A moment of waiting, and forth from the shadow of the wall, directly under Atossa’s station, appeared a young man, with a companion in the armour of a guardsman. The first stranger, without word or hesitancy, swung himself upon the thick-stemmed vine that twisted upward to the parapet from the court below,—no easy feat; but he clambered upward with an agility worthy of Darius himself, and landed beside the lady almost before she realized he had commenced ascending. Once mounted, he shot about a single glance in search of some unfriendly eye, then stared abruptly upon Masistes. “Is this eunuch trustworthy?” he demanded, with no courtlier greeting. “He will die for me; is that sufficient?” answered Atossa, still wondering, and almost off her guard. “So the Lord God grant!” The newcomer glided behind a wide tamarisk bush that cut off view from any mounting the stairs. “And the others below are quiet?” he pressed. “They will only come when I summon them.” He leaned across the parapet, saying something softly to his companion. Atossa did not know the language, but imagined it Hebrew. When he turned to her again, she saw he was a powerful, handsome young man, with a manner of speech not unlike that of Darius. “Lady,” said he in Chaldee, “doubtless you know me not. You were in the closed carriage when his Highness the prince saved Ruth, my betrothed, from the king’s lion. Prince Darius deigns to call himself my friend; last night in some slight measure I repaid the debt I owe. To-day I strive to pay more, but I need your aid.” “Good sir,” spoke Atossa, her dignity rising, and cautious at last, “he who is Prince Darius’s friend is mine; but I know neither your name nor race. At best your errand here is a strange one.” The young man took one step nearer Atossa. “Lady, are you so fond, concerning Belshazzar, that you seek many tokens to vouch for him who declares himself the foe of the king and the well-wisher of Darius?” Atossa became yet haughtier. “Belshazzar is my betrothed husband. Will you revile him to my face? Am I not mistress in this palace?” A nod from her would have sent Masistes to summon help; but without premonition the newcomer held out his finger, showing a ring—on the beryl seal a swordsman was stabbing a lioness. “When last did your Highness see this?” he demanded, very quietly. “It was on Darius’s finger at the feast last night.” And even Masistes, as he looked, stifled the cry that was on his tongue. “Know, O Lady Atossa,” went on the stranger, “that Darius, son of Hystaspes, gave me this ring, after the feast, in token of sure and abiding friendship. Will you hear me now, wherefore I would speak with you?” “I will hear,” answered she, almost faintly, and there was no colour in her cheek. But as she spoke a voice sounded from the hall below, and the young man shrank behind his tamarisk. “Gracious princess, condescend to honour your slaves by coming down to the luncheon, which is ready.”