“Be warned,” exhorted the Hebrew. “I am your friend, and the king’s enemy; but as Jehovah my God liveth, you shall not do violence to this woman!”
“We meant no harm,” protested the leader of the band, cowed and sullen.
“Good, then; she is safe in my hands. Go again to the struggle, for by the Lord of Hosts, Belshazzar is far from mastered.”
They were gone, rushed back to the conflict now raging at the foot of the stairs to the second temple stage, whither the king had retreated with the soldiers. Isaiah caught a dusty robe from the bricks, where it had lain since being rent from its owner’s back, and threw it over Atossa.
“Cover your gay dress and your face, my lady,” commanded he, “so none will recognize, and I will conduct you back to the palace. This is truly proving a day of deeds fierce and terrible.”
Many rioters stared at them, but as soon as they recognized the prophet, they made way rapidly, and Isaiah led on unhindered, Shaphat following silently after, and guarding their rear.
Thanks to this half-reverence, half-dread, the two were soon clear of the tumult within the temple enclosure and were threading the city streets. Here everything was nigh quiet as the grave. Sober burghers and shopkeepers had long since barricaded their houses and closed their booths, lest the malcontents turn speedily from sedition to pillage. Once Isaiah led into an alley while a chariot corps from the Northern Citadel thundered past at headlong speed, bearing belated succour to the hard-pressed king.
Isaiah guided the princess westward, past the temple of Nana, and down the great street until they reached the river, the bridge of boats; and that once crossed, Atossa saw before them the stately gates of the palace, within which was her safety.
“Declare yourself fearlessly to the sentries, my lady,” said the young prophet, “and your danger is at an end.”
“And you?” said she, while he turned to leave her; “where is your safety? What may I do in reward for this peril run for me?”