Chapter XX: Book II: The Great City (12)

On the afternoon of the twelfth day of the siege, one of the last days in the month of Duzu, Charmides walked out beyond Imgur-Bel to see this much-talked-of sight. At this time the Greek presented rather a different appearance from that of six months ago. His resignation from the temple of Sin had proved disastrous; and there were now times when the meanest of food was not to be found in the house of Beltani. Charmides had no work to do, would not beg, hated the thought of the temple, grew gaunt and big-eyed, went unkempt as to dress, and mourned over Ramûa, who in turn wept over him, both of them, and Beltani, too, concealing their state from Baba with the utmost care. To-day, after a troubled hour at home, where Ramûa's efforts at cheerfulness were like blows to him, the Greek went out, in the face of a prostrating heat, to seek by rapid walking an escape from the thoughts that pursued him, and to evade the admission to himself of the inevitable end: that he must go back to the profession of lies and of deceit; of treachery, of crimes, of death. He made his way quickly across the city and out beyond the first wall to a spot where green, well-watered fields stretched before his eyes, putting him suddenly back into his youth. He halted in his walk at a distance of thirty yards from the great wall, just behind a group of people come evidently for the same purpose as his--that of watching Belshazzar's drive. Rather absent-mindedly the Greek noticed the man immediately in front of him, who had been in a measure connected with his old life of the temple; and he watched the movements of that lean, ill-kempt figure with the same keen sub-consciousness that one sometimes exercises when the thoughts are very intent on something else. It was in this way that he noted the sling in the right hand of the Jew.

There was not long to wait for the coming of Belshazzar. At a little murmur from the men in front, Charmides turned his head and saw, far down the wall, a black speck that gradually increased in size, and finally resolved itself into four flying horses, harness and crests flashing in the light of approaching sunset, that raced neck and neck under the long, black lash wielded by him who stood alone in the rattling vehicle--a figure the poise of which was beyond question royal. Charmides looked on it with undisguised admiration--the superb head with its golden coronet, the broad shoulders, to which was fastened a fluttering, crimson cloak, and the hands flashing with jewels the least of which would have kept the Greek's stricken household well fed for months.

Absorbed as were Charmides' eyes in the sight of the approaching figure, he nevertheless felt his gaze suddenly withdrawn to the man in front of him, who was now busily fumbling with the weapon in his right hand. Suddenly a stone had been fitted into the sling and aim taken, and at the same time Charmides' slow thoughts resolved themselves. Leaning forward, he twitched the sleeve on the Jew's right arm at the moment in which the stone flew forth, wide of its mark, while the chariot passed safely by. Beltishazzar, with a Hebrew exclamation, wheeled sharply about. Charmides faced him in silence. A look only passed between them, but it was enough. In that little time they knew each other. Charmides had made an enemy, and the all-powerful Jew felt a twinge of fear.

An hour after this incident Charmides and the king met, face to face, in the middle of the Â-Ibur-Sabû. Belshazzar was in his ordinary chariot, slowly returning from the walls. Charmides was on foot, going his weary way back to the tenement of Ut. It occurred to the Greek to speak to the lord of the city on the subject of his personal safety. He therefore stopped in the road, directly in front of the royal horses. With a sharp exclamation Belshazzar drew up his reins. Catching sight of the Greek's face, however, and recognizing it, he paused to listen when Charmides spoke.

"Lord prince of the Great City--live forever!" he began, formally. "There was to-day an attempt upon the most royal life of the prince my lord."

Belshazzar stared a little. "How, Greek?"

"As the royal chariot drove along the top of Nimitti-Bel, a man, one of the subjects of my lord, made endeavor to fell him by a shot from a sling. I, pulling his sleeve at the moment, caused the stone to fly wide of the mark. When next my lord drives it may be that I shall not be at hand."

Belshazzar looked quizzically into the face of him who spoke these laconic words. But he found no guile in the emaciated face. Instead, there was something there that roused his interest. "Mount beside me, Greek. I have not forgotten thee. Thou shalt return with me to the palace."

Charmides refused. He had no desire for a cross-examination on the subject that he had detailed as fully as he intended to the prince. All efforts on Belshazzar's part to induce him to come were in vain. Therefore, seeing that Charmides would have his way, Belshazzar did what he could for the very apparent signs of pecuniary distress in the youth's appearance. Detaching from his neck a golden chain wrought with well-cut gems, he silently held it out to the Greek.

Charmides was much displeased. It was the first time that he had ever needed a gift, and therefore the thought of taking this one shamed him. "My words, O prince, were not a suit for gifts."

"Thy wife," suggested Belshazzar, inconsequently.

A flicker passed through the Greek's eyes, but he did not waver. "My lord, I shall probably re-enter the priesthood."

"I think thee no such enemy to me. Come into my regiment of Gutium."

"Nay. I cannot fight. I will have no blood on my hands. I follow music alone; and music forbids murder."

Belshazzar laughed slightly at the fellow's incomprehensible attitude. "Go back, then, to temple service. I will trust thee there," he said, good-naturedly. "And now, the name of him that would have had my life?"

Charmides opened his lips to speak, and then closed them again. "Ask me not. Only beware and guard thyself."

The king bent his brows. "Greek, hast thou lied to me?"

"No, lord prince."

Belshazzar shrugged. "Out of my way, then!" he cried. And Charmides stepped quickly out of the road while the king brought his whip over the haunches of his steeds and started forward, tossing, as he went, the chain of gold at the feet of the Greek. Nor was he ungenerous enough to cast a single backward glance to see whether or no the hungry fellow picked it up.

So Belshazzar proceeded on his way back to the palace, musing rather on the incident of his little talk with Charmides than upon its subject--the attempt on his life. More than this one time, and in more dangerous ways than a sling-shot at a hundred yards, he had been threatened with death. Those very drives round the walls carried with them the possibility of a far more frightful end. But Belshazzar's was an adventurous nature. And danger was his life, a life that the city's state of quiescence had once led him to seek by other than reputable paths.

On his arrival at the palace he went immediately to Istar's rooms, determined to tell her nothing of the event of the afternoon, for her fears for his personal safety would be thereby enormously increased. But when he came to her he found another subject ready to occupy all his thoughts. Istar was not watching for him at the door, as was her invariable custom. Instead, he found her hanging over the bed on which her baby lay ill--so ill that Belshazzar, on first seeing it, turned pale for Istar's sake. And the look that he found in her face, when, with a glad cry that he had come, she turned it to him, sent a pang to his heart.

Istar's child, the fruit of her earth-love, had cost her her godhead, but had returned her joy a thousandfold dearer than divinity had been. Only now, as she stood bending over the helpless little form, racked as it was with mortal pain, did the greatest world-horror, the horror of death, first lay its hold upon her. The thought that this little being whom she had brought into the world--whom, day and night since its coming she had cherished with an all-powerful love and joy--_could_ die, could cease to live for her forever, rushed over her as the waters close over the head of a drowning woman.

Until an hour before the coming of Belshazzar, Istar had been alone with the child, believing it to be suffering from some infantine ailment. But finally the little creature's fever was so manifestly high, and its distress so great, that she had commanded the attendance of the new rab-mag, a man widely celebrated for the potency of his charms. He came at once, examined the baby from head to foot, and noted certain things that caused him to turn to the mother with a look of deep anxiety.

"Great lady," he said to her, "thou wilt do well to leave this child alone, though before dawn it die. I, Kidish-Nindar, say it. Accept my words, and put the child from thee for the sake of the Great City over which thy husband rules!"

Then Istar, in fear and amazement--quickly and sharply dismissed the man from her presence and turned again to the infant, that lay now in a quiet stupor. It was so that Belshazzar found her, wetting the child's forehead with her tears, pouring forth mingled prayers and the incoherent, birdlike talk of a mother, while her own face took on the color of chalk, and her eyes were bright with a dread to which she would not, even to herself, give form.

The king, for a moment, took her place over the infant, and stood regarding him while Istar told the story of the rab-mag's desertion. Belshazzar would have commanded his return had not the mother forbidden it. But when his displeasure had cooled a little, the king began to ponder over the evident fear of Kidish-Nindar; and finally, bidding Istar remain where she was, he took the child in his arms, carried it across the room, and seated himself with it upon his knees directly under a light. His back was turned to the divan, and Istar did not see what he did. When he had finished his examination and carried the faintly moaning child back to its place, he went over to her, and she could not but start with dismay at the ghastly pallor that had come upon him. Rising, she laid both hands upon his arm, looking silently, wistfully, into his sad eyes.

"My lord!" she whispered, fear unlocking her lips.

Belshazzar, knowing the ineffable tenderness of her motherhood, could not tell her what he knew. He said only: "Beloved, we will watch together through the night."

But before that watch began Belshazzar left Istar's rooms for the space of half an hour while he sought the apartment of Kidish-Nindar. The rab-mag was frantically purifying his body and repeating mingled prayers and exorcisms, in the hope of warding off that which he so unspeakably dreaded. The king, by means of threats and bribes adroitly alternated, extorted from the man an oath of silence, and then left him grovelling on his knees before an image of Sin, while he, the king of Babylon, returned to the vigil of his child.

Through the long night they sat together, man and wife, by the bedside of the child. Together they watched the progress of that terrible disease of which Istar was so happily ignorant. Together they saw the flame of life struggle with the suffocating darkness in which it burned. And they saw the little light grow feebler, and the flame flutter in the wind that came across the dark valley of the beyond. Istar's brain reeled and her heart grew sick. Still, as she sat with her gaze fixed on the drawn face of the child, unconscious that Belshazzar's eyes were always upon her, she refused to believe what was too apparent.

And there came a time in the early dawn when the mother could hold away no longer. Lifting the baby from its place, she clasped it close to her breast, carried it across to the soft divan, and lay down with the little, fever-flushed body pressed warm over her heart. In this position her eyes, weary with the long vigil, closed; and while she slept the day broke. Belshazzar remained close at her side to watch the end alone. He could not have told what it was that caused him to lift up his hands there in the faint light, groping for something to which to cling, for some higher power that should ease the terrible aching of his heart. Suddenly the world had become a vast waste, and he was in it alone, helpless and unutterably weary. And it was still without the hand of God to help him that he saw the end come--the death of Istar's happiness and of his own. It was while Istar still quietly slept that the white shadow passed into space. And the woman awoke to find Belshazzar's hand in hers, and the little body lying stiff and rigid across her bosom.

When Istar realized what had happened she made no outcry. She sat clasping the lifeless form tighter to her own. Tearless, speechless, motionless, she sat alone with that unbearable thing that mortals know as the death-sorrow. Pitilessly it ate its way into her vitals. She forgot everything that had been in her heart before. She was unconscious of any living presence. She was bereft--bereft--and of her offspring. It was in her mind to curse the God that had conceived such suffering and put it upon man. And then there came a touch upon her arm that stilled all her rebellion. Belshazzar's tears fell hot upon her cheek. Without a word she lifted up to him the baby that was also his: and, when he took it in his arms, she crept again over to the pillows, and as she laid her face among them, the blessed tears came forth, and she could weep.

How long she lay there no one knew. Belshazzar had carried away the body--the little body that had been hers; and when he returned to her he brought a cup of wine. The child was gone. As he lifted her up in his arms she asked a mute question with her eyes, and he answered her softly:

"The baby, most beloved, is gone. Our eyes may not again behold him. Some day--some day--" he got no further. For an instant Istar had looked at him in a dull, meaningless sort of way. Then, no longer knowing what she did, her nerves suddenly giving way, she threw herself upon him in blind anger, struggling like one gone mad, crying that he had stolen her child from her, screaming till her voice was gone and her strength gave way, and she fell into his arms a helpless, lifeless form.

Later in the day, when, with invincible patience and tenderness, he had soothed her into quietude and had gone forth to his inevitable duties, Baba came--Baba, who, since her day in the house of Êgibi, had been Istar's constant companion.

Baba had come to love Istar's child almost as Istar herself loved it. When, therefore, the little slave first came to the mother, she could speak no words of comfort. Her tears flowed faster than Istar's own, and she could only grieve beside the queen. Yet in some way this human woe brought to Istar's lonely heart its first breath of comfort and of hope. In the evening she began to speak to Baba of many half-forgotten things--of her own mysterious birth, of her dim remembrances of a great preceding existence, of those beings that had sometimes come to her on earth from space. In the last few weeks Istar had become almost utterly oblivious of her one-time divinity. Natural life and natural love had so blunted her former faculties of perception that the past remained only as a misty background to her life. Yet as her mind struggled to pierce the mists that hid from her the glory of bygone days, a longing was born within her heart--a longing ill-defined, yet so strong that she made, perforce, painful efforts to formulate it.

"I have beheld the glory of the setting sun--the pale light of the newly risen moon. The murmur of waters came to me as I slept. I beheld great lakes and white palaces, and high towers shining in the morning light. The scent of the lotus filled the air, and the rustle of the wind was in the palm-trees. Tell me, my Baba--tell me that for which I thirst! Tell me the great desire of my heart! Tell me, oh my Baba, where, in the same hour, have I known all these perfect things?"

Baba, gazing at her with the big, wondering eyes that had never in all her little life shone with the light of complete happiness, understood the words of her golden lady. "I will bring the great comfort to thee," she said. "Wait till I come again." And, rising, she left the palace.

Through two still hours Istar waited there with her heart-sorrow, trusting in Baba to bring that for which she thirsted. And at last, when she had grown weary with waiting, Baba came again, and with her some one else--Charmides, with his burnished hair and his pale, gaunt face, carrying his lyre in his hand. With a silent obeisance to Istar, he stood off at a little distance, and, opening his lips, began to sing.

Then, indeed, came the glory of the setting sun, the pale light of the newly risen moon, with the whisper of waters and the shining gold of great lakes. And around fair white towers and palaces hung the scent of lotus flowers, and the murmur of the evening wind was in the palm-trees. All things far and beautiful came home in the same hour to Istar's senses. And as he sang again, the tears of mingled joy and woe flowed from her eyes. Once more, and music, which is divine, opened divinity again before her vision, and she rose up transfigured, crying:

"Allaraine! Allaraine! Mine eyes behold thee once again!"

Then the moment of fire faded, and she was alone with only Charmides and his careworn, ethereal face, singing on in the fragrant accents of his Sicilian land, till Istar's passion faded gently away, and she smiled a little, and her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. Presently her flower-like head drooped forward. The frail, white hands fell from where they had been clasped upon her breast. Baba drew her down upon the divan, and when Charmides' voice died at length away, a great silence was in the room. Baba and the Greek were alone together. Charmides stood transfixed, his eyes fastened upon the sleeping figure of her whom he had once worshipped. He was roused from the look by a touch on his hand. Baba was kneeling at his side, and her lips were pressed to the fingers that had touched the magic lyre-strings, bringing peace to the soul of Istar of Babylon.

* * * * *

And thereafter ten days passed away, and it was the time of the great yearly feast of Tammuz, the beautiful god of spring.

XVIII

THE FEAST OF TAMMUZ

The midsummer month, Abû, dedicated to the "Queen of the Bow," was ushered in with heat intense, suffocating, and unendurable. The second day of the month was the sixteenth of the siege--so-called. The camp of the Elamite remained perfectly passive. No preparations for fighting had been made, neither battering-ram nor catapult constructed, not an arrow let fly from the bow, not a pebble from the sling. The great body of stout warriors from the vigorous north remained in demoralizing idleness, broiling in their tents, sleeping by day, living and suffering at night, while the city they coveted lay quiet, half lifeless, on the plain before them.

The time had come for the great religious festival celebrated each year in the Babylonian temples by priest, king, and people, in honor of Istar's murdered spouse, Tammuz, the young god of spring, slain by the fierce bolts of high-riding Shamash. This feast was of three days' duration, and began at the hour of the first sacrifice on the morning of the second of the month. It was the most important festival in the calendar, and never yet in the history of the city had its celebration, for any reason whatsoever, been neglected. And this year the royal decree concerning it was issued as usual.

In the week that preceded the prospective holiday, however, the lord of Babylon was subject to some unaccountable forebodings with regard to this feast. Outwardly, as any one could see, the city was quiet enough. Inwardly it seethed. This, of course, Belshazzar knew. But of the extent or the trend of the plot, neither he nor any of his partisans was aware. His ears could not hear what was talked of at noon in the houses of Zicarû. His eyes could not see the well-hidden rooms in which priests and people met to talk over wrongs that the citizens had never thought of before, but which their indefatigable preceptors skilfully pointed out to them. Nor did Belshazzar much heed the harangues that daily followed morning sacrifice in every temple. He hardly noticed how immense were the crowds in attendance at sacrifice now; and those of the lords and the soldiers that did notice, refused to think lucidly, but put it all down to anxiety over the siege and a wish to propitiate the gods. Still, blind, deaf, utterly insensible as were the king and all his councillors to the only open evidences of treachery in the city, there was no one of them that did not, however vaguely, feel treachery in the air, and dread accordingly.

In the days between the fall of Sippar and the feast, Nabonidus had not once, so far as his son knew, been inquired for by man, woman, or priest in the Great City. If anything were said in the palace it was in whispers too careful to reach the royal ears. Belitsum, still overcome by the prophet's dream, had gone into an uncertain retirement; but the remainder of the harem went thoughtlessly and light-heartedly about their occupations, adding to their usual aimless lives the pleasure of preparing for the great holiday, now so near at hand.

The demi-god Tammuz, beloved of the love-goddess (as Spring and Love have been forever wedded in myth and song) had no proper place of worship in Babylon. His romantic death, however, was celebrated in every temple of the city and the suburbs on the same days. From time immemorial it had been the custom for the royal household--men, women, children, slaves, officers, and servants--to remove into the great hall of the temple of Bel-Marduk, where the high-priest was accustomed to officiate.[12] Here for three days they remained, engaged in mingled prayer and revelry, the one forbidden refreshment being that only one which could betoken forgetfulness of the gods and the purposes of the feast--sleep.

In consequence of this, for a week after the festival of the death of Spring, the Great City was wont to wear the aspect of a city of the dead; for every one in it moved out from the temple in which he had celebrated the great event, straight to his bed, and there remained till his vitality was restored to him.

According to custom, then, on the night of the first of July Babylon was in a ferment of activity. Houses were preparing for temporary desertion, stripped of costly hangings and furniture, which were stowed where they might be out of reach of sacrilegious marauders, while holiday garments and ornaments, the costliest that each household could afford, were making ready for wear on the morrow. In every garden garlands were woven. In the temples, priests and eunuchs were at work setting up tables and divans, hanging flower-ropes and wreaths over the images of Tammuz that were placed in each house of worship. All night chariots rattled through the streets, and men shouted to each other from house to house. Great droves of bullocks and goats, and immense numbers of fowls and doves, were conveyed to the temporary sheds erected on each temple-platform, in anticipation of the needs of the sacrifices. To the casual observer everything might have appeared exactly as usual. There was none to know how many secret weapons were slipped into the broad girdles of the citizens' holiday dresses. There was none to wonder why, at some time between midnight and dawn, a Zicarî, or some member of the priesthood, stopped at almost every house in the common quarters to whisper certain final instructions in the ear of the householder. And from the great height of Nimitti-Bel, the members of the city guard failed, in the darkness, to perceive that the black camp of the invader was not at rest.

There were two men in Babylon aware of all these things, and these two sat together, like spiders in the great web of their spinning, watching throughout that fervid night. They were in the house of the high-priest of Bel, on the east side of the Â-Ibur-Sabû; and one of them was Amraphel, the master of the house, while the other was Beltishazzar the Jew. They did not talk, for there was little to speak of. Their plan had been long in the making and was perfect at last. Every detail was at the finger-tips of both of them. And it had been only a consciousness of the gigantic consequence of their plan, and the probable monstrous results of it, that made its originators instinctively draw together on the eve of its fulfilment. Neither of them was nervous in the presence of the other, for one of these men perfectly complemented his companion. The great intellect and the talent for broad strokes of policy that had made Amraphel's position what it was, was completed by the abnormal characteristics of craft and foresight possessed by the Jew. Amraphel's courage was the outcome of his great pride. Daniel's bravery was that of the enthusiast, the fanatic, the leader of men--tempered always with a species of cowardice, the cowardice that was to give Babylon over to other hands than his for government.

Thus here, in the silent interior of Amraphel's vast palace, sat the two traitors, inwardly communing, outwardly silent, throughout the long night of the first of July, while Babylon raged within, and Belshazzar dreamed feverishly in the house of his dead father.

Morning--the morning of the second of Ab--dawned over the city. On the lips of every man was the name of Tammuz. In the heart of every man were the mingled emotions of excitement, of dread, of vague desire. The palace of the king was, early in the day, the scene of confused preparation. Only one person in it experienced no sensation of pleasurable excitement at the prospect of the coming feast; Istar, still mourning her unspeakable loss, had spent the night in accustomed grief, to which this time something was added--a vague sense of dread, of undefined foreboding. At early dawn, before the palace was awake, Belshazzar came in to her, and his eyes were dark with trouble. Istar looked searchingly into his face before she spoke.

"What is the woe of my lord? Thou hast not slept, Belshazzar?"

"Yea, beloved, I have slept--and dreamed: dreamed till my head is on fire. Let thy hands cool the burning of mine eyes. Let thy words still the fears that are rising in my heart. Istar, I have spoken this night with the spirit of my father, who bade me welcome--home."

Istar gave a sharp cry, and the color fled from her face.

"It was a vision, a wandering dream; and yet it has brought foreboding in its train. Bring me comfort, Istar, my beloved."

"Comfort, lord of my heart! Comfort! Ah! I have none of it. Since my baby is taken from me, my heart weeps. O Belshazzar, thou king, let us not ask for comfort. Let us rather mingle our tears before the seat of God; and from our grief shall spring the blessing of the divine comfort. My heart weeps. Why, then, should my lips smile? Thou, dear lord, remainest to me. If thou wert gone I should not weep, for with thee my life, too, would go. My lord--my lord--I love thee so!"

Quickly Belshazzar caught her in his arms, crushing her to him in an embrace wherein all their earthly and spiritual love mingled together in one supreme moment of ecstasy. When his arms unclosed, both were faint. Istar lay back upon her couch, her eyes shut, her breath coming with difficulty; while Belshazzar stood over her, looking down at her beauty with a sudden feeling of sweet, ineffable peace.

Now the day had fully broken, and the whole palace was alive. Belshazzar took tender leave of his wife, for the two of them were to go different ways to the temple: Istar in her litter with the members of the harem, Belshazzar in his golden chariot, by the side of the high-priest.

"My lord shall see me clothed all in black and silver; nor, through the three days, will I uncover my face before the eyes of those assembled," whispered Istar, as he knelt for the last instant beside her.

"On the evening of the third day, beloved, thou must unveil. Tammuz, like our child, is dead; yet in their grief the women disclose their features. So also shalt thou. Now, fare thee well--till once again we are alone together here."

Istar started nervously, and then rose to her feet with a sudden impulse. "Belshazzar, wilt thou guard thyself in the temple? Wilt thou not have thy men of Gutium at thy side?"

"How had you known that, Istar? Such a thought never came to me before; yet now--this year--I have commanded that my whole regiment, with their arms, be gathered together in the temple with my regular household. Why I have done this thing I myself know not. And yet--and yet--"

Istar put her arms about his neck. "Let the great God be thanked!" she whispered, earnestly. "And I also--I also will be with thee. If harm comes, we shall be together to the end."

Finally Belshazzar left her and went to his own rooms to see that all preparations for the great feast were made. Istar, in the mean time, covered herself with the long, black, silver-shot veil that she had worn in the days of her loneliness; and, robed only in this and her white tunic, without jewel or ornament of any kind, she sat alone in her room till it came to be the time of setting forth. A eunuch announced that her litter waited; and, attended by two slaves with fans, she walked out to the great court-yard of the palace.

Here, indeed, was a scene of the liveliest confusion. Men, women, children, and eunuchs of every type, all in holiday dress, all noisily talking and laughing, moved about among groups of chariots, litters, richly caparisoned donkeys, and two or three camels; for, on the way to and from the feast, the meanest slave was never asked to walk. Istar was the first of the royal party to appear in the court-yard, and her mourning costume created much comment of a disappointed character. Her veiled face and melancholy gait cast a shadow over the general merriment of the lower class, among whom, indeed, Istar was not popular. Her litter, however, was quickly brought to her, and just as she lay down in it, happy to be out of sight, Belitsum, the dowager, appeared. Her mood was quite different from that of her quasi daughter-in-law. She had cast aside her widow's weeds, as was her privilege, for the three feast-days; and her stout person was gorgeously arrayed. A band of flashing jewels held her head-cloth in place above her eyebrows, and she waddled along to a jingling accompaniment of bells that were fastened on her ankles and strings of dangling beads that hung from her waist. Her laughter sounded high and shrill as she tossed some light-hearted jest to the line of attendants that followed her; and the whole court-yard responded to her wit with mighty roars of laughter. Now, indeed, Belitsum was in her element. It took her full fifteen minutes to settle herself in her litter, and she was only then finally fixed because the appearance of Belshazzar put an end to any further by-play for the benefit of the on-lookers.

Belshazzar hastily mounted his chariot, and, the signal for the start being immediately given, there was a mad scramble for vehicles, donkeys, and camels, and the royal procession passed through the gate of the palace.

The temple of Marduk, in which the king kept the feast of Tammuz, was the largest temple in Babylon, and the only important one on the east bank of the Euphrates. At the other end of the great bridge, Amraphel, clad in the fullest insignia of his office, joined the king at the head of the line of the royal household. Their way led along the Mûtaqutû, the smaller of Nebuchadrezzar's two boulevards; and it was lined with people that risked the possibility of being late at the opening sacrifice in their temples in order to see this imposing spectacle. For the first time in a year Belshazzar was cheered along his way. And there was something in the voices of the people that went home to the heart of the uncrowned king; so that, for the first time in his life, his eyes were wet with the tears of love that royalty should feel for its children.

One incident only disturbed the dignity of the march. Belitsum, the irrepressible, had barely managed to contain herself in solitude when the curtain of her litter finally shut her away from the eyes of the admiring throng. But now she was consoled by the fact that, though she was herself unseen, she could comfortably watch the crowd that lined the streets through which she passed. The procession was more than half-way to the temple when her sharp eyes suddenly caught sight of a man that stood watching the procession from the left side of the street. Meanly dressed and dull-eyed as he was, she nevertheless recognized in him her new prophet, the man of dreams.

Quickly thrusting her head from her slow-moving equipage, she cried to one of her bearers, pointing at the same time to the object of her curiosity:

"Shusu-Sin! Shusu-Sin! Who is that man there--he of the brown tunic and the rose-topped cane? Speak!"

The bearer glanced round in an embarrassed fashion as the crowd craned forward to look at the queen. He had no difficulty in recognizing the man she designated. Then, leaning backward, towards the waiting ear of the dowager, he whispered, discreetly:

"He on whom the eyes of the queen have deigned to rest is Beltishazzar the Jew, called of his people Daniel."

"A Jew!" cried Belitsum, in amazement. Then, catching the innumerable eyes fixed upon her in wonder or in amusement, she dove hastily back into her litter, carrying with her the long-desired knowledge.

Meantime, at the head of the procession drove Belshazzar and Amraphel, side by side, in their golden chariots. Beyond the requisite first salutation, neither of them had spoken on the whole way, till, at a quarter of an hour before the time set for the first sacrifice, the royal vehicles halted in the great square of Marduk. Here was something at sight of which Amraphel started anxiously. In that square, south of the main entrance of the temple, drawn rank on rank in matchless array, spear, helmet, and sword flashing in the sun, was Belshazzar's guard, the famous regiment of Gutium. They had been waiting here all the morning, under command of their lieutenant, at the orders of their commander. And now, as the king drew near, they made the royal salute, and quietly closed ranks in preparation for marching. Belshazzar, giving them a long, sweeping salute, suddenly halted his chariot. The high-priest, in extreme anxiety, did the same. Then the king shouted three orders, all of them barely comprehensible to a civilian. But Amraphel's ears were sharp; his wits sharper. At the last command his face grew crimson with anger.

"What means this?" he asked, hoarsely, turning on the king. "Think you these dogs shall be admitted to the holy temple?"

Belshazzar barely turned his head towards the speaker. "What sayest thou?" he asked, coolly.

"It is against the laws of the gods that armed men should enter into their places of worship."

"I had not heard it," returned the king. "And it is my will that this, my regiment, follow me into the temple. How"--suddenly he turned full on the priest--"how wilt thou gainsay me?"

Amraphel drew back into himself. What had Belshazzar heard? How much did he know? Could he indeed, with this handful of soldiers, hold that temple of Marduk against the army of Cyrus and the Babylonish mob? It was a question that was not easy to answer. Do what he would, Amraphel was for the moment sorely nonplussed. He could see nothing for it but to submit. It was thorough defeat; for, fifteen minutes later, fifty members of the priesthood, the whole of the royal household, and the regiment of Gutium, five hundred strong, had entered the temple of Bel-Marduk.

Almost incredibly vast was the great hall of this, the greatest temple of the first of Babylon's twelve great gods. In it the seven hundred people that entered found plenty of room--more than enough room to spread themselves about at will. The vast walls, which towered up to a tremendous height, were richly adorned in the lower half with bas-reliefs illustrating various religious myths: the council of the gods; Bel-Marduk's combat with Tiamât the dragon; and Oannes the fish-god, giver of wisdom, expounding religion to the throngs of people that came down to hear him on the shores of the gulf of the setting sun. Above these sculptures ran bands of history, in the immaculate cuneiform, giving the story of Babylon from the time of her founding down to to-day. Still over this, on the enamelled tiles that carried the walls on up to the dim and shadowy roof, were the decorations for the feast. Great cloths of silk and muslin, elaborately and beautifully embroidered, fell, softly luminous, in the glowing light. Ropes of flowers were everywhere festooned; and their fragrance alone would have rendered the air rich. Their breath, however, vied with streams of incense, with showered perfumes, with fragrance of the sweet myrrh and Indian spices that burned along the walls in braziers of beaten brass. Finally, the light from the scene itself furnished sweetness to the room; for, from a thousand well-wrought hanging-lamps came flickering, golden flames, fed with the rarest perfumed oil.

The preparations for the feast and for the innumerable sacrifices, with which the feasting was to be varied, had been carefully made. The back rooms of the temple had been converted indiscriminately into kitchens, larders, and stables for the animals to be used for the sacrifice. Here an army of slaves was already at work, and there were half a hundred temple eunuchs, clad in spotless white, with collars of gold and caps of Tyrian purple, to minister to the wants of the feasters.

The great hall had been prepared with infinite care for the reception of the worshippers. In the back of the room, facing the entrance, and raised ten feet above the floor, was the platform on which stood the shrine of Tammuz. On the broad space before the holy of holies, carpeted with rugs, lighted by jewel-crusted lamps, were the divan and table of the king, who was to keep this place during the three days of the feast. At the foot of the steps leading up into this high place was the sacrificial altar, on which a fire was kept burning continuously; and to the right and to the left of this stood other images of Tammuz. Here, for six hours by day and six by night, was the place of the high-priest. During the rest of the time he lay above, on a couch beside that of the king, or, if he chose, moved from place to place at the long tables that lined the walls and filled the central spaces of the hall. At these tables rank was not observed, and the lord of the treasury and the meanest slave of the harem might be found side by side. These matters, however, adjusted themselves. Men sat with their chosen friends, or moved about from hour to hour as they wished, while the women generally remained in groups at the upper end of the hall.

To-day Ribâta, in company with the lords of the palace, took his place immediately below Belshazzar's platform, while his slaves were just beyond them, to the right. The soldiers of Gutium were in a body at the end of the hall, lying awkwardly enough on their silken couches, and dreaming grimly of nights in the watch-towers on the walls when they feasted according to their taste. On the right hand of the great hall, quite alone, at a solitary table under the figure of Bel on the wall, sat the one being to whom this festival was not a thing of joy. Istar, veiled from head to foot, uncrowned, unadorned, unattended, sat alone on her couch, gazing straight before her, wrapped in grief and foreboding, hearing nothing of what went on about her. Belshazzar from his place, and Baba from where she mingled with the slaves, watched her when they could; and for many hours that day it seemed to them that she did not move; and their bodies grew weary with the thought of how she stayed there, rigid and untiring.

As soon as the great company was assembled and each had found a place, the first sacrifice of the day was made. Two under-priests led in a snow-white bullock with gilded horns, his body twined with lotus flowers and his feet bound with golden chains.

This animal was led once round the room, while every one rose, prostrated himself before it, and remained standing through the whole sacrificial ceremony. Amraphel performed the slaughter in the name of Tammuz. Then a short incantation was made. The blood of the dead creature was poured out upon the altar, and the carcass was then carried away to be flayed, dressed, and cooked. This ceremony formally opened the festival, and it was followed by a loud chant led by the priests, in which the praises of Tammuz and Istar were set forth. In the midst of this singing the first wine was brought. Flagon after flagon of the purple juice of Helbon, of Lebanon, of Izalla, of Tuhimme, of Zimini, and of Opis in Armenia was emptied down the eager throats of both men and women. Very shortly the scene took on a different aspect. Laughter came freely. Voices rose clearer and higher, and snatches of song echoed under the high roof. The music of the lutes and cymbals caused more than one woman to rise and fall into that slow, sinuous, dreamy posturing, called, in the East, dancing. Many sacrifices followed. Goats and lambs were slaughtered by tens and twenties. Doves, fastened neck to neck with fine, silver chains, were killed off by the hundreds: timid, fluttering things, reared for this sacred end in the temple towers, but unable, in their folly, to realize the worthiness of their holy martyrdom. Amraphel and his under-priests admirably performed their tasks. Indeed, Amraphel seemed doubly impressive to-day. His men were exalted with their wine, and everything but the affairs of the hour had slipped from their thoughts.

Only Istar, of them all, looked on unmoved and sad. To-day she saw her lord as never before, crowning the feast in all the splendor of his royalty. Never had the faultless beauty of his physique impressed her so. He stood at the top of the ten steps, directly in front of the arched door-way of the shrine, three golden-robed slaves crouching on either side of him, lifting in his hands a yellow cup of wine that he drank to the men of his guard, to the regiment of Guti. His purple cloak, wrought with long scrolls of burning gold, flowed back from his shoulders. His superb head, its black locks bound about with a twisted fillet in which flashed fifty purple amethysts, was held like that of a conqueror on the day of his greatest victory. Istar caught the flashing of the storm-eyes, saw the lips curve with his deep laughter, watched the gleaming of the jewels on his breast, and then, as he raised the cup to his mouth, she sank back in her place, dizzy and sick at heart. He had forgotten as she could not forget. He thought no more of the little creature he had watched with her, that had lain in his arms so many times warm and breathing with life, and that had been so lately taken from him in death. And at that thought of death a terrible shudder passed over her, and she became still and cold, and intensely weary of the scene of revelry. Slowly she sank back into a reclining position on her couch. She had refused every proffered dish of food, every kind of wine. Her eyelids closed and there came over her a kind of stupor, in which she lay for many hours. It was not sleep, for through it she could hear the sounds in the room, could distinguish Belshazzar's voice whenever he spoke, and always answered the slaves that came reverently to waken her, telling them that she knew all that passed as well as they themselves. And yet Istar was not actually in that room. Nay, she could feel herself alone, at an infinite distance. When, after a long period she opened her eyes again, she saw the scene more than ever full of life. The lamps glowed brighter than before, but through the opening far in the roof no daylight came. The day was over. Night had come. Istar was faint for food, yet she rebelled at the idea of the heavy, half-cooked flesh served in this room; and she thought that possibly, in the rear of the temple, there might be some quiet place where she could break bread and taste of fruit and wine alone and undisturbed. With this thought she rose quietly and moved across to the foot of the shrine, on the platform of which Amraphel and Belshazzar now sat side by side. Here, moved by an irresistible impulse, Istar of Babylon turned to look back on the scene she was leaving. But her eyes, first raised, did not return to the floor. Instead, she stood transfixed, the heart in her wildly throbbing, her head swimming with the overpowering wonder of the sight that met her eyes. Unconscious of what she did, her two hands drew the enshrouding veil from her face, and then there rushed upon her vision such a sight as she had never thought to see again.

In the air, above the vast, closed doors, hung Allaraine, in a dazzling cloud of glory, his form all but indistinguishable in the palpitating rays of his aureole. He was without his lyre. In his right hand he held a wand of molten gold, with which he wrote upon the broad space over the doors. He, and that that he wrote, were clearly intelligible to Istar, who gazed on him unnoticed in her place. For Allaraine had come for her, and for her alone was writing his message there upon the wall. This she knew from the first.

But how was it with those others that thronged the hall? Before their blinded spiritual eyes all that was distinguishable were three fingers of the archetype's hand, and the unreadable words of fire that he wrote. Yet these were enough: infinitely more than enough. Amraphel and Belshazzar together, from the high place, first saw the miracle; and from the lips of the king broke forth a cry, a cry that stilled every voice in the temple. All eyes were turned to the shrine, and beheld the dread staring of Amraphel, whose gaze was fixed in dumb terror on the opposite wall. With universal accord every glance followed his, and every eye beheld the gradual fading of the hand and the blazing brilliance of the writing that was left upon the wall. There was no cry from the assemblage. A silence, infinitely more impressive than any sound, fell upon them. For five long minutes none moved or spoke. Istar remained unperceived in her place. Trembling and dazed, her lips moved noiselessly, repeating over and over the words that were written before her:

"Hast thou found man's relation to God? The silver sky waits for thy soul."

Again and yet again she repeated those two phrases to herself, till, out of the depths of the long-past, their meaning came home to her. Then a faint sigh broke from her lips, a sigh of ineffable weariness, of ineffable relief. She replaced the veil over her face, and, gliding noiselessly back to her couch, lay down upon it with her new knowledge, giving little heed to all that followed.

The voice of Belshazzar broke the spell hanging over the room. His tones startled the company like the clarion blast of a trumpet, as he cried: "Alchîa! Balatû! Ubar! Umarîa! Ye prophets of the great gods, arise and come before me!"

From out of the throng of feasters rose four white-robed men, bare-headed and bare-footed, prophets of Nabonidus' household. Mechanically obeying the words of their lord, they came forth and stood in a row before the steps of the high place.

"Ye that are professed to know the wishes of the gods, interpret now to us that which is written upon the wall."

One by one the four men turned and scanned the wall with its flaming text. And one by one each turned back to the king again, saying, helplessly: "O prince, live forever! I cannot read it!"

Then Belshazzar's pale face became tinged with red and his eyes blazed with anger. "Look ye again! I say that honor and riches and great power shall be his that interprets these words upon the wall. Look ye again!"

And again they looked. But had the reward for the reading been the kingdom of Babylonia, not one of the four possessed the wit or the courage to interpret to the master that which was unreadable to mortal eyes.

When it was seen in the room how the prophets had failed in their task, the murmurs of many tongues began to be heard against them. The whole throng was tremulous with awe and with fear. Amraphel himself felt it. He gazed helplessly at Belshazzar, never realizing this tremendous opportunity, never perceiving that no situation could possibly have been more desirable than this. It was from a wholly unexpected source that help came to his cause. In the midst of the dread silence that had gradually overpowered the people, Belitsum sprang from her place, and, hurrying as well as she could to the foot of the steps leading up to the shrine, cried out to Belshazzar:

"O king, live forever! Let not thy thoughts trouble thee nor thy countenance be changed. There is a man in thy kingdom in whom is the spirit of the great gods; in whom was found light and understanding and wisdom in the days of thy father's father. What hath he not shown thee and me in the miracle of his dream? Forasmuch as great knowledge and understanding, interpreting of dreams and showing of hard sentences and dissolving of doubts, were found in Daniel, called Beltishazzar, let then that Daniel be called, and he will show the interpreting of the letters of the fiery hand."

Belshazzar heard his step-mother with no little amazement, for he had hardly credited her with either sense or knowledge. But her words recalled to him something that Nabonidus had once said to him regarding this same man, and he made a sudden determination to try him with this difficult feat.

"Ina-shu-sin!" he shouted to the officer of his house that stood on guard at the door. "Let the door of the temple be opened. Go thou forth into the city and find him that is called Beltishazzar the Jew, bringing him back to the temple. Haste thee!"

The man had not time to acknowledge the command when Amraphel turned quickly to Belshazzar: "Lord prince," said he, softly, "the man Daniel being well known to the priesthood, send thou rather a temple steward to find him. He will appear before thee very shortly."