“He brings a letter from the general, that he is in all things to be believed. He also bears a token from the ever-to-be-reverenced Lady Atossa.”
“From Atossa?” They saw the king’s grip on the arm of his chair grow hard as a vise. “Bring him in instantly.”
Cyrus had reseated himself; the rest imitated perforce.
A moment later Phraortes ushered before them a young man in Babylonish dress, handsome-visaged, but now dusty, unkempt, travel-stained. The stranger did not cover his hands, Persian fashion, but fell on his face and kissed the rugs at Cyrus’s feet, nor did he arise until Cyrus bade him to fear nothing.
“Your Majesty understands Chaldee?” began the stranger, his eyes still on the carpet.
“I understand and speak it,” was the answer. “Do not tremble. We Persians forgive all else so long as men speak the truth. Who are you? Not a Babylonian?”
While the king spoke he had sped a glance keen as a spear through the newcomer, as if searching every recess of his soul. But the other, unconfounded, lifted his own gaze and met Cyrus boldly eye to eye, a glance in turn so penetrating, yet so winsome, that half the suspicions of monarch and princes were disarmed.
“I am no Babylonian, O king!” The young man tossed his head proudly. “My people are the Hebrews, whom it pleases the Omnipotent God should suffer oppression at the hands of these servants of speechless brass and graven marble, but who would not exchange the Lord God of their fathers for a thousand Belshazzars and his kingdoms. Know, your Majesty, that my name is Isaiah, son of Shadrach, the Jew, though born and bred in Babylon, city of darkness. And in proof of what I may tell you, receive this.”
He was extending something which Cyrus caught eagerly.