Isaiah did not reply immediately; and she returned to the charge. “Speak,—are you so jealous that no man may set eyes on the hem of my mantle? Speak!” And she snapped her bright eyes before his. “Your father is a wise man,” began Isaiah, cautiously; “assuredly he had reasons.” “Which clearly you agree in?” pressed she, sharply. “I said not that; though, were he to tell, no doubt they would seem sufficient.” “He has not told them? What passed then so slyly, when you stood together?” Isaiah had boasted that in a city where the clever liar was deemed the sage, he had been wont to speak truly; but he found himself close to equivocation. “We spoke of the increasing power of Avil. Your father grows anxious.” “And was not _my_ name mentioned once, twice?” Ruth had turned from the loom, and was looking Isaiah in the face. “You did wrong to eavesdrop,” he faltered, nigh desperately, for falsehood tripped hardest off his tongue when those soft eyes were on him. “No answer,” she challenged, lowering her head till her curls almost brushed his cheek. “Speak! Why did you use my name?” “You must have confidence in us,” began Isaiah, putting on manly austerity, “to believe that whatever we said was only for your good.” A tart retort was tingling on her tongue, when a voice from the court interrupted. “Ho! Is the young master Isaiah above?” It was the old porter’s call; the other responded instantly. “Since my Lord Daniel is away,” went on the porter, “will my young master come down at once? His friend, the guardsman Zerubbabel, is here, and demands instant speech of weighty matters.” Isaiah was down the stairs by leaps. In the court he met a young man of about his own age, comely and erect, dressed in the short mantle of a soldier off duty. “Where is my Lord Daniel?” was his quick demand; he was breathless with running. “Has none told? Gone to Borsippa.” “Jehovah God have mercy!” Isaiah caught his friend by the arm. “Hold, Zerubbabel; gain breath, and speak to the point. Your wits are all scattered on the road behind!” The guardsman took a deep breath. “Be a man, Isaiah,” he admonished, as if speaking sorely against his will; “I have a heavy piece of news for you.” “Touching Ruth?” Zerubbabel nodded. “You have heard that the king had designs on her. Did you know Mermaza was to make an attempt on her this very night?” His voice had risen, despite Isaiah’s warning “Hush!” They heard a little cry on the balcony above—a louder scream. Isaiah clapped his hands to his face. “The Lord spare her now!—she has heard it!” The next instant Ruth was beside them. She was trembling; her hand quivered in her lover’s while he held it, yet it seemed as much in anger as in dread, though her face had blanched to the whiteness of a summer’s cloud. “Tell me all! All! Do you think me too weak to bear?” was her plea, turning her great eyes from the soldier to Isaiah and back again. “What danger waits?” The young prophet’s voice grew very calm.