other, "far beyond the boundaries of the land of Shinar, where the banner of Ashur hath never been lifted, the spear of the Assyrian never dulled its point in blood—in the land of corn and wine, pasture and fruit tree, flocks and herds, peace and plenty, the happy hill country of Armenia!"
"Sold to the Armenian for a slave!" was her answer. "O, my lord, shall I never see him again?"
He pitied her from his heart.
"Much may be done," said he, "with these three weapons, sword, bow, and spear; more yet with these, time, wisdom, patience. Add but a little gold, and who shall say that aught is impossible? My brother is one of those who, setting before them an object in the plain, turn neither to right nor left till they have reached it. The Assyrian is of fine frame and goodly stature, fit to stand on the steps of a throne. My brother hath determined he will sell him to no meaner purchaser than a king. Not all the wealth of Armenia will tempt him from his purpose, and to the king he will be sold. I have spoken."
Then he turned away to prosecute his business with those who were waiting around for examination of his merchandise, and Ishtar found herself alone and friendless in the crowded market—alone, with a wild foolish hope in her heart, and Sarchedon's amulet in her hand.
From the time she lost sight of him, she had never faltered one single moment in her resolution; arduous, impossible as seemed her task, she would not relinquish it even now.
Had she needed any farther stimulant to exertion she would have found it in the reflection that he, the distinguished warrior, the ornament of a court, the flower of a host, the treasure of her own heart, was a slave!