Zerubbabel bowed gloomily. “You have said.”
Isaiah shot one glance at the shadow cast by the tall “time-staff” set in the centre of the courtyard.
“It lacks three hours of sundown. There is yet time!” he cried.
But Ruth had suddenly steadied herself, and looked from one young man to the other. Her voice was very shrill.
“Who am I to make you rush into peril for my poor sake? If you hide me from the king, his fury will turn against you, and against my father. How can you save me? Go to Mermaza. Tell him he may take me when he wills. I can endure all rather than ruin those I love.”
She stood before her lover with head erect, eyes flashing. The glory of a great sacrifice had sent the colour crimsoning through her cheeks. If beautiful before, how much more beautiful now, in the sight of her betrothed! Had she counted the cost of her word? No, doubtless; but for the moment she was the girl no more, but the strong woman ready to dare and to do all.
But Isaiah answered her with a sternness never shown by him to her till now: “Peace! You know not what you say. What profit is my life, with you sent to a living death in Belshazzar’s impure clutch? There is but one thing left.”
“Away! Leave me!” she implored, new agony chasing across her face. “Is it not enough that I should be victim? Those who cross Belshazzar’s path are seekers for death.”
“Peace!” repeated Isaiah, and not ungently he thrust his hand across her mouth. “Must the whole house hear us? You, Zerubbabel, indeed, begone. You can only add to your peril, not aid.”
The guardsman hesitated. “If I can do aught—” he began.