“Avil would love to slay him with you, but dare not. News of his execution, were it to leak out, would still raise the city in riot. But we hope to save him with you.” “Till when shall I wait to-night?” The words came eagerly. “We cannot stir before the third ‘double-hour’[9] of the night. All is ready.” Shouts sounded down the gallery; Zerubbabel was gone, and Darius sat in his gloom. How many times since he had been thrust within that cell had he watched the bar of pale golden light, which drifted through that chink against the ceiling, creep, silent as the tread of a dream, across the floor! It was his only sun-dial. Pictured in its brightness he had seen many a sight he had told himself he would never see more with mortal eye,—his father, the hills of his native Iran, and Atossa, always Atossa, fair as on the night of their meeting in the Hanging Gardens, when for the last time he had looked into her dear eyes. Interminable waiting! All the hard-learned lessons in patience, in which Darius had schooled himself since existing in that dungeon, forgotten in an hour! But, nevertheless, the day _did_ wane. The little bar of light crawled snail-like across the wet bricks of the floor, and began to climb the reeking wall. It mounted higher, higher, then began to fade, and for once the Persian’s heart commanded “go quickly,” though the ray had ofttimes been his dear friend. The chief warden entered with eight men, examined his captive’s chains. Intact. He and his band with their blinding torches were gone. Once more stillness, and only the monotonous music of the great river fleeting seaward. The last daylight had long vanished before Darius heard again—how gladly!—something stirring in the gallery without. There were a shout and a challenge when the guards were changing, the trample of heavy sandals, silence again, then Zerubbabel’s voice close to the door. “Quiet, my prince, my watch ends at midnight. We must be all haste.” The bolt was withdrawing noiselessly; the door crept open; inside glided a man with a flickering lamp that shed a red, uncertain light, leaving half the cell veiled in its shadows. Darius started, but a warning “Hist!” fixed him. “Where is Isaiah?” “In the next dungeon, releasing Daniel. The sentries have been drugged. Now off with these chains.” Babylonian fetters needed no key; the bronze circles, never locked, were simply hammered together around wrist or ankle. Happy mortal was he who, having felt them close upon him, could feel them also release. The turnkey set down his lamp, drew forth a stout iron bar. One twist of the lever freed the Persian’s good right arm, and like an unchained lion Darius tore his other limbs free, almost with his empty hand. The Persian’s heart gave a great bound as he sniffed a clear, sweet puff of night air, while ranging the gallery. A second lamp and two more figures came out of the gloom, but it was no place for stately greetings.