A tart retort was tingling on her tongue, when a voice from the court interrupted. “Ho! Is the young master Isaiah above?”
It was the old porter’s call; the other responded instantly.
“Since my Lord Daniel is away,” went on the porter, “will my young master come down at once? His friend, the guardsman Zerubbabel, is here, and demands instant speech of weighty matters.”
Isaiah was down the stairs by leaps. In the court he met a young man of about his own age, comely and erect, dressed in the short mantle of a soldier off duty.
“Where is my Lord Daniel?” was his quick demand; he was breathless with running.
“Has none told? Gone to Borsippa.”
“Jehovah God have mercy!”
Isaiah caught his friend by the arm.
“Hold, Zerubbabel; gain breath, and speak to the point. Your wits are all scattered on the road behind!”