Even when she spoke to her companion, Wachis, or to the gaoler, she never turned her eyes away. It seemed as if she thought that her mere look could guard the prisoner from every danger. On the day of which we speak she had sat thus for a long time. It was evening. Dark and threatening the massive tower rose into the sky, casting a broad shadow over the court and the left wing of the palace. "Thanks, O Heavenly Father," murmured Rauthgundis; "even the strokes of fate have led to good. If, as I once intended, I had gone to my father upon the High Arn, I should never have heard of all the misery here. Or far too late. But I could not bear to forsake the last resting-place of my child near our home. The last, indeed, I was obliged to leave, for how could I know that _she_, his Queen, would not come there? I dwelt in the woods near Fæsulæ, and when news came of failure, and one misfortune followed another; when the Persians burnt our house, and I saw the flames from my hiding-place; it was too late to escape to my father. All the roads were blocked, and the Italians delivered all whom they found with yellow hair into the hands of the Massagetæ. No way was open but the road here--to the city where I had ever refused to go as _his_ wife. I came like a fugitive beggar. Wachis, the slave, now the freedman, and Wallada, our horse, alone remained faithful to me. But--forced by God's hand to come, whether I would or not--I found that it was only that I might save _him_--deliver him from the shameful treachery of his wife, and out of the hands of his enemies! I thank Thee, O God, for this Thy mercy!" Her attention was attracted by the rattling of the iron gate opposite. A man with a light came through it across the court, and now entered the ante-room. It was the old gaoler. "Well? Speak! cried Rauthgundis, leaving her seat and hurrying to him. "Patience--patience! Let me first set down the lamp. There! Well, he has drunk and it has done him good." Rauthgundis laid her hand upon her heart. "'What is he doing?" she asked. "He always sits in the same position, perfectly silent. He sits on a stone block, his back turned to the door, his head supported on his hands. He gives me no answer when I speak to him. Generally he does not even move; I believe grief and pain have stupefied him. But to-day, when I handed him the wine in the wooden cup and said, 'Drink, dear sir; it comes from true friends,' he looked up. Ah, his look was so sorrowful, as sad as death! He drank deeply, and bowed his head thankfully, and gave such a sigh, that it cut me to the heart." Rauthgundis covered her eyes with her hand. "God knows what horrid thing that man means to do to him!" the old man murmured to himself. "What sayest thou?" "I say that you must eat and drink well, or else you will lose your strength; and you will need it before long, poor woman!" "I shall have strength enough!" "Then take at least a cup of wine." "Of this wine? No, it is all for him!"