The pontiff gave one leap backward, and in the darkness his foe just missed him, but fell with all his might upon an unlucky soldier who interposed. The man went down upon the greensward with a rattle in his throat, as Darius smote him. But the others instantly piled upon him, and after a desperate and aimless struggle the Persian was plucked from his prey. He faced Belshazzar while two guardsmen clung tight to his terrible arms. “Well, your Majesty,” rang his demand, “how long is left to me to live?” “You are safe,” answered Belshazzar, from a distance; “you saved my life from the auroch. I will not take yours at present.” “So I am a prisoner, envoy of Cyrus though I be? You refuse my demand for instant return to Susa?” “After what has passed here and now,” retorted Belshazzar, grimly, “I think you will not marvel if I dare to delay you.” “Better the executioner, and have done!” cried the prince, almost struggling out of his captors’ hold. “We gain little by bartering high words, Persian,” thundered the king, in unconcealed triumph; “you are a prisoner. They shall give you the liberty of your rooms, until you prove yourself disobedient to my will.” “Am I then a hostage?” “You shall see. In dealing with Cyrus—” But the king said no more, for Atossa deliberately placed herself betwixt the two in their anger. “Will the king hear me?” All her courage had returned the instant she knew Darius’s life was for the moment safe. She was the great king’s daughter still, and she stood before Belshazzar, fair and strong. He told himself he had never seen man or woman more calm, more beautiful. “I will hearken,” was his sole answer, and Atossa continued her speech, that came very slowly.