“Arrest Isaiah, living or dead,” fulmined the mandate again from the palace, but the royal thunders spent themselves in noise. Isaiah had found a safe refuge, the house of Dagan-Milki, a Babylonish schoolmaster, and confessedly one of the most devoted servants of the gods in Babylon. Once upon a day Isaiah had saved the goodman’s only son from the Euphrates, and now Dagan repaid the debt of gratitude. He conducted a little day school by the Borsippa Canal, where fifty boys and girls buzzed from morning till night, learning their lists of syllables, and the “Book of Fables” and the “Book of Countries and Rivers”; for there were few parents in Babylon that let even a daughter grow up so ignorant that she could not sign a letter, and had to content herself with her “nail-mark.” Dagan announced that his scholars had grown so numerous that he needed an assistant, to aid him to correct their tablets. The young man he took into his family seldom showed himself to the pupils; if he had, who would have thought of connecting him with the fugitive Hebrew? Dagan was such a pious man! But a terrible day came to Isaiah when a secret messenger of Imbi-Ilu contrived to search him out, and he heard the story of the abduction of Ruth. Imbi had done what he could, but to have pushed the inquiries about her far would have brought the case to the ears of the king, and that were sheerest madness. Friendly eunuchs reported that no such maid as the Jewess had been introduced into the royal harem. Neither Isaiah nor Imbi knew what to hope or to fear. Isaiah said little of his grief, but he went about with a face seven years older than his wont; and Dagan-Milki, worthy soul, was troubled for him and had wordy comfort. “Surely, the daughter of Daniel cannot be dead?” “Would God I knew she had perished, spotless and unsullied; I could then have peace! But into the hands of what human ‘Maskim’ may she not have fallen!” was the bitter answer. “But be not reckless in exposing yourself,” urged Dagan; “you will not save her by stalking about the streets so boldly. The last time you went to search for her, in the warehouses in the lower city by the temple of Samas, I trembled for your head. The stoutest wine-jar cracks at last, if carried too often. Daniel’s plight is miserable, but yours would be worse, if Avil-Marduk once puts the gyves on your wrists. No _Tartan_ or vizier will interpose himself betwixt you and Khatin.” “I am in the Lord God’s keeping,” retorted the young Jew, with a swelling voice; “it is all one whether I live or perish!” Dagan stifled a cynical sniffle. He did not love Jehovah more than any other Babylonian, but he did not wish to offend his guest. “My dear Hebrew,” he suggested, “at least put by your prejudices enough to accept the aid the gods will send you. Consult a necromancer. I know Kwabta, a ‘wise woman’ by the temple of Nergal, who keeps a familiar spirit. She can reveal everything that has befallen your unfortunate betrothed.”