“You forget,” quoth Belshazzar, ogling from one woman to the other; “her father is no boatman, by Nergal! though, like your own, scarce now on good terms with the god of good fortune. He is Daniel, the one time civil-minister.” All the anger vanished from Atossa’s face instantly. “Were you not Ruth, who was betrothed to Isaiah the Jew?” asked she of the girl, who only nodded dumbly, for fear had stolen her power of speech. “And what does the king require of her?” spoke the Persian, almost haughtily; “possessing me, does he not possess enough?” “Fie!” answered he; “because I keep the swiftest Elamite bay in my stables, must I own no other charger? You need not fear her as a rival in power. You shall be queen, and she?—” he lifted the dark curls on the Jewess’s soft neck, “we shall find her place when some lucky god gives back to her her tongue.” Ruth cringed and shivered under the touch; more than ever she seemed the dumb, netted creature. But Atossa took her by the hand. “Your Majesty,” said she, more mildly than before, but losing none of her lofty tone of command, “surely you have made merry enough with your two slaves for to-day. Let me take the daughter of Daniel with me, to my chambers.” “Let the king so favour his handmaiden.” It was the first word Ruth had spoken. And Belshazzar declared, with another great laugh:— “So be it. Go your ways. Teach this wench speech, Atossa, and I thank you. But one last command,—let the Jewess be present at the feast of triumph; for if you are to shine as Istar, the other great goddess, Beltis, must not fail.” Once in the private chambers of Atossa, Ruth cast herself on the tiles at the princess’s feet and burst into a flood of tears. “O lady! if you have any power indeed, give one favour, a speedy death, and end my pain! Better black Sheol than to hear again the voice of Belshazzar!” But the Persian, stronger and maturer, raised her up, and held her head against her own breast. “Peace, peace. Lamentation binds up no broken hearts, else would mine have ceased its grieving long ago.” “Ah! merciful mistress,” cried the Jewess, falling again on her knees, “forgive your slave; what freedom is this that I have shown before your face? Forgive—” “I forgive nothing; there is naught to be forgiven,” answered Atossa, with a wan smile. “We are equals in the wretchedness of our lot. Whether your plight or mine is worse, Ahura knows, not we.”