"Ah! And you sell her flowers while she waits at home for me! Then give me of my roses, Baba, and I will pay for them."
As he spoke, he picked two crimson-petalled blossoms from the tray, tossed a shekel into the girl's lap, and passed on, laughing, while Baba stared after him, just realizing the opportunity that had come—and gone. Had she only killed him as he stood before her there, with the little weapon that she carried always in her girdle, who, in the excitement of the moment, would have thought of her family? She would have been carried off at once before the royal judges, have been speedily condemned, and probably taken straight from the court to her death. But to kill Ribâta in the tenement was a different matter. It would implicate every member of her family: Charmides, as well as Ramûa and her mother. Undoubtedly some desperate chance must be run to-day, but how or when Baba did not know. It would probably be left for the exigencies of the sunset hour.
That hour was approaching. Baba watched it come, dreading it as much as did Charmides, and more than Ramûa. Ramûa, indeed, had been singularly dull all day. The grief that she suffered was not poignant. It was as heavy and as lustreless as only despair can be. The fact that this was her last day of youth, of freedom, of love, of maidenhood, her last day in her home, the last day, in fine, of the life she had been born to, was something that overwhelmed her completely, and made sharp realization impossible. She followed her mother obediently about the house. She bathed the wounds of Bazuzu, who hid his face from her touch. And the only tears that she shed were over Zor, Baba's goat, which had stayed at home to-day, and had eaten its noon meal from her hand. At the touch of the creature's tongue Ramûa gave way for a few seconds. But she recovered herself quickly, and presented an impassive face when, a few minutes later, her mother came down from the roof.
Ramûa also watched the sun; but in her case it was more to know when she might be expecting Charmides than anything else. Baba and the Greek arrived somewhat before the time, within five minutes of each other. Baba had a scolding because four of the flower bouquets remained in her basket unsold. She made her peace by producing Ribâta's silver shekel, forbearing, however, to tell who had bestowed it upon her. After this little, indecisive skirmish, there was stillness in the lower room of the tenement of Ut. All the family, Zor included, were gathered there together. Ramûa sat at Baba's side on one of the beds. Beltani knelt near the door-way, grinding sesame in a mortar. The slave Bazuzu wove on at his baskets; while Zor lay comfortably at the feet of Charmides, who, very pale and silent, sat on his pallet on the darkest side of the room.
The sun reached the horizon line—and passed it. The evening flung out her victorious banners of purple, crimson, and gold. Still no Ribâta. Ramûa lifted her head at short intervals, to look across the empty space that stretched out from the open door. Charmides' heart palpitated so that breathing became difficult. There seemed to be a hope on which he had not calculated. Ribâta might have repented of his bargain and not come for the girl. This idea occurred to Beltani also, perhaps, for presently she rose from her labor, set the grain-jar aside, and hurried out of the door to look down the lane towards the canal. When she re-entered the room the look of smug satisfaction on her face was easy to read. Charmides' heart ceased to beat as she bustled over to Ramûa, stood her up, examined her with the greatest care from head to heels, fastened in a flying lock, saw that her poor tunic was straight, and that the garland on her head contained no withered leaf—for this might be considered a most unfortunate omen. She was still fingering her daughter when there was a clatter of yellow wheels outside, a prancing of glossy steeds on the hard pavement, and Ribâta, in his most resplendent chariot, drew rein at the door of the tenement of Ut.
Beltani's pride knew no bounds. She saw in her heart how every soul in the neighborhood was eagerly peering out from its corner to look at her door, where, this time, no mere steward-collector of rent had stopped, but my lord of them all, in golden attire, was come to pay them a visit. As he dismounted from the vehicle and entered the room, Beltani was nearly on her knees to him, though Ramûa, from her dark and shadowy corner, shrank back as far as she could. Charmides, scowling bitterly, and so pale that his face made a white spot in the gloom where he sat, clenched his two fists, but made no sound. Bazuzu's fingers dropped from his work, while he craned his neck to examine the enemy.
Ribâta saluted his hostess in his most elegant manner, asked carefully after her welfare, wished her health and fortune in the name of Bel-Marduk, and then casually, without too much interest, inquired for the object of his quest.
"The fair one, the Lady Ramûa, the flower of my heart, let mine eyes behold her, O mother of lilies!" said he, with a manner that matched his words.
"Ramûa!" called Beltani, gently—"Ramûa, greet thy lord!"
The girl, trembling like a frightened rabbit, the fire of despair burning in her large eyes, rose from her place and came haltingly down the room. Never, perhaps, had she been more beautiful than in this wretched hour. Charmides knew it. Ribâta, who watched her every move, gave perceptible signs of pleasure. Bowing before her as he might have bowed to the queen of Babylon, he lifted one of her cold and unresisting hands to his lips. It had scarcely reached them when, with a suddenness that startled Ribâta, Ramûa's hand was snatched away. She was pushed violently backward, and my Lord Bit-Shumukin found himself eye to eye with Charmides of Doric Selinous.