A third groan, and for a long time Ruth gave not another sound. It was a long drive across the breadth of Babylon, from the Borsippa suburb on the extreme southwest, to the river. Ruth hoped against hope that there might be a rescue. Imbi-Ilu was not a man to sit down helpless before a fraud like this. But as the carriage sped onward, this tiny gleam of hope sank to a faint spark indeed. Once, in fact, as the horses’ hoofs beat hollow upon the bridge crossing a canal, they were suddenly halted. It was the guard-house marking the octroi limit to the inner city. Voices sounded and a lantern light flashed through the wicker body of the carriage. “You are late,” a gruff soldier’s voice was grumbling. “Few honest people drive at such an hour. I must search your carriage, lest you bring in something liable to ‘gate money.’” Ruth started from her lethargy, opened her lips for a scream, when, before a sound could escape, Binit’s fingers squeezed her neck. “Not a twitter!” murmured the wailer, hoarsely, “though you strangle.” “Friend,” spoke Gudea, naught abashed, “I have nothing taxable and am in great haste.” They heard the chink of a bit of silver, an appeased grunt from the official, the lash whistled, and the horses went forward with a bound. Ruth was gasping before Binit relaxed her hold. “Fool,” snapped the latter, “had the guard taken you, what profit to you? Would he not have sent you straight to the king?” So they hastened onward, Ruth seeing nothing of all the silent streets and market squares they threaded. Presently they rattled over brick pavements, and she knew they were on the quays. Then the carriage halted with a jerk, voices sounded again, and Gudea thrust open the door. “Out with you,” he ordered, “the boat has waited long, and the captain is cursing and impatient!” “But the girl must be painted,” objected Binit. “Haste, then. Ea knows what will befall if Imbi raises the alarm.” They were in the muddy courtyard of a warehouse, the thatched lofts and storerooms rising in the blackness on every side; two or three swarthy boatmen were standing by in the light of a pair of flickering torches. Binit drew her prisoner’s mantle until it covered the face. “Now, my gosling,” squeaked she in an ear, “one little cry, and you feel this tingle!” And she followed up her word by pricking the Jewess’s neck with the tip of a very keen knife. Ruth was silent while Binit hurried her up a dark stairway to an upper loft, full of straw. And there, by an uncertain rushlight, she tore off the girl’s white dress, not neglecting to appropriate two valuable rings on Ruth’s fingers, smeared the Jewess’s body with a red cosmetic that gave her the hue of a sun-tanned peasant; and finally, to complete a transformation, which she accomplished with a dexterity worthy of a loftier cause, threw over her the soiled and sombre garments suitable to a slave-girl.