The guardsman took a deep breath.
“Be a man, Isaiah,” he admonished, as if speaking sorely against his will; “I have a heavy piece of news for you.”
“Touching Ruth?”
Zerubbabel nodded. “You have heard that the king had designs on her. Did you know Mermaza was to make an attempt on her this very night?”
His voice had risen, despite Isaiah’s warning “Hush!” They heard a little cry on the balcony above—a louder scream. Isaiah clapped his hands to his face. “The Lord spare her now!—she has heard it!”
The next instant Ruth was beside them. She was trembling; her hand quivered in her lover’s while he held it, yet it seemed as much in anger as in dread, though her face had blanched to the whiteness of a summer’s cloud.
“Tell me all! All! Do you think me too weak to bear?” was her plea, turning her great eyes from the soldier to Isaiah and back again. “What danger waits?”
The young prophet’s voice grew very calm.
“Beloved, blessing and bane come from the Lord God alike. He can do nothing ill. Let us listen to Zerubbabel.”
The guardsman’s speech came falteringly,—no joy to chase the gladness from those bright eyes.