“Not save you?” reëchoed the prince, all the might of his strong nature rising up in refusal at her command.
“Hush! Not so loud!” warned she, and again she started; “surely in the thicket—”
“There may be other eavesdroppers!” spoke a voice from the covert directly behind them, and the words were the words of Avil-Marduk.
A shout from Darius, a cry from Atossa, answered him in the same instant.
The sword shot from the prince’s scabbard and flashed in the starlight; one stroke, and Avil would have uttered no more fell counsellings, but the priest stepped deliberately forward and caught the upraised hand before Darius could gather wits enough to smite.
“Nothing rashly, your Highness,” was his admonition, he himself perfectly calm. “Your life is in no danger, and I make bold to presume that any hurt that might befall your humble slave would meet with no slow requital.”
And even as he spoke there emerged from his hiding-place, or out of the ground of the garden rather, for aught Darius could see in the gloom, the figures of six men, a trembling torch in the hands of one, naked swords borne by the others.
Darius stood facing them, his head thrown back haughtily, his weapon still raised high.
“Do not think to slay me without dear payment!” rang his despairing boast.
But Atossa had fallen on her knees, crying to the Babylonians, “Spare him! Spare!” for her only thought was of Darius.