Book II

THE GREAT CITY

I

THE Â-IBUR-SABÛ

As the first yellow streaks of the false dawn paled in the east on this

morning of the eleventh of June, the city of Babylon awoke. And by the

time that Shamash had come forth from the world beyond the Euphrates,

the city streets were alive with men, women, and animals. An hour later

these were fixed in two long phalanxes, twenty rows deep, on either side

of the Â-Ibur-Sabû--King Nebuchadrezzar's sacred way, that stretched,

from the gate of Bel on the south side of the city, northward as far as

the sanctuary of Istar. Half-way along its course this street, or

boulevard, ran through the great square of the gods, that was to-day the

centre of interest; for here, upon the right hand and upon the left,

were the temples of Nebo and Nergal, whose feast-day this was. The great

religious procession of gods and men was to pass from the second

monastery of Zicarî southward across the canal of the Ukhatû to the

temple of Istar, where they would enter upon the Â-Ibur-Sabû, and so

pass directly down to the temples where the sacrifice was to be

conducted by the high-priests of the temples of Bel, of Marduk, of Nebo,

and of Nergal, in the presence of the Lady Istar, the gods her brothers,

the king of Babylon, and the king's son. The day was an annual holiday

in the city, whose three million inhabitants were now, apparently, every

one of them struggling to obtain the best position on the Â-Ibur-Sabû,

just at the entrance of the square of the gods.

The noise in this part of the city was such as only a vast, good-natured

crowd can make. They pushed and elbowed, and indulged in guttural

altercations that commanded too speedy mirth from by-standers ever to

result in an actual quarrel. Frequently a commoner, driving his

bullock-cart down some side street towards the main thoroughfare, would

be hauled from his place to see his vehicle led back to a distant point.

Men and women on donkeys, however, were permitted to trot on unmolested;

for the little, mouse-colored creatures found a passage where their

riders would have been wholly at fault. Now and then a drove of goats

passed down the sacred way in a cloud of dust, their owner doing a

thriving business in the way of selling milk from his animals to the

thirsty throng. Venders of eggs, ready-cooked grain, fresh water,

fruits, and sweetmeats added their long-drawn, half-incomprehensible

cries to the general clamor; while at frequent intervals a squad of

cavalry or the chariot of a nobleman clattered along the Â-Ibur, causing

the people to scurry from beneath their hoofs, but never making the

slightest move to draw up for unfortunates.

The sun rose higher, and the heat grew stifling. Water-sellers emptied

their skins so rapidly that the liquid had no time to cool by

evaporation before it was taken, in its tepid, nauseous state. The

morning was well advanced. Children began to cry with fatigue, and men

and women alike became impatient for the procession. But by the time

Charmides reached the temple of Nebo there was still no sign of its

approach.

The Greek had slept late, under the shadow of the great wall; and when

he awoke the sun was well up, Hodo was nowhere to be seen, and the rébit

was empty of those that had passed the night there. Charmides arose with

a very hasty prayer to Apollo, performed some ablutions at the public

well, and then, his heart beating high with long-delayed curiosity,

passed the gate and went into the Great City.

He entered directly upon the Â-Ibur-Sabû; and the distance from the gate

to the square of the gods was not great. Plenty of people were moving in

the direction of the temples, and presently the rhapsode, a little

bewildered with their number, wholly interested in their appearance,

halted on the right hand of the street, beside a building, to watch

those around him for a little while. He remained at his vantage-point

for some time, regarding with interested eyes all that passed. Finally,

however, the sight of a young girl, tall, lithe, straight, with

brilliant eyes and dark skin, brought him back with a start to his great

object, the quest of Istar. In passing, the girl flashed an impudent

little smile at him, and on impulse he ran forward, to ask her in his

own way how to reach the temple of the goddess. Whether by instinct,

intuition, or divine Providence, the girl understood what he said; but

her quick answer was unintelligible to him, and he had only her gesture

to go by. That, however, commanded him to keep to the north, and he

started eagerly forward in that direction.

Fifteen minutes' rapid walking brought him to the edge of the dense

crowd that bordered the square of the gods. Here the people bewildered

him. He felt the heat intensely, and, incidentally, had become both

thirsty and hungry. There was food and drink enough on all sides of him

for sale; but the youth felt disinclined to offer a piece of his

Sicilian money in exchange for a breakfast; not on account of any

penurious notions, but because, utterly ignorant as he was of Babylonish

coinage, he dreaded Babylonish curiosity or the ridicule that might be

expressed on presentation of such foreign coins as he had. Therefore he

wavered on the outer edge of the crowd, chafing with impatience,

extremely uncomfortable, and still afraid to make known his needs. The

throng was dense, and the Greek by no means tall enough to see over the

many heads in front of him. Therefore whatever might be going on in the

square beyond was quite hidden from his view. Presently he trod, by

mistake, upon the fringed tunic of a man beside him. Turning to offer an

apology, his eyes suddenly fell upon a face that seemed familiar--so

familiar that he made an effort to remember where he had seen it before.

After all, it proved to be only the little goat-girl who had been in the

rébit on the previous evening. This time, however, the child saw him;

and she seemed to find something in his face that kept her eyes riveted

on his for a long moment, and then sent them drooping, till he could see

the pretty, olive lids and the long, black lashes; while at the same

time a wave of crimson swept up and over her face. Then Charmides

discovered that, after all, he knew something of women. He felt at once

that from this girl there would be no ridicule for him. The goat was

still with her; and, as he went quickly to her side, he perceived, round

the creature's neck, a metal cup on a string, the purpose of which

vessel he was not slow to guess.

The girl waited for Charmides, and pushed her goat away for him with

evident pleasure. As he halted, her big eyes were upraised, and her look

travelled ingenuously from his sunlit hair over his burned face down to

his roughly sandalled feet. Then she watched him open the little

money-bag that he had drawn from his bundle. From it he extracted a

silver piece, stamped with the parsley sprig of Selinous, and, holding

it out to her, he pointed from the cup on the goat to his own lips and

then back to the animal again. The business was done. Baba, disregarding

the proffered money, knelt down beside the docile animal and obtained

Charmides' belated breakfast with a practised hand.

Charmides drank the warm milk with relish, and, the cup emptied, placed

his coin inside it and returned it to the girl. She took it with a shy

smile, that suddenly vanished when she perceived the silver. Picking up

the coin, she examined it for some seconds. Then, while Charmides looked

on uneasily, Baba opened a pouch at her side, extracted therefrom a

handful of small, copper disks, and held them out to the Greek, saying

something to him at the same time. He shook his head and smiled at her

as he accepted them. They were all alike: little scraps of stamped

copper, which he afterwards learned to be _se_, the smallest of the

Babylonish coins.

The chief matter of the moment thus satisfactorily concluded, the Greek

lingered still at Baba's side, debating on the advisability of

questioning her further. She seemed not disinclined to conversation, and

as he glanced at her furtively he found her eyes again fixed upon his

face. He answered the look, and then, with the usual effort, said, in

the thick way of the Babylonians, the one word:

"Ishtar."

Baba appeared to understand him at once. "Belit will come to the square

of the gods and the temples there in the sacred procession," she said,

pointing at the same time to the north along the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

Charmides understood the gesture, not the words; and, thanking her in

his own language, he left her, not without a vague hope that he might

find her again some time. As he strode away he did not know how

longingly Baba's eyes followed him; how for a few steps she crept after

him, this new god with the hair of gold, and how at length, abashed by

the thought of her own boldness, she sat down beside her goat and

addressed a fervent prayer to Lady Istar to send peace to her thoughts.

Meantime the object of this homage was hurrying down a narrow street

that ran westward; and, having a good notion of localities and distance,

he succeeded in skirting the crowd on the square without much

difficulty, and in reaching the Â-Ibur-Sabû again a little farther to

the north. Here, indeed, the throng seemed denser than ever; and here,

as Charmides now guessed, Istar herself would come in procession with

the gods and priests this very morning--nay, within the hour. With the

thought his heart beat furiously, his throat grew dry, and his eyes were

dim. His head swam with emotion as he started to edge a way through the

mass of people. Not a little to his surprise, he found this easy to do.

The people voluntarily gave place to him, staring in wonder at his

beauty, his bright hair, and the shining lyre that he carried in his

hand. Ignorant as he was of the gigantic system of superstition that

formed the foundation of the Chaldaic religious life, he still

concluded, vaguely, that they were regarding him as something more than

human, all these people that inclined a little as he usurped their room.

As a matter of fact, he had been identified by some as one of the

Annunâki, or earth-spirits; by others as one of the band of Îgigî, or

heavenly beings, come among them to-day to do honor to his lords and

theirs, the great gods of civil administration and of learning, Father

Nebo and his son Nergal.

Here was Charmides at last at his journey's end, standing in the heart

of the Great City, upon the Â-Ibur-Sabû, the ziggurat of Nebo on his

right hand, the house of the high-priest of Bel opposite, the broad

Euphrates winding through the sunshine far in front, and, somewhere to

the north, moving towards him from her holy temple, Istar, the living

goddess of the city of kings. It all seemed a dream to him now. The

miles that lay between him and his home had put him into another life,

still unreal, but always more and more tangible as he looked around and

moved and breathed. The great multitude hardly caught his attention. He

wished himself free to think under the spell of the new world. But now,

far up the street, could be seen a whirling cloud of dust, in which

low-moving forms were all but hidden. These presently resolved into

three droves of animals--goats, bullocks, and sheep for the sacrifice,

driven by eunuchs of the temple. The horns of the bullocks were gilded,

and the necks of the smaller beasts were twined with wreaths of

flowers--just as the hecatombs of Zeus were ornamented at home.

Charmides watched the flocks pass with joy at his heart. The familiar

sight made Babylon homelike to him. His fingers sought the strings of

his lyre, and he hummed to himself a genial little tune, that ceased

when there rose about him a murmur of exclamations, followed by a quick

silence. Charmides turned his eyes to the north. There again was dust;

this time gleaming with brass-work and glinting with trappings of

horses. Into the silence came a distant sound of cymbals and wooden

flutes. The great procession was moving--was coming. _She_ was

coming--Istar--the Lady of Babylon--the Divine One.

The crowd on either side of the street voluntarily pressed back to allow

a wider space for the passage of the gods. No one was speaking now, and

Charmides himself was breathless with expectation. The wavering

dust-cloud advanced towards the square, and the blare of trumpets grew

louder, yet the procession seemed barely to move. Distant shouts of

praise and acclamation could be heard, and there was a short, silent

struggle for place. That was all. Everything waited.

Presently a phalanx of men, marching in excellent order and at a rapid

pace, resolved from the dust and passed the house of the high-priest.

These wore the regulation priest's tunic of white muslin; but they had

no goat-skins on the shoulder, and the knives in their girdles

proclaimed them slayers of the sacrifice. They were, in fact, Zicarû, or

under-priests, from the monastery below the temple of Nebo. Behind them

came a chariot, in which stood one man, a tall, muscular fellow, dark

and bearded, with the goat-skin over his left arm, a golden girdle about

his waist, and a rosetted tiara on his head--Vul-Ramân of the great

Bit-Yakin,[5] high-priest of Nebo, and, next to Amraphel of Bel, the

most powerful official of the priesthood. Behind him, borne on the

shoulders of six Enû, or elders, and surrounded by a group of sixteen

anointers (Pasisû), and officials of the libation (Ramkû), was the great

bronze statue of Bel-Marduk, the father-god of the city, before whose

passage the people bent their heads and prayed. After this idol came his

priest Amraphel, ruler of the Babylonish orders, in his dazzling

chariot, wearing a leopard-skin over his cloudy tunic. Charmides looked

into the face of this man, and in the one glance experienced a curious

sensation--a sense of evil that he never quite forgot.

Now there came an apparently endless string of temple-servants, priests

in chariots, and little gods carried by their worshippers. Also there

were groups of prophets (Asipû), dream-interpreters (Makhatû), and the

great seer Nâbu-bani-âkhi. Charmides watched them all go by without

great interest, for his expectation was becoming keener. Each moment he

thought to perceive, in the distance, _her_; and by the heart-throb that

followed the thought he knew that he should recognize her presence from

afar. As time passed, however, he began to grow fearful lest, after all,

she was not; lest Kabir, first, and afterwards Hodo and the rest, had

spoken falsely, had deceived him, had brought him to this great, lonely

place, out of his world, with no hope of return, and no prospect in

life. The thought brought a spasm of fear to his heart. Yet--yet--there,

up the line, was a great burst of music from a band of musicians that

surrounded a new, dazzling chariot, in which stood a solitary figure,

clad--Charmides turned faint and shut his eyes. Then, hearing shouts of

acclamation, he opened them again, fearfully, and looked up to behold--a

man.

The first feeling was wholly of bewilderment. Then, as the rhapsode's

eyes saw more, they forgot to fall. If Istar of Babylon was a man, at

least he was one to look upon with wonder. Never before had Charmides

beheld so imperial a face. Never had he imagined such features. The

skin, as compared with his own, was very dark; yet it was whiter than

that of any other Chaldee. Black hair, cut almost short, clustered about

the head. The face was smooth-shaven, after the custom of the royal

house; and, though Charmides could not see it from where he stood, the

eyes were blue--the deep, purplish blue of a storm-cloud. The man wore

the dress of the priesthood, yet it went incongruously with his bearing.

Power and the habit of command stood out in every line of his figure, in

the Zeus-like poise of the head, in the hand that controlled the two

powerful black horses which drew the chariot along. If this were

Istar--well, Charmides could hardly regret. So much he muttered aloud,

in Phoenician. To his amazement, the words were answered from behind him:

"That is no Istar, fool! That is Belshazzar, the prince royal, the

tyrant of Babylon."

"And Istar--the goddess!" cried the Greek, turning to the man that

spoke.

"The creature Istar? She comes," was the frowning reply made by the

hook-nosed, ill-kempt man at his shoulder.

Charmides said no more. His pulses were throbbing violently. At a little

distance he perceived a new vehicle, a triumphal-car, at the approach of

which the great masses of people to the right and left sank, as a man,

to their knees, bowing to the dust. Charmides raised his eyes and beheld

her sitting upon the broad platform of the car. And as he looked, as he

knelt, even as his brow touched the ground, Charmides knew that he had

not been deceived, that rumor had spoken truth, because more than truth

could not here be spoken. Yet when she had passed, the Greek did not

know her. He had not seen so much as a line of her figure. She swam in a

glory of light that radiated from herself. Her head had been crowned,

yet with what he did not know. His heart and head were afire, and he

heeded nothing more of the procession. Most of all, he did not hear the

words of the man behind him, who had knelt with the rest at the approach

of the car, because fear of death is a great leveller; but had the words

that he muttered been heard and understood by the populace, it is

doubtful whether all his influence had saved his life from them.

"Asha confound this instrument of evil! Yahveh's wrath light upon her

soul! God of Judea visit her with the fires of Sheol!" And then the

former servant of Nebuchadrezzar the Great rose and turned away through

the crowd. Charmides later sought vainly for his Phoenician-tongued

informant, whom men to-day call Daniel the prophet.

While the Greek still stood, dazed and stupid, his head swimming with

the delight of knowing her actually to be, the procession passed, and a

great multitude of people swept along at its heels towards the temple

square. Any attempt to force a passage through that packed throng would

have been useless. This Charmides perceived at once, and presently, as

the crowd melted away from where he stood, he turned and began to walk

slowly towards the north, along the Â-Ibur-Sabû. In the street there

were not a few people who, like himself, had felt it useless to try for

a place to see the sacrifice, and, the procession over, were on the way

home, perhaps to some family festival. But Charmides saw little enough

of those around him. His feet moved mechanically while his thoughts

soared.

He had seen her--he had seen Istar. The object of his journey was over;

and yet--to leave Babylon now, without knowing more of her, was

impossible. He felt that while Babylon was the shrine of such a being,

in Babylon he must worship. Sicily, his friends, his mother, were now

become things of another life--things fair and dear to think upon, but

for which he no longer yearned. Istar, far above his reach as she was,

yet made his interest, his religion--in fine, his home--in this new

land.

It was while such thoughts as these were mingling in his heart that the

Greek found himself brought to a halt. He had come to the end of the

famous street that terminated in a square nearly two miles north of the

temples of Nebo and his son and the square of the gods. On the edge of

the new square Charmides paused and looked around him. Beside him, to

the right and to the left, were two large buildings of the usual brick,

low-roofed, and surrounded by walls in which the great wrought bronze

gates were shut. Through their bars he caught glimpses of fair gardens

filled with flowers of brilliant hues and shaded by flowering bushes and

tall date-palms. But in these places there was no sign of life; nor was

any living creature to be seen on the flat roofs that served, in

Babylon, the purpose of summer living-rooms. On the right-hand side of

the square stood what was unmistakably a temple. Here, on the top of the

broad platform, and again on the steps ascending it, and about the open

doors of the holy house, several people moved, while others were dotted

on the broad incline that ran around the outside of the ziggurat, or

tower, without which no holy building was complete, and which stood,

campanile-like, to the left of the temple itself.

Glad of company, even that of total strangers, and seeing that the

platform stair offered opportunity for a much-needed rest, Charmides

moved wearily across the square, mounted a step or two, and sat down

with a long sigh of relief. Near him were three or four people--venders

of various commodities suited to the place. An old man held between his

knees a basket of small, clay bricks, inscribed with Accadian prayers.

Close to him was a scribe of a semi-religious order, ready provided with

cuneiform iron and a supply of kneaded clay. A little beyond, a street

water-carrier had stopped to rest, with his heavy pigskin beside him.

Nearest of all was a young girl, holding on her lap a basket of

nosegays. The picture in itself was pleasing; but Charmides soon

discovered about it something that interested him much more. This was

the sight of half a wheaten loaf and a handful of dates that lay, nearly

covered with a bit of cloth, in a corner of the flower-basket.

The nourishment in Charmides' early breakfast of goat's milk had not

served to keep up his strength so long as this, and now the sight of

solid food made him faint for it. He hesitated a little what to do; for

he could not be sure whether what he saw were the girl's noonday meal or

the remains of it. Having gazed long and eagerly, however, at the loaf,

he suddenly lifted his eyes to encounter her own--very pretty ones they

were--fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Thereupon

courage born of hunger came upon the rhapsode with a mighty rush. He

rose and went over to the side of the flower-girl, and, taking from his

bag the coppers given him by Baba, he proffered them all to the

flower-seller. Smiling till she showed a very pretty set of small, white

teeth, she picked up all her remaining bouquets and held them up to him

in both hands. Charmides looked at them lovingly, but shook his head.

With surprise written in her face, the girl put them down again and

seemed to wait for him to speak. Thereupon Charmides seated himself

carefully on the other side of the basket, put one finger on the wheaten

loaf, pointed to his mouth, and looked inquiringly at his new friend.

She understood instantly, and, laughing, took up the food and set it

before the Greek.

While he ate they talked--in the universal language of primitive sounds

and gestures. And so skilful at this occupation did the two of them find

themselves, that Charmides shortly learned how the girl had partaken of

her noon meal some time before, and that he was quite welcome to what

was left of it. Hereupon the rhapsode spread out all his _se_, nine of

them, in a neat row, and suggested that she take as many as the bread

and fruit were worth. The maiden hesitated over this part of the affair,

but, as Charmides was quite firm, she finally picked out three of the

coppers and put them in a little pouch hanging from her girdle; and

Charmides perceived, without much thinking about it, that this pouch was

the counterpart of that from which Baba had that morning extracted his

change.

During his meal, which Charmides caused to last for some time, his eyes

were much employed. He was making a careful scrutiny of his new

companion--one so very careful that, in the interest of it, the awe and

fiery enthusiasm excited in him by the sight of Istar was gradually

dispelled. Thus he came gracefully down to human interests, and

discovered that this Babylonian maid was rather more to his taste than

any Doric Sicilian he could remember.

In very truth, Ramûa of Beltani's house, the flower-girl of the temple

of the great goddess, was a goodly sight for tired eyes. Young and fresh

of color, sweet of voice, and modest of demeanor she always was. To be

sure, her long tunic was colorless, old, and much patched. Her pretty

feet were bare, and her only head-covering the long, silken hair that

was plaited and coiled round and round her shapely head. But it had been

a pity to hide those glossy locks under the rarest of coronets. No

jewels that she could have worn would have rivalled her eyes in

brilliancy; and as for the small, brown feet--Charmides surveyed them

covertly with unique enjoyment, and could not remember to have seen a

sandal fit to grace them.

Musing in this profitable fashion, the rhapsode finished his meal, and

invested another _se_ in the purchase of a cup of water from the

water-seller. This he proffered first to the girl, who refused it with

exceeding grace, and a very definite hope in her eyes that the sunny

Greek would not yet depart. Evidently he had ideas of so doing, for,

returning to her side, but not sitting down, he once more pronounced his

pass-word:

"Istar?"

"This is her temple," was the quick reply, as Ramûa pointed to the top

of the platform.

Charmides caught hopefully at the gesture. "This is the temple of Istar?

The goddess will return here?" he asked, uselessly, in Greek.

Ramûa smiled at him.

Charmides felt irritated and helpless. He looked from the girl to the

temple, and back again. Then he paused, wavered, might perhaps have

cursed in his own tongue, and finally sat down again where he had been

before. Silence ensued. Ramûa played in a very unbusiness-like way with

a flower, till she had spoiled it. Charmides, more stolid and less

concerned, stared out upon the sunny square and down the far stretch of

the Â-Ibur-Sabû, from which far-distant sounds of music came faintly to

his ears. Gradually he fell into a noonday reverie, from which he was

roused by Ramûa, who, hoping perhaps to attract his attention, had

lifted his lyre and was running her hand over its strings. Charmides

looked up at her in surprise, and at once she held the instrument out to

him, motioning him to play. Nothing loath, he took it, stood up, and

turned to her. For a moment his hand wandered among the strings. Then he

found the melody he sought, and sang it to her in full-throated,

mellifluous Greek--the myth of the Syracusan nymph, Arethuse, and

Alpheus, the river-god.

The flower-girl listened spellbound to such sounds as she had never

heard before; and, on stopping, Charmides found a group of pedestrians,

attracted by his song, standing near at hand behind him. One of them, a

stiff-robed, high-crowned nobleman, tossed him a piece of money at the

conclusion of the poem. Charmides took it up with a momentary impulse to

throw it back at the man. Prudence, however, came to his aid, and, after

a moment of inward rebellion, he accepted the coin, realizing that

chance had just shown him a way for a future livelihood. He might,

perhaps, have sung again, but for an interruption that claimed the

attention of every one around the temple.

The noise of distant trumpets had become much louder, and two specks

afar down the Â-Ibur-Sabû had by now resolved themselves into a

two-horse chariot and the car of Istar--both of them coming towards the

temple.

Charmides' heart bounded as he distinguished the radiant figure that sat

upon the golden platform of the divine vehicle. So he was to see her

again--now--so soon. This time, if she passed him closely, she might

even see him. And if her eyes should fall upon him--_had_ she eyes? Had

she features and organs? Was she, in fact, anything but a mystic vision

that people saw dizzily and turned from, half blinded? He glanced down

at the flower-girl by his side, and it came over him with a rush of

pleasure that she was human and susceptible to human emotions.

Istar's car approached the platform steps. It was followed by the

attendant chariot, in which Charmides once more beheld Belshazzar, the

"tyrant of Babylon," whom at first sight he had reckoned as a demi-god.

As the car stopped, the prince leaped from his place and went to stand

near the goddess as she alighted. The little company of people that had

assembled to watch Istar's arrival, bent the knee. Charmides alone

remained upright--why, he could not have told. Certainly it was not from

lack of reverence. His eyes were fixed upon the form of Istar, while

with all the strength of his mind he strove to pierce the veil of

impenetrable, dazzling light that hung about her like a garment. As she

rose from her sitting posture, Charmides looked to see her slaves offer

assistance in her descent from the high place. But the eunuchs at her

horses' heads did not move, and Belshazzar stood motionless on the first

step, his head slightly bowed, but his strange eyes fixed as eagerly as

Charmides' own.

Presently the goddess was beside the prince. How she had descended,

Charmides did not know. He seemed to have seen her float down a shaft of

light to the ground.

After performing the proper obeisance to their lady, the people rose, as

Istar, with Belshazzar at her elbow, began to ascend the platform steps.

Charmides could see that her feet moved, yet they barely touched the

bricks. He did not know, however, that a year ago she had had no need

for steps. As yet, it had never even been whispered by any man that she

was more than formerly of earth.

One, two, three stairs Istar mounted. The young Greek was choking with

excitement. In another moment she would be abreast of him--nay, was

abreast of him, had ceased to move, had turned her head. Belshazzar, on

the other side, halted in astonishment. Charmides' heart stopped. He

found himself looking into a pair of great, unfathomable eyes that gazed

into his own with the light of all knowledge. At the look, courage,

confidence, and an unspeakable joy took possession of him. Without

amazement he heard her speak to him in his own tongue.

"Welcome, thou Charmides, to Babylon! I had word of your coming when

Allaraine banished thy desert fever, in order that the Great City, and I

in it, should know thy voice."

"Istar!"

"The journey has been long, and has taken patience and fortitude."

"The way has been but a dream of my goddess. Long ago, through Lord

Apollo, I beheld thee."

"Yes--in the temple of Selinous--that dedicated to Apollo, who is

Allaraine to me. Charmides, you have no home in Babylon. Will you take

up an abode in that of the flower-girl beside you?"

Charmides made no answer in words. Turning a little towards the young

girl, who stood, pale and wide-eyed, on his right hand, he smiled at

her.

Then Istar also turned to Ramûa, and spoke in Chaldaic: "Thou, maiden,

take you at evening-time this stranger home to the house of your mother,

Beltani, and keep him there as he were one of you; and in return he will

bring you great happiness. This is my wish."

Ramûa fell again upon her knees and bowed her head upon the clay bricks.

She was incapable of speech; but the flush of crimson that had

overspread her face told Istar that the command would not be unwillingly

obeyed. Then the goddess turned again to the Greek.

"Charmides, go thou home to-night with the maiden here. Her name is

called Ramûa, and she is of her mother Beltani, that is a widow. At

sunset, when her flowers are gone, follow you after her. And again you

shall come to me in my temple and play to me the music of your lyre. You

have heard the chords of Allaraine of the skies. They shall come again

to you to fill your heart with peace, and you shall be the most

wonderful of all musicians in the Great City. Let, then, far Sicily,

vanish forever from your mind."

Charmides bowed low. His tongue was tied with awe. He knew not what

reply to make to her. When he lifted his eyes again she had passed, and

was floating like a silver cloud across the great platform towards the

open portals of the temple. Thereupon the Greek turned his face to

Ramûa, and, as he clasped her hand in his and saw her black eyes lifted

up, he laughed in his heart with joy of the Great City, and what he had

found it to hold for him.

II

THE SANCTUARY OF ISTAR

The temple of the Lady of Erech,[6] in Babylon, was the smallest of the

eight temples consecrated to the worship of the twelve great gods. This

temple contained but three parts--the entrance hall, the great hall of

the sacrifice, and, at the farthest end of this room, the inmost shrine,

or holy of holies, where the statue of the god was generally kept.

Besides these, there were half a dozen little places, hardly more than

niches, where the priestesses and hierodules could don sacrificial

garments. At the end of the great hall, in front of the rich curtain

that hid the door of the inmost shrine, and behind the sacrificial altar

and the table for shew-bread, was the Parakhû, or mercy-seat, from which

the god, generally in spirit, it was thought, was accustomed to hear and

answer the prayers of his worshippers, to perform miracles of healing,

and to accept offerings. Here, each day, Istar was accustomed to sit for

an hour, hearing many plaints, listening to many woes, learning much of

the piteous side of the lives of men and women of the world. And from

this place Istar had delivered many an oracle. Here, too, she cogitated

painfully over the sins of mankind, which were all incomprehensible to

her. She, who was alone of her race on earth, sorrowed most over the

loneliness of others--those that mourned a friend dead, a lover lost, a

child in far-off lands--because this grief she could in some measure

understand. But though the face of the goddess was always sad when she

left the mercy-seat, the brilliance of her aureole was more bewildering

than ever, for pity quickened her divinity continually to fresh life.

Behind the temple of worship was the building in which Istar dwelt. It

was a little labyrinth of small, open courts and narrow, dimly lighted

rooms. Nearer to the dwelling-place than to the temple, on the same

platform with them both, was the ziggurat--that most characteristic

feature of Babylonian architecture. On top of it, in the centre of the

space used by astronomers and astrologers attached to the temple, was

the little room devoted to the person of the goddess. It was here that

she was supposed to sleep by night when wearied with the labors of the

long day. Istar's chamber on her ziggurat was rendered almost

unapproachably sacred by the fact that here she had first been found;

here she was supposed to have undergone her incarnation; and probably

here she would resume intangibility, when her period of life on earth

was over. In point of fact Istar was devoted to this little place.

During the hot summer months she generally stayed within it from sunset

to dawn, perhaps asleep, perhaps fled in spirit to other regions. The

place had been fitted up with incredible costliness, and was kept in

scrupulous order by servants consecrated especially for the work, who

entered it only at stated periods when its mistress was absent.

On her return from the long ceremonials attendant on the sacrifice to

Nebo and Nergal, Istar went to the mercy-seat at once, for it was past

her accustomed hour. There were few suppliants for pity to-day. Babylon

had just propitiated two of its great gods with a wholesale slaughter of

animals, and the people doubtless felt that for a day, at least, they

might rest from the continual round of religious duties, relying

meantime on the newly invigorated power of Nebo and Nergal to protect

them from the legions of hellish and earthly demons that beset life with

such innumerable ills.

Istar's hour was not long to her. Her thoughts were centred on

Charmides, his young, sunny presence, and the light of wonder and

worship in his face when she had spoken to him. She had seen that he

carried his lyre with him; and she dreamed of the day when he should

come before her and sing as none other but Allaraine could sing.

Meantime his face was before her and would not be banished, although in

the shadows before the altar stood another man whose presence had long

been part of her surroundings, towards whom she felt--if indeed she felt

at all--as towards no other human being; whose whole presence was as

perfect a contrast to that of Charmides as could well be imagined. It

was Belshazzar, who, since matters of government did not much hold him,

had, in the last months become Istar's shadow. He lingered about the

temple whenever she was there; he followed her over the city in his

chariot when she went abroad; at sunset he ascended the ziggurat, to

stand outside the curtained door of her sanctuary, unable to see her,

but feeling her presence. When she was near him his eyes were not always

upon her, yet her slightest movement never escaped him. And at such

times a kind of divinity--a reflection, perhaps, from her--was thrown

about him, till it had once or twice been said that the prince, like his

goddess, moved in a silver cloud. Whether or not it was possible

that Belshazzar--Belshazzar the tyrannical, the dissolute, the

fierce-tempered--had by dint of will-power and persistence been able to

pierce the veil that hid Istar secure from all mortal eyes, it would be

impossible to tell. Istar herself did not know. But now, as many times

before, she wondered vaguely if her unearthly powers would or would not

hold her from the understanding of this unholy man.

The mercy hour over, two attendant ûkhatû approached her with the

purifying water and her white garment for the evening. Istar washed away

from her own person the sins and sorrows of her suppliants, suffered the

robe to be laid over her shoulders, and then sent away the women,

forbidding the temple to be lighted till she was gone from it, and

commanding the dismissal of the two that prayed near the basin of the

sea. So, presently, she was alone in the vast, shadowy room with

Belshazzar, who still stood, silent, immovable, arms folded, head

slightly bent, beside the shew-table, his storm-blue eyes fixed in a

side glance on her face.

Istar rose and descended from the high place, and then moved slowly in

her floating way to Belshazzar's side. There, a few inches from him, she

halted, and, putting forth her hand, laid it lightly on his arm.

A tremor of intense feeling shot through him. He shook for a moment as

with palsy. Then, raising both hands in the attitude of prayer, he

uttered the one word--"Belit!"

Istar regarded him with a kind of curiosity. "Bel-shar-utsur," she said,

lingeringly, with a suggestion of hesitation. Again the prince trembled.

"Bel-shar-utsur--wilt thou follow me?"

"To the kingdom of Lillât, if my goddess asks," he answered, quickly, in

a maze of confused delight.

The light of her divinity burned brighter round the figure of the

goddess, and she made a slight gesture for the man to walk beside her.

He obeyed with an eagerness that was tempered by a peculiar,

half-resisted reluctance which Istar perceived but did not understand;

for the soul of this majestic body was unknown, utterly unknown to her.

Together, however, they left the temple and passed across the deserted

platform, which was still flooded with sunlight, till they reached the

foot of the ziggurat. Here Belshazzar halted with a quick breath and an

inaudible exclamation. Istar, turning a little towards him, gave him a

wondering glance.

"You fear?" she asked, hardly knowing how to voice her idea.

And Belshazzar, he who had in his youth, in pursuance of amusement, swum

the Euphrates lashed to the back of a wounded crocodile, now raised his

hands again, saying imploringly: "O Belit!--I fear!"

"And what? Is it I?"

He bent his head.

"Belshazzar--come thou and teach me."

"Teach--you!"

"Yea, for there is much that I must know. There, on the ziggurat, where

the air is sweet, where we shall be nearer the silver sky, thou shalt

learn the purpose of my earth-life, and shalt tell me how to attain it;

for I of myself know not the way. Come."

This time Belshazzar obeyed the command without hesitation, silently.

Together they made the ascent of the broad, inclined plane that wound

round and round up the tower. The man's steps were swinging and

vigorous; yet, walk as rapidly as he would, the goddess kept always a

little ahead of him though she made neither effort nor motion, except

that now and then she touched her feet lightly to the bricks. At the

top, opening from the broad gallery that ran round the building of the

tower, was the low door-way that gave entrance to the holy of holies,

Istar's shrine. There was no one on the height to-day, though ordinarily

at this hour several ascended the ziggurat to watch the ascent of the

goddess. Rejoicing in the solitude, Istar leaned over the south parapet

of the wall, and looked out upon the light-flooded city, while

Belshazzar, in a dream, waited at her shoulder. After a little while she

turned, and, pushing aside the leathern curtain that hung across the

door, conducted the prince over the threshold of the sacred place.

It was a wonderful room. At the time of the coming of Istar, indeed, all

Babylon had contributed to its adorning. Not more than ten feet square

was the little place, yet so did it glisten and shine with the lustre of

clear gems and burnished gold, that it seemed to contain unfathomable

depths, and to be imbued with something of the divine radiance of its

mistress. The couch in it, like the walls, was covered with plates of

beaten gold, and piled high with the softest and costliest stuffs from

the famous Babylonian looms. The throne and the two chairs, or

tabourets, were of Indian ebony, inlaid with ivory; and the table and

deep basin for water were of chased silver, worked with crystals and

emeralds. All the daylight that could enter this room must come through

the arched door-way; but a swinging-lamp of wrought gold, hanging in the

centre of the little place, burned continually, night and day, and shed

a dim effulgence over everything.

When this interior was first revealed to him, Belshazzar halted where he

stood, gazing around with self-contained pleasure till Istar, seating

herself on the great chair that was her throne, motioned him to one of

the lower seats. Belshazzar sat in her presence, and a silence fell

between them: a silence that the prince could not have broken had his

life been at stake. Istar, looking from her place out through the

door-way into the tower-tipped sky, seeming not to feel in the slightest

the great discomfort of her guest, finally said, softly:

"Belshazzar, from thy heart, tell me, what are thy gods?"

The man looked at her in quick amazement. For an instant he was about to

speak on impulse. Then he resisted; and when he did make answer the

reply was conventional. "Thou, Istar, art my goddess. Babylon is mine

only god."

"That last thou hast said well. Yet it, too, is a false god."

"But thou, O Istar, I know--"

"I am no goddess, Belti-shar-utsur."

The prince started nervously to his feet. "You are not mortal?"

"No. I think, indeed, that I am not. Yet I am not sure. You came to

earth a baby, born of woman--is it not so?"

"Like all men."

"And I descended from the highest void through space, till I touched

earth almost upon this spot, a woman as I am now, clothed in my silver

garment. It was by the command of god, the great Bel, the One, the True,

that I came hither from the upper realms of the great kingdom. I was

what they call archetype. I was decreed to pass through the fire of the

world and return not to my home till the hearts of men were bare before

my eyes, till I learned the secret of the creation. Yet how these things

are to be shown to me I do not know. Thy heart, O Belshazzar--what is

it?"

"It is thine, Lady of All."

"Open it to me that I may read."

The pleading simplicity of the tone made Belshazzar look at her sharply,

and in a new way. Still his eyes failed to pierce the wave of baffling

light that flowed about her; and still her purpose was enigmatical to

him. She had become more incomprehensible than ever.

"The hearts of men, Istar, are not always known to themselves. Mine I

could not show you."

Istar thought for a little while in troubled silence. Then she asked

once more, not hopefully: "Your loves and hates, your joys and sorrows,

your hopes and fears--knowing these, could I not understand them and

you?"

"It may be. I do not know."

"Then let me hear, that I may judge."

"All of them, Istar--love, hate, hope, fear, joy, sorrow--are woven

around my city, Babylon, the gate of god. My love is for her and my fear

for her enemies. As she is the greatest of all cities, so is she the

most loved and the most hated. In her lie all my joy and sorrow. In her

dwell many that I love, some that I hate, one that I fear. But this--"

"This will not open to me your secret heart, Belshazzar. It is an

affectation."

"By the power of the twelve great gods--it is not!"

"Then there are two lives in you: this one, and another that is hidden."

Belshazzar looked at her again strangely. "It is true," he said, at

length, a curious smile curving his lips.

"It is of this second life that you must tell me."

"I cannot!" he said, quickly.

"Wherefore?"

"It is too ignoble for your ears."

"Too ignoble? What should be that for me? Nay, prince of the city, my

earth-life is weary and long, because that I am kept away from life. I

am set apart, worshipped as one afar off, and true life is not laid

before me. To teach your race the secret of the one god is forbidden. It

is I that come hither to learn; yet I am given no way of learning. What

am I? Whither am I to go, that I may learn truth from the hearts of

men?"

"Hearts, Divine One, may read each other. But no immortal that cannot

feel the world may understand them."

"Let me, then, become mortal, O God!"

The cry rang out louder than it had been spoken, and seemed to echo

forth, to vibrate through the room, to flow out and away into the

distant sky. The two in the sanctuary listened to it in silence,

wondering. Then Istar, tremulous, and wavering with light, arose.

"Leave me, Belshazzar!" she cried, suddenly. "Leave me alone here! I

fear you!"

"Fear me?" He spoke softly, taking the attitude of prayer. "You are the

goddess of Babylon. It is I that fear. I beseech thee, lady, spare me

thy wrath. As a reed shalt thou bend me. As a twig shall I be broken

before the strength of thy will. Divine One, grant me favor! Lady Belit,

have pity upon my mortality!"

As he spoke she stood looking at him, shrinkingly, uncertainly, trying

to fathom the false ring of the conventional phrases. His attitude, his

expression, his demeanor, were perfectly sincere; yet, whether he

himself were conscious of it or not, the words were not honest. She

perceived it instantly. After the little pause of thought she repeated,

faintly:

"Depart from me!" adding, afterwards, "You mock at me."

The prince drew a quick breath that sounded like a gasp. Then, coming

forward, he sank to his knees, took the hem of her fiery garment, and

held it for a moment to his lips. Its flame did not harm. Rather, it

sent through his whole being a shock of vitality. Rising hurriedly after

the obeisance, he inclined himself again before her and swept away, as

she had commanded, leaving her alone in her sanctuary.

Istar remained where he left her, lying back in the chair, one hand

supporting her cheek, her thoughts chaotic and troubled as never before.

For many months past she had felt, vaguely, that which had just

definitely come home to her. Her time on earth was passing uselessly

away. She was now no closer to mankind than she had been before her

descent. She was treated with such reverent awe as utterly precluded

anything like familiar intercourse with any one. The very prayers were

addressed to her in terms as florid and as general as possible. Her

personal attendants performed their duties in silent reverence. The

priesthood treated her with the impenetrable respect that they showed

towards the graven images of the gods. And now, for the first time, the

significance of all these things came to her definitely. She perceived

how they were baffling her purpose, and the thought caused her deep

disquiet. There seemed to be but one way of opening life to her immortal

vision. It was through the person of Belshazzar, who dared, before her,

to keep his individuality. This way, however, as she had told him, she

feared. What the fear was, when it had come or why, who could tell? Not

Istar. Now, for so long a time the prince had been part of her

wearisome, objective existence that, up to to-night, she had been more

inclined to regard him as something spiritual than as a man. Mentally

she reviewed him and his personality, and she found therein much that

was beyond her undeveloped powers of appreciation and analysis. His deep

eyes--how was it that they looked on her? She had not seemed to him so

awe-inspiring a thing as others found her. Why? His continual presence

before her--was it all from a sense of pure religion? Yet, if it were

not, what was the motive? Istar did not, could not, know. He did not

pray to her--quite. His attitude was peculiar--distant--reverent--yet at

times there was something other than reverence in his face. What it

was--the look that seemed to burn through her veil--Istar could not

tell. Yet it was that look that had made her fear.

How long she sat, passive and quiet-browed within her sanctuary,

thinking of these many things, she did not know. But when finally she

straightened, the clouds in the east were pink with the reflected light

of the setting sun.

The sky was singularly beautiful to her. It held in its far depths the

mystery of her birth. She regarded it sometimes with yearning, sometimes

with an unfathomable wisdom held in her inmost being. Now the curtain

hid it from her gaze, and, with an oppressive sadness in her heart, she

crossed to the door-way and lifted the curtain-folds, to encounter the

piercing gaze of a man who stood more than half-way across the sanctuary

threshold. Thin, pallid, hook-nosed, bearded, and wretchedly clothed, he

stood over her radiant person and seemed to peer into her very

soul--this child of the West, Beltishazzar the Jew.

Istar gasped and shrank quickly back into the room, without letting go

her hold on the curtain. Daniel pressed his advantage and intruded

farther, till he also was inside. Her face was indistinguishable to him,

for the light-waves had quickened protectively round her whole body,

till she swam in glory. Seemingly unabashed, the Jew addressed her:

"Istar of Babylon, grant me an hour wherein I may hold speech with

you--here, or without--upon the ziggurat."

There was less of entreaty than of command in the tone; and Istar,

unduly affected by the fanatical appearance of the man, put his presence

on a level with her own personality, and, replying to his speech in

Hebrew, his language, said:

"Then enter here, O Daniel, and I will listen to you."

"You know me!" he said, quickly.

"I know men's names."

"And their hearts?"

"Their hearts! You have said it! Their hearts! Oh, thou man of

Jerusalem, canst thou give me knowledge as to them?"

He looked at her closely, as if to make sure of her meaning. Then,

taking courage, he replied: "Men's hearts! Who, in truth, but Yaveh, the

one God, shall know them?"

Istar made no answer to the question, but once more motioned the Jew to

enter the faintly lighted room. This he did without hesitation.

Thereupon she covered the door-way with its curtain, turned without any

sign of haste, and seated herself once more on the high throne, but left

the Jew to stand before her. Finally, before the words he had framed

could leave his lips, she swayed forward slightly and asked:

"What have you, the child of Yaveh, to gain from me?"

"Much--or nothing."

"It is no answer, Daniel."

Beltishazzar bent his head and folded his arms over his breast. So he

stood for many minutes, silent and motionless, while Istar waited

serenely for him to speak; and, when he spoke, she was not startled by

his words and their blunt directness.

"Istar of Babylon, what are you--who are you? child of God, or

instrument of the devil?--archangel, as some say, or arch-fiend, as many

think? What is your mission in Babylon? Whence came you? Whither do you

go?"

Istar smiled. "Neither angel nor fiend am I, Beltishazzar, but archetype

of God's creation. I came from space. Into it, in time, I shall return

again. My mission I have told you. I come to learn the hearts of men,

their relationship to God."

As she ceased to speak she found Beltishazzar's eyes fixed upon her in a

look so penetrating that it seemed impossible it should not pierce her

veil. Presently, in the silence that followed, the Jew began to pace up

and down the little room. He walked nervously. His brows were knitted,

his shoulders drawn up, his head sunk between them in an abstraction

that Istar never thought of disturbing. When, at length, he looked up at

her again, she found in him a new enthusiasm, a spirituality, an

exaltation even, that gleamed like fire from his sunken eyes and

increased his unhealthy pallor till his skin was like that of a dead

man.

"Istar," he began, in a voice low and tremulous with incipient

passion--"Istar, you have said it was from God that you came hither from

space--you, a heavenly being, an archangel. God despatched you to earth

for an unknown purpose, a purpose that, in its fulness, hath not been

confided to you, but is revealed unto me, the prophet of Nebuchadrezzar,

the great king. Listen, and thou shalt feel the response of truth throb

within thee at my words.

"Forty-and-seven years ago the holy city of Judah fell before the

onslaught of the Babylonian king. Zedekiah and his race were taken

captive by the hands of the wicked, and were carried away into exile to

the city abhorred of God--Babylon, the queen of evil. Since then, in

sickness and sorrow, in captivity and death, our people have dwelt here,

a piteous hunger for the promised land gnawing at their hearts, while

Babylon waxed great and strong in her wickedness off the fat of many

captive lands and peoples. Long have we been without hope of salvation.

But now Nebuchadrezzar, the fierce ruler, is dead many years since. In

his kingdom are sown the seeds of dissension and strife, and, in the

weakness of her strength, she shall reap bitter fruit. For Babylon, even

as Nineveh before her, must fall. At the hands of her captives shall the

great city suffer destruction and death. Again in their strength the

Jews shall rise up and smite the tyrant down. And now, O Istar, hear

thou the word of the Lord! In this great retribution it is thou that

shalt lead us, the chosen ones; thou that shalt win glory and honor

among us; thou that, as Moses from Egypt, shalt lead us out of Babylonia

through the wilderness, back to the land of our fathers!"

He paused for an instant in the midst of his delight, to note the effect

of his words on the woman--or angel. She sat before him radiant,

wavering with light, motionless, unmoved, inscrutable, showing no desire

to interrupt the flow of his words; rather, in her silence, urging him

to greater heights. So he continued:

"For forty-and-seven years have we, the captives, dwelt in the land of

bondage; and in that time, even with the hand of God heavy upon us, have

acquired honor and riches in the country of our woe. Is it not a sign

that God is with us--that he holds sacred that spot in which we dwell?

Thou also art from Him! The end of our trial approaches! By night I hear

the voice of the Lord crying from the high places that thou art here as

a sign of His protection. And I and thou are destined to lead the

children of Jerusalem out of bondage. Mine is the hand that will strike

down the weak and faltering king of Babylon--Nabu-Nahid, the foolish

one. At our hands priest and noble, citizen and soldier, yea, mother and

infant of this unholy people, shall be made to drink of their own blood.

And for thee, O Istar, shall be reserved the triumph, the deed of danger

and of glory! For by thy hand, in stealth, when he shall come to worship

idolatrously at thy shrine, shalt thou strike to earth the monster

tyrant of the city, Nabu-Nahid's son, the child of sin, Belshazzar! Now

behold--"

"Thou infamous one!"

Daniel's rush of words suddenly ceased. He paused long enough, fully

enough, this time, to perceive and to understand the situation. Istar,

trembling with anger and disgust, had risen from her place and towered

above him like an archangel indeed. Through the blaze of light her two

eyes glowed like burning coals upon the insignificant creature cowering

below her. Beyond her exclamation, Istar found no words to say. The two

confronted each other in palpitating stillness, and as they stood,

Daniel, inch by inch, began to regain his stature, and gradually to move

away, backward, towards the door. When finally he had his shoulders

against the leathern curtain, and knew his ability to effect a quick

escape should it become necessary, he delivered himself of a final

oracle:

"Thou thing of evil, the Lord hath stripped from mine eyes the veil! I

behold thee nourishing the serpent in thy bosom. Thy master, Satan,

stands at thy right shoulder. Upon the other hand is Belshazzar, thy

paramour. But I say unto you that the streets of Babylon shall run with

the tyrant's blood. There shall come a night when Babylon shall burst

into flames; when Nabonidus will be no more; when Belshazzar's life

shall be taken by the hands of his own people; when thou, in mortal

terror, shalt flee the city of thy wickedness; when the Jew shall

triumph over Bel, and the God of Judea lift up his sword in the heavens!

Thus, in mine ear, sounds the mighty voice of the Lord!"

Then, with one baleful gesture, and a fiery glance of hatred from his

bright, black eyes, Daniel flung back the curtain of the sanctuary and

slunk away, with his usual gait, out into the twilight and down the

winding plane of the ziggurat.

For many minutes Istar remained as she had stood while listening to the

last words of the leader of the captive race. Her limbs trembled. Her

eyes were dim. When presently she felt the cool breath of the evening

envelop her, her senses swam. In the midst of it all, in the midst of

that terrible vision that the Jew had conjured up before her, there was

one thing that stood out before all else, till the rest had lost all

significance. Kill Belshazzar! _She_ kill Belshazzar! Over and over she

repeated it to herself, unable to understand why the horror of the mere

thought should be so great.

The swinging-lamp in the sanctuary mingled its dim, steady light with

that of the rosy evening. From far below, over the Great City, came the

faint hum of weary millions that had ceased from toil--a drowsy, restful

murmur, suggestive of approaching sleep. The sound came gratefully to

Istar's ears. Here were no battle-cries, no shouts of attack, no wails

of the dying. Beltishazzar surely lied. Nay, over her senses began to

steal a sensation of subtle delight, of exquisite content, of freedom

from earth-weariness. The hum of the city was gradually replaced by a

long-drawn celestial chord, spun out and out with fainter, increasing

vibrations, till it died away in the glow of unearthly light that was

gradually suffusing the room.

Istar gave one low cry of love and relief, and, moving from her strained

position, lay down upon the soft couch in an attitude of expectancy and

happiness. Minute by minute the glow increased in brilliance till the

little shrine palpitated with the fires of a midsummer sunset. Vapors of

gold, in hot, whirling eddies, floated from ceiling to floor. The

objects in the room became indistinguishable, and the light was such as

must have struck mortal eyes blind. Gradually, in the meeting-point of

the radiating light-streams, there became visible a darkly opaque shape

upon which Istar fixed her eyes. It became more and more definable.

Suddenly, from the head, there flashed forth five points of diamond

light; and at the same instant Allaraine, star-crowned, emerged in

mortal semblance from the melting glory. The moon-daughter rose from her

couch, and silently the two greeted each other, looking eye into eye

with all the companionship of divinity. While they stood thus, Allaraine

touched his lyre, and the chords of the night-song of stillness and

peace spread through the room and out into the darkness beyond. To

mortal senses it was the essence of the summer day, with its fragrance

and its passion, hanging still, by early night, over the land and the

drowsy city. But to immortal ears it was as the voice of God. Istar

drank it in as a thirsty field receives the rivulets of irrigation. And,

little by little, as the spell was woven to its close, the star-crowned

one drew her towards the throne, on which he caused her to sit, himself

floating at a little distance.

"Allaraine! Allaraine! You bring again the breath of space, my home!"

"Yea, Istar!"

"And a half-mortal sadness looks upon me from your incarnate eyes."

"Beloved of the skies, I am troubled--troubled for you. It is as a

messenger knowing little that I come to you from the great throne."

"What message? What message?"

"This: 'As immortal men are yet mortal, so shalt thou be. And by means

of pain, of sin, of death, and of love, shalt thou in the end know

mankind through thyself; and for thee will there be freedom of choice.'"

Measuredly, clearly, but unintelligently, Allaraine pronounced the words

that were to him a mystery; and Istar listened, wondering, a dim

foreboding at her heart. After a long pause she spoke mechanically the

two words:

"_Mortal! I!_"

"Mortal. Thou. Istar, the heavens mourn!"

"And why, Allaraine?"

"To see thee in pain, in sin, in death--"

Istar raised her hand. "Have peace! These are in the world, but they are

not all. There is something besides, that I have seen, yet that neither

I, nor thou, nor any of our kind can understand. Sweeter than all the

rest are hard, higher than sin is low, more joyful than death is sad,

love reigns over men. Love is from the central fire of God, as we are

but its outer rays. Love walks through all the earth, passing to and fro

among men, making them to forswear sin, to forget suffering, to overcome

death. Those that love are happy in spite of all things. This much have

I learned on earth. And if mortality is decreed for me, I shall find

love with the rest. Fear not for me, for willingly I bow down in

acceptance of suffering, of pain, of wandering in the maze of ignorance,

for the sake of this thing that men know and that I cannot understand."

"And thou wilt gladly forget us?"

"Nay, Allaraine. In the long nights and troubled days, thou, as ever,

wilt bring me comfort."

"Ah, Istar--that may not be."

"May not? I shall lose the music--the communion--"

"All things divine will be lost. You enter into the wilderness of the

world."

Istar bent her head and was silent. She who had seemed to understand so

much, realized nothing. At last, lifting her head heavily, she asked:

"When does it come, this farewell to--my home?"

"Not until you, of your own will, renounce divinity."

"Not till I seek it? Nay, this very night I asked it of the Almighty."

"Yea, and the cry was heard. Mortality shall be yours whenever of your

own free will you renounce us all for that which mortality will give."

"Ah, then--then, immortal one--I shall remain the Narahmouna."[7]

Allaraine shook his head thoughtfully and said: "Of that I do not know.

I have brought the message. Sleep, celestial woman. I go."

Obediently Istar lay down upon her couch, and the white eyelids closed

over the unfathomable eyes. Allaraine, standing over her, looking down

upon her mortal form with infinite pity, infinite ignorance, lifted up

his lyre once more, and, by the magic of his power, Istar's spirit

quickly fled to the land of dreams. There Allaraine left her to await

the dawn of the new day, with its monotonous, wearying duties, and its

weight of dim, indefinable foreboding, that as yet was all of the

earth-life of Narahmouna the divine.

III

A BABYLONISH HOUSEHOLD

Babylon, the largest, richest, and most powerful city in the world, and

of Oriental cities probably the most beautiful, presented, to the

discerning eye, not a few glaring incongruities. Though its population

had always been large, and was at the present time greater than ever

before or after, the actual area of the city was, nevertheless, much too

great for the number of people that dwelt in it. There have been

kingdoms of fewer acres than those over which the monster city spread.

Between the two walls, Imgur and Nimitti-Bel, were grain-fields of

sufficient extent to supply the entire population with sesame, barley,

and wheat in the event of a prolonged siege. This part of Babylon,

therefore, called city by courtesy, was really more in the nature of

farm-lands than anything else. While within the inner wall, indeed

almost in the heart of the city, were many bare and unsightly acres,

used for nothing better than dumping-grounds, or for encampments of the

troops of dogs that wandered freely through the streets as scavengers.

In some quarters, however, and especially along the banks of the five

canals cut from the Euphrates, and winding out towards Borsip on the

west and Cutha on the east, every available inch of soil was occupied.

Houses jutted over the streets and were crowded together, side by side

and back to back, without any attempt at system: tenement districts such

as the worst cities of later times never dreamed of. Here the

three-story, flat-roofed buildings would be rented out, room by room, to

as many people as poverty obliged to live in them. And these were

myriad. For as Babylon was the wealthiest of cities, so she concealed in

her depths nests of filthy, swarming life, of suffering and of privation

such as only human beings could see and still tolerate.

On the edge of one of these districts, between the square of Nisân and

the square of the gods, on the north bank of the canal of the New Year,

in two tiny rooms, with a little space also on the roof, lived the widow

Beltani, her daughters, and their male slave. The slave was Beltani's

sole inheritance from her husband. He was her luxury, her delight, the

outlet of her not unfrequent tempers, and one of the three sources of a

very limited income. Her daughters were the other two means of

livelihood, but to them--though as girls go they were pretty--she was

indifferent. Beltani herself was not, like so many of the Babylonish

women, in trade. She did the work of the household; cooked--what there

was to cook; washed--also what there was to wash; kept the rooms clean,

as was consistent with tradition; and, hardest of hard tasks, managed

the general income so that, in the two years of their unprotected life,

none of the four had starved outright, and none of them had gone naked,

while the rent was also paid as regularly as it could not be avoided.

Besides this, Beltani held the patronage of two of the great gods; and

by their help, together with frequent incantations, had kept the devils

of the under-world from inflicting upon her any particularly direful

misfortune. Images of the god Sin, of Bel-Marduk, and of the demons of

Headache and the West Wind, were the only ornaments of her rooms. Each

of these, however, had its shrine, and was regularly addressed three

times a day; and it is to be hoped that if any demon had a due sense of

proportion, he would refrain from inflicting any further ill of life

upon these poor and pious creatures.

Neither chair nor rug had Beltani. Four pallets, such as they were,

three in an inner room, one in a corner of the living-room; a wooden

movable table and a brick stationary one; some vessels of clay, two iron

pots, three knives, and a two-pronged fork, together with an iron

brazier that was kept upon the roof, and lastly, three or four rough,

wooden stools, formed the furniture of the house. Nevertheless laughter,

and that from very pretty throats, was a thing not unheard in this

poverty-stricken place; and as many human sensations, from joy of life

to pain of death, had run their course in these rooms as in the

magnificent abode of Lord Ribâta Bit-Shumukin, just across the canal.

At sunset on the day of the great sacrifice to Nebo and Nergal, Beltani

stood in the door-way of her living-room, watching the gory light burn

over the city, and, fist on hip, shouting gossip to neighbor Noubta of

the next tenement.

"Have you been on the Â-Ibur to-day, Beltani?" called the Bee, when one

of their intimates had been pretty well demolished at that distance.

"No. Few enough holidays are mine to take. From morning to night the

girls run about the city, and some one must be at home to manage."

"Ay, there's your slave. What good is he if he can't take the rooms in

charge once in a month? We have no slave, and my man's at work on the

reservoir all day; but I slipped out this morning and went off to see

the sights. Such crowds! All the city was out. I've a rent in my fresh

tunic."

"Well, I couldn't go. One's slave may do much, but he isn't to be

trusted with everything. Bazuzu, is the sesame ground?" This last

ostentatiously; for Noubta was busily pounding her own barley.

Bazuzu made some reply from within, and after a moment came out of the

room, bowl in hand. Jet-black, high-shouldered, and slightly lame, for

all that as powerful as an ox was Bazuzu. His appearance was startlingly

uncouth as he limped out in answer to Beltani's question. But a gentler

light never shone from mortal eyes than from his; and a gentler nature

never lurked in so ugly a body.

Beltani took the bowl from his hand, and, calling a good-night to her

neighbor, proceeded leisurely to the stair-way that ran up the outside

of the building to the roof. It was on the roof that every family in the

tenement did its cooking, except, indeed, in the rainy season. In all

these districts the roof was the one luxury, the one comfortable, light,

shaded spot, cool and airy in the summer evenings, protected through the

day by an awning hung each morning and taken down at sunset. Roof-space

was portioned off to tenants according to the number of their rooms; and

up here, for them, life was sometimes really worth the living.

While Beltani was up-stairs beginning the preparations for supper,

Bazuzu remained in the door-way, shading his eyes from the light of the

west, and looking with some interest out towards the canal. Noubta the

Bee, still pounding barley, looked also, and presently called to him:

"Baba is coming, there, with the goat, Bazuzu."

And Baba presently appeared. She walked slowly, with a limp, for her

feet were sore and inflamed from contact with the burning pavements.

Beside her the silky goat, Zor, trotted along with gentle friendliness.

Over her left shoulder hung a long string of pine-cones, gathered in a

grove by the river and brought home for firewood. As she reached the

door-way the slave took these from her and carried them up to Beltani.

Baba, meantime, entered the house, passed into the second room, where

she, her mother, and sister slept, and threw herself wearily down upon

her bed. She lay here quite still, eyes wide open, one thin, brown fist

thrown above her head, the other hand on her breast, an expression of

intense, never-ending weariness upon her peaked little face. Over her,

lying thus as usual after the long day of wandering, Zor stood, looking

at her with half-human disturbance. Presently she ran her tongue

sympathetically over Baba's hand, and then, with a goat-sigh, settled

down on the floor beside her, her white, silken coat close to Baba's

coarse, cotton garment. It was a peaceful half-hour that they spent

before Bazuzu came to relieve Zor of her burden of milk. Then Baba

opened her eyes, realizing that it approached supper-time. Rising with

an effort, she passed into the other room to wash at the big, open jar

of water standing there. Her head, arms, and hair were just dripping

refreshingly, when there came an incursion from without. First arrived

Beltani, flushed with astonishment and anger; after her followed Ramûa,

in company with a golden-haired youth bearing a silver lyre. At sight of

him Baba gave a spasmodic gurgle of amazement, and then stood wet and

staring, while her sister gave an explanation of the coming of

Charmides.

"Istar hath bidden it, O my mother," she said, pleadingly, while Beltani

still glared. "He is come from over the desert. He is weary, and he is

poor."

This last explanation was the worst mistake that Ramûa could have made.

"Poor!" burst forth Beltani, angrily. "_Poor!_ And is it thy thought

that our wealth is so great that we must house here another one--we who

have not the wherewithal to exist except in misery? Why is the great

goddess wroth with us? Wherein have I offended her, that she sends me

another mouth to feed? What can he do, this pale-eyed, white-headed

thing? Who is he that you bring him home with you? What have you done,

Ramûa? How speak you to men that you do not know--men of his class? I

will--"

She suddenly stopped; for Charmides' "pale" eyes were fastened on her

intently, as if he would have read her words from her expression. And

indeed, if this was his idea, the success of it was unique. For when the

gaze that caused Beltani to stop speaking, Baba to shake with cold,

confusion, and hysterical laughter, and Ramûa to turn fiery red with

shame, had lasted as long as Beltani could endure it, Charmides, with

business-like precision, brought forth his money-bag, drew therefrom a

piece of silver, and quietly proffered it to the mistress of the house.

Beltani accepted the money without the grace of an instant's hesitation.

Moreover, she advanced into the light, where she could examine it more

closely to make sure that it was good. "It is not our money. Has it any

value?" she asked, looking squarely at the Greek.

Baba went white, Ramûa blushed crimson, and only Charmides kept his

countenance unchanged. It was to Ramûa that he looked, this time, for

some guidance as to Beltani's meaning; and, looking at her, he presently

forgot to wonder why the old woman still held his leafy coin

suspiciously up in the light, after a moment repeating, sharply:

"Is the money of real silver, I say?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Baba, disrespectfully. "This very morning I

changed one of them for twenty _se_."

"_You_ changed one?" asked Ramûa, wonderingly. "How?"

"He bought of me a cup of Zor's milk this morning as we stood near the

square of the gods in the Â-Ibur."

Ramûa laughed merrily. "Then it was your _se_ that he paid me for bread

and dates at noon."

"He pays, then?" queried Beltani.

Ramûa had begun her reply when, to the surprise of all three of them,

Charmides himself, who at last had understood a whole phrase, and thus

grasped the situation, came out with a stammering and broken, "I pay."

And forthwith he took from his bag another piece of silver and held it

out to Beltani, who received it shamelessly, while both girls, indignant

and helpless, looked on. Fortunately, at this juncture, Bazuzu came

down-stairs to say that the sesame boiled, the dates were cooled, and

the jar of beer had been set out on the roof.

Baba returned to her neglected toilet; while Beltani, turning to Ramûa

with a very agreeable "Bring the stranger up-stairs," departed in haste

to see that enough had been cooked to include Charmides in the meal, and

yet leave something for Bazuzu afterwards.

Ramûa waited till Baba had retired to the sleeping-room to bind up her

hair; and then, rather apologetically, indicated to Charmides the

water-jar. He proceeded, not without a little qualm of distaste, to

plunge his head and arms into the same water used ten minutes before by

Baba. How Ramûa managed Charmides never learned; for, while he shook the

water from his hair, and wiped his face and hands with a garment of his

own taken from his bundle, his companion followed her sister to the

inner room, from which they presently emerged together, glowing, demure,

smooth-haired, and ragged only as to tunics. The three together then

mounted the brick staircase in the deepening twilight, to find the whole

tenement on the roof at supper.

Beltani, who had waited impatiently for their appearance, was shouting

across to a friend certain pieces of information in a way that terrified

Ramûa. Charmides might again display that unlooked-for comprehension;

and if he did!--Ramûa flushed in the semi-darkness. But the rhapsode,

though he did not understand one word in twenty of those that were

spoken about him, had already formed a very fair opinion of Ramûa's

mother; and nothing that she could have said would much have amazed him.

But, disagreeable as she was, he felt that more than she might be

endured for the sake of sitting, at each meal, so close to that

delightful bit of humanity, Ramûa. As to Baba, with her big eyes and

pinched face, and the wonderfully beautiful little body concealed by her

hopelessly insolvent garments, she meant nothing to him now, one way or

the other. It was all Ramûa--Ramûa, who, with her pretty, quiet

helpfulness, her modesty, and also, in no small measure, her very

apparent satisfaction in his presence, made the impressionable Sicilian

at home in Babylon.

Before supper was begun Bazuzu came up to the roof again, bearing

in his hand a lighted dish-lamp. Chaldean twilights were very short.

Day and night were too fond to be kept at arm's-length, and almost

before a sunset had time to reach the height of its glory, gray

shadows, the loving arms of darkness, were encircling the glow, and

presently--lo!--from the east a string of stars was shining forth, and

day had fallen to the night's caress.

The hour of the meal was as a dream to Charmides; a dream so vivid that,

long years after, when he approached old age, he found himself able to

recall with ease every look, every gesture, every shadow that passed

before his eyes. The taste of boiled sesame and garlic never failed to

bring back the impression of this meal; and time came to be when the

master-singer, of his own accord, would go forth to purchase the coarse

food that should conjure up again before him Beltani's masculine face

watching him out of the shadows; Baba's big eyes fixed unwinkingly upon

him; the ungainly figure of Bazuzu, standing in the background beside

Zor, the goat; lastly, delight of all delights, Ramûa again beside him,

at his shoulder, her head turned just a little away, her eyes refusing,

out of shyness, to meet his, her pure profile all that was to be seen of

her face, a little of her smooth shoulder just visible through a sudden

rent in the tunic. And at this point Charmides would cover his eyes with

his hands to hold the memory, and laugh a little out of pure joy that it

had all been so.

At the time of its happening, however, one could not have called

Charmides joyful. He was weary, he was hungry, he was conscious that the

object of his journey had been fulfilled, and that, now that all was

done, his home was at a measureless distance, and there seemed no

immediate prospect of returning to it. Onion-flavored grain, eaten with

an awkward wooden spoon out of the same dish from which three others

were also eating, might be poetic to think of, but was not delightful in

actuality. To eat with Ramûa--well and good in its way; with Beltani,

however--no! and as for Baba, he regarded her already with displeasure.

Her eyes were too big and her body too meagre.

There was not much conversation at supper. The uncertainty as to the

actual powers of Charmides in the way of understanding the Babylonish

tongue was dampening to the general spirit. Beltani could only dream of

the morrow, when she should have an hour's rest, at any cost, for

chatter with Noubta; at which time the estate and importance of the

fair-haired one would be definitely settled. Meantime supper must be got

over as rapidly as possible. The sesame duly finished, what remained in

the dish was handed over to Bazuzu; and bread, dates, and cheese being

portioned out, the women rose from their stiff postures and took up less

constrained positions in various spots on the roof. Ramûa carried her

fruit over to the edge of the roof and sat there in the starlight, her

feet hanging over the unrailed edge, munching comfortably. Charmides

finished his second course where he sat at table. Baba had thrown

herself down by Zor, who was eating a hearty supper of refuse; and

Beltani went to the other end of the roof to visit a friend. Now the

Greek, scenting an opportunity, finished his dates, and darted down the

stair-way, to return after a few minutes' search in the darkness with

his lyre. Ramûa did not notice his return, for she had not seen him go.

But Baba's little hand tightened on Zor's silken hair, when she felt

that he had come back to the roof. Without moving or making any sound,

without even a change in expression, she saw him hesitate for the

fraction of a second, and then pass quietly over and seat himself at

Ramûa's side.

Charmides was disappointed, perhaps, that the maiden made no sign of

satisfaction at his coming. She sat staring up into the high,

star-spangled heavens, oblivious, apparently, of everything below them.

He also remained silent, looking off towards the dark canal that wound,

black and smooth, between the high buildings jutting over it on either

side. After all, Babylon, the city of which he had dreamed so long, held

nothing that was strange to him. It had been so long his heart-home that

he loved it now. As he thought of all that he had done for the sake of

being within its giant walls, and as he reflected upon the success of

his great purpose, he forgot Ramûa beside him. He had not come for her.

She was only a part of the city, the city that he had discovered out of

the mighty west. How far above him he had thought all Babylon must be!

Yet here it was, at his right hand; and he might touch it where he

would, it would welcome him.

Pleased with his thoughts, Charmides ran his fingers over the silver

strings of his lyre; and, because he was accustomed to express his

emotions in that way, he lifted up his voice and sang, in a gentle tone,

some rippling Grecian verses in a melody so delightful that Ramûa turned

to marvel, and little Baba laid her head down upon Zor's warm coat in

rapturous delight.

Presently, however, Charmides stopped short. Beltani, drawn by the sound

of his voice, returned to her corner of the roof, and in the darkness

stumbled over Baba's prostrate body. There was a harshly angry

exclamation, a sharp blow, a stifled cry of distress, and then her

mother was at Ramûa's side, commanding her down-stairs. The girl obeyed

without protest, and Charmides followed her, distressed and helpless. In

the rooms below, a torch and a lamp gave forth a dim and greasy light.

In the first room, against the wall, sat Bazuzu, who had just finished

arranging a bed for the stranger. It was but a heap of rags and mats,

covered over with a torn rug; and Charmides was soon made to understand

that upon this he was expected to pass the night.

The whole room was utterly uninviting. However, he was tired enough

genuinely to welcome the thought of rest, and he looked for the women to

retreat to their own room at once. He soon discovered, however, that

there was no hope of their immediate retirement. Baba, having driven her

goat into its corner, where it obediently lay down, went back to the

door-way and stood looking out upon the night. Ramûa was busy making a

little fire on the brick table, out of two pine-cones. Beltani held a

bit of wood, which she was laboriously shaping with a knife into a crude

imitation of a human figure. Charmides watched her with no little

curiosity. Her whittling finished, she carefully gathered up all the

shavings and threw them into the fire. Then, with a word, she summoned

Baba and Bazuzu to her side, and, with an imperious gesture, brought the

Greek also into the circle around the little fire. Very solemnly she

placed in the centre of the flame the wooden image that she had carved;

and, while the fire caught it up, the four Babylonians lifted their

voices dolefully, in the old Accadian incantation against demons:

"O witch, whosoever thou art, whose heart conceiveth my misfortune,

whose tongue uttereth spells against me, whose lips poison me, and in

whose footsteps death standeth, I ban thy mouth, I ban thy tongue, I ban

thy glittering eyes, I ban thy swift feet, I ban thy toiling knees, I

ban thy laden hands, I ban thy hands behind. And may the moon-god, our

god, destroy thy body; and may he cast thee abroad into the lake of

water and of fire. Amanû."

This prayer, of which Charmides understood not a word, but the import of

which he pretty clearly guessed, was the regular conclusion of the day.

No Babylonian of the lower class could have passed the night in peace

having omitted this exorcism. When it was over Bazuzu filled a dish with

the ashes and carried it outside the door, setting it just over the

threshold, where no thing of evil could enter the house without passing

it. This done, Beltani, with a gesture of good-night to the stranger,

retreated into her bedroom, with Baba on the one side of her and Ramûa

on the other.

Now at last Charmides was free to rest. Bazuzu, of course, was in the

room; but he, having extinguished the lamp, and making signs that when

Charmides was ready to sleep he should put out the torch, laid himself

down upon his pallet, and, turning his face to the wall, fell soundly

asleep. Charmides did not follow immediately. In the flickering light he

knelt down and prayed to his lord, Apollo of the Silver Bow, rendering

thanks for the safe accomplishment of his journey, and acknowledging the

god-head of Istar, whom, in his heart, he regarded as Artemis incarnate.

His devotions over, he rose, extinguished the torch, and felt his way to

the bed. He sank upon it with a sensation of delight. His weary limbs

relaxed, and for a moment his head swam with the relief of the reclining

position. Nevertheless, it was some time before he slept. Through the

open door-way the cool, sweet breath of the summer night stole in upon

him. In the square, black patch of sky visible where he lay came two or

three stars: the same stars that had looked on him in Sicily. A sudden

spasm of longing and of fear--fear of his strangeness, his helplessness

in this vast city, came over him then. From out of the night he heard

his mother's voice calling him from the shore of the sea; and he

answered her with a moan. For a little time her form stood out before

his eyes, clear and luminous against the black background. Then,

gradually, the blinding rays of Istar's aureole replaced her, and Istar

herself was before him, in all her surpassing beauty. After a time she

flashed out of his sight, but not before the thought had come to him,

unsummoned, that he had not yet finished with Istar of Babylon in her

city; that she, the great, the unapproachable goddess, would need him at

some future time to succor her. He smiled at the idea, thinking it a

dream. And with the thought of dreams he entered the land of them, nor

came forth again till morning dawned.

The night wore along, and there came to be but one sleeper in the room.

Black Bazuzu was awake, sitting--no, standing up. He moved noiselessly

to the door-way, and picked up there one of the baskets of his own

making. With this he crossed the threshold of the door, stepping

carefully over the witch's plate, and presently disappeared into the

blackness beyond. An hour later he came quietly in again, put his basket

into its place, and stopped to listen carefully to the sound of his

companion's breathing. It had not changed. With a satisfied nod the

slave returned to his couch, laid him gladly down, and slept.

Sunlight streaming over his face, the sound of a quick exclamation, and

a little ripple of laughter, brought the Greek to his senses next

morning. Ramûa, bright-eyed and smiling, sat in the door-way, a heap of

fresh and dewy flowers in her lap, a basket-tray beside her. She was

fastening up little bouquets of roses, lilies, heliotrope, nasturtiums,

iris, narcissi, and the beautiful lotus. Baba, as usual, was playing

with Zor, who had just made another rent in her much-tattered garments;

and Bazuzu lay upon his pallet, still asleep. Presumably Beltani was on

the roof. Charmides hoped so. He had already come to prefer her at a

distance. But at present the rather unusual arrangements of this

household puzzled him; and he could not tell, from precedent, where any

of its members would ordinarily be at this hour.

Charmides rose, not a little embarrassed at having been asleep in the

presence of Ramûa and her sister. He became in time accustomed to the

very free manners current among Babylonians of the lower class; but at

present he was mightily relieved when Ramûa, with a tact hardly to be

hoped for, jumped up from her place, and, calling to Baba to follow her,

departed towards the roof with her fragrant burden. Charmides at once

began his toilet, which he happily finished without interruption. Then,

leaving Bazuzu still asleep, he sought his hosts in the upper air.

Breakfast was ready, and it proved to be a gala meal. There was

meat--goat's flesh from the yesterday's sacrifice. For on days that

followed great religious festivals the flesh from the sacrificial

hecatombs was sold at a minimum price to the poor, so that the greater

part of Babylon had meat to eat. Besides this, there were milk and

bread; and Charmides, in a sunny mood, felt that the king himself could

have desired nothing more.

The meal was quickly over, and, a few minutes afterwards, Charmides

could scarcely have told how, he found himself walking, lyre in hand, at

Ramûa's side, along the bank of the canal, on the way to the temple of

Istar. On her head Ramûa carried her basket of fresh flowers. The Greek

watched her closely and with delight as she moved, lithe, straight, and

graceful as a young tiger, her bare feet making delicate marks in the

dust of the way, her hair, to-day unbound, swinging behind her in long,

silken masses. And Charmides' beauty-loving eyes brought joy to his soul

as he regarded her. Yet his walk was not wholly a light-hearted one. His

mind was troubled with thinking, as other men thought, as he had not

thought before, of a means of livelihood. Here he was, thrown utterly on

his own resources. If he would live he must work--must gain enough to

keep him, however simply, when his father's money was used up. This

conviction was not an easy one to face. There was but one thing that he

knew how to do well, and at all times liked to do, and that thing held

forth small promise of earning him money. His poor lyre! In any province

of Greece, or Lydia, there had been small cause for worry. Rhapsodists

were of a class apart, and were reverenced by an art-loving people as on

an equality with their priests. Zeus might be the greatest Olympian; but

Apollo had a shrine in every heart. Babylonia, however, was not Greece;

and what the Babylonian fancy for music might be, Charmides did not

know. Thus when the long walk was ended, and Ramûa had taken her place

on the platform steps below the temple of Istar, she looked up into his

face to find the usually bright countenance as solemn as that of an

ibis. Nor could any word or look of hers bring more than the shadow of a

smile to his lips.

Charmides stood beside her for a few moments, looking across the thinly

peopled square. Then his shoulders straightened. He gave a little

outward manifestation of his mental state, looked at Ramûa with a

farewell smile, and left her, walking swiftly away towards the

Â-Ibur-Sabû.

Ramûa, confounded, cried after him impulsively: "You will return! You

will return to me at noon?"

Charmides looked round, nodding reassuringly, but whether in response to

her words or merely in answer to her voice, the maiden could not tell.

She sat quite still where he had left her, her head drooping a little,

utterly forgetful of her business, paying not the least attention to

possible buyers. The sun poured its bright, scorching heat down upon the

gray bricks. Water-sellers were to be heard crying their ever-welcome

refreshment. Chariots, carts, and litters passed through the square. The

city's voice rose murmurously through the heat, and one by one the usual

beggars and venders made their appearance on the platform steps.

Through the hours Ramûa sat spiritless, watching those that passed up

the temple steps, selling her flowers unsmilingly, half unwillingly, to

those that offered to buy. At early noon she felt a first qualm of

hunger, and looked up to find the sun at its zenith. With a start she

came to herself. It was past her usual luncheon hour. All around her

little meals of bread, sesame, and dates were being brought forth by the

habitués of the steps. The cripple on Ramûa's left hand, thinking

perhaps that she must go hungry to-day, proffered her half of his loaf

with a compassionate, misshapen grin. Ramûa refused him with a forced

smile, and, heavy-hearted, took out her food and showed it to him. There

was enough for two in her package to-day; and she regarded it unhappily,

still hesitating to eat, while the hope that Charmides might return died

within her. Once again she looked over the deserted square, and then,

resolutely turning her face to the temple, took one dry mouthful of

bread. Charmides was gone for evermore. She should not see him again.

Another bite: Charmides had been killed. A third: his body was floating,

face downward, in the black, hurrying waters of the cruel Euphrates. A

fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and there appeared a tear, that rolled

uncontrollably down her pretty nose. She put her bread away--when before

had she not been hungry at noon?--and then sat with her head bent,

trying to conceal her grief from the sympathetic beggar.

Presently some one came up the steps and sat down close beside her. She

felt the presence, but did not look round. Suddenly a big, ripe melon

was placed before her, by a hand too white for Babylon. Ramûa started

up, with a spasmodic breath, and her face glowed like the sun after a

summer storm. Charmides, the morning trouble all gone from his face, was

at her side. In one hand he held a number of ripe figs. The other had

borne the melon. Ramûa retired at once within herself, too shy to do

more than smile faintly and then try to hide her face, with its

unconcealable joy. But such a welcome pleased the Greek more than

anything else; for, as he was beginning to realize, his instincts

regarding woman nature were quite unexpectedly reliable.

Luncheon was now eaten in earnest; and the cripple could not but be

amazed at the change in Ramûa's appetite. With a little laugh she broke

the melon on the steps, and proffered a large piece of it, together with

his bread and dates, to the Greek. She herself ate slowly but willingly,

answering the looks of the rhapsode, and even talking to him in the

tongue that he could not understand.

There came a time, however, after the last fig was gone and the cup of

water had been bought and drunk, when embarrassment fell between the

two. Ramûa feared, dreaded, and then half hoped that Charmides would

rise and go away again, this time to stay. She felt that she could make

no effort to keep him at her side. She would have given half her life to

be able to treat him with natural gayety; and yet, had she been able to

do so, the essence of delight in all this would be gone. Charmides

himself was suffering from the inability to talk to her. But after an

unbearable period of awkward silence he strove to solve their

difficulty. Leaning over from where he sat, and touching the girl's

tunic, he said to her, by means of signs and looks, and a word or two:

"What is the name of this?"

Ramûa smiled with delight. "_Kadesh_" she replied; and in this way

Charmides' course of study was begun. The first lesson lasted for an

hour, and at the end of it the Greek knew not a few words that promised

to stick in his memory. When he felt that he could retain no more, he

stopped her, and sat conning his lesson on the steps in the sunshine,

while she, tardily recalled to duty, took her flower-basket and went

forth into the square to proffer her somewhat drooping bouquets to the

passers-by. By the time she returned to her companion the sun was midway

down the heavens, and Charmides, lyre in hand, stood, evidently waiting

for her. By means of signs he made her understand that he must leave her

till after sunset, when he would return again to the square to go home

with her.

Ramûa did not ask his destination. Very probably he could not have made

her understand it had she done so. She watched him pass down a narrow

street that led to the southwest, out of the square of Istar, in the

direction of the temple of Sin. It was to the holy house of the moon-god

that Charmides went; for his single morning in Babylon had found him a

means of livelihood.

Though he himself was unaware of the exact position that he held, he was

attached to the temple as an oracle. That morning, as he had hummed

himself through the square of Sin, one of the Zicarû, or monks in

service at the temple, had chanced to hear his voice, and, perceiving

that the singer was of foreign race, and being himself a highly educated

man, as were all of his order, addressed the fair-haired one in the

westernmost language that he knew--Phoenician. Charmides had come near to

falling at his feet and worshipping in the delight of finding some one

to speak to. But the Zicarî led him gravely into one of the inner rooms

of the temple and there asked him sing and speak and play upon his

instrument, and after a time made him an offer to join the temple

service, unordered as he was, and to do exactly what he was told for

about three hours in the day. The pay was high, and to Charmides it

seemed that a miracle of fortune had befallen him. Such being the case,

it was, perhaps, just as well that he did not understand the full

significance of his duties. For an hour in the morning he was to stand

inside of the heroic statue of the god, and to speak through the

half-open mouth words whispered in his ear by an attendant priest. He

was not told that his peculiar pronunciation of the Babylonian syllables

and the melodious softness of his voice were invaluable adjuncts to the

oracle of Sin; and that, furthermore, the fact that he understood not a

word of what he said made him more desirable for the place than any

member of the under-priesthood would have been. Besides this curious

work, he was supposed to assist at sacrifices by playing on the flute or

lyre; and by means of these light duties his livelihood became an

assured thing, and his place in Babylon was secure. He asked no

questions, either of himself or of the priest, his master. He accepted

everything with childlike faith; and, verily, it seemed that, brush as

he would against the world, the bloom of his pristine innocence would

never be rubbed from Charmides' unstained soul.

So, having found a home and an occupation, within forty-eight hours

after his arrival in the Great City, Charmides' life in Babylon began.

IV

BELSHAZZAR

Charmides found no loneliness in his Babylonish life. In an unaccountable

way he felt it to be the home of his spirit. The dirty, narrow,

barely furnished rooms of the tenement of Ut; the vast temple of

Sin, where he performed the light tasks that gave him his livelihood;

the platform of the temple of the goddess, where, with Ramûa close at

hand, the hours were wont to fly on rosy wings; the long streets, the

myriads of people, the hum of the city, the curious, solemn, ceremonious

bearing of its inhabitants, all these welded themselves into such a life

that sometimes, in dead of night, he cried out in the fear that it was

all a dream: a dream from which he could only pray not to wake.

In the second week there happened something that gave him a great thrill

of exalted pride. It was eight days after his arrival; in fact, the noon

after the third Sabbatû of the month of Duzu (June). He was sitting with

Ramûa on the steps of the temple of Istar, munching dates and struggling

with new phrases in the apparently hopeless Chaldean tongue, when a

veiled hierodule came out of the temple and down the platform stairs

with the request that Charmides follow her to the presence of Belit

Istar, who longed for the sound of his voice.

The Greek felt a quiver, half of fear, half of delight; and, rising at

once, and leaving Ramûa and his meal behind, followed the attendant, not

into the temple, but behind it, towards the entrance court of Istar's

dwelling. Here, upon a heap of rugs, beneath a canopy of Egyptian

embroidery, the goddess reclined. Charmides, however, did not see her

till after he had encountered the gaze of one who stood just inside the

arch of the door in the wall. This was he who had followed Istar in his

chariot home from the procession of the gods, he at whose remarkable

appearance Charmides had so marvelled: Belshazzar, the king's son. Still

was he godlike, imperial enough to look upon; but the Greek forgot his

presence while Istar was again before him. When his gaze fell on her he

started slightly, turned his eyes away for an instant, and looked again.

Yes--it was true. Through the shimmering veil her form was clearly

visible. She was not now only a cloud of dazzling, palpitating light.

Immortal still, and radiant she was, but--Charmides let his thoughts

break off quickly. Istar was commanding him, in Greek, to play to her.

He lifted his lyre at once, and, under the spell of music, he forgot

himself, half forgot her before whom he played, in contemplation of the

ideal created by the harmonies. When, after half an hour, he was stopped

and dismissed, he left the divine presence in a state of exaltation.

Belshazzar was but a blur beside the door-way, and Ramûa, when he

returned to her, seemed a trifle less beautiful than usual.

After this, every day, Charmides gave half of his noon hour to this new

form of worship. It was Ramûa's pride as well as his. She never grudged

the time; and, on his return to her side, never failed to ask of his

success, nor to beam with delight when he confessed it. At each of these

visits Charmides realized that Belshazzar was present; but the fact made

little impression on him. He saw her whom he worshipped quicken to new

life, to new radiance, at sound of his voice and the chords of his lyre;

and, when he left the court, the storm in the eyes of the king's son

went unnoticed. Yet the storm was there, daily increasing in fury; and

there came a time when it passed control and burst forth in the very

presence of her whom both men worshipped.

It was noon on the seventh of Abû (July), a day on which Babylon lay

quivering under a fiercer sun than before. The city was exhausted with

the recent end of the annual three-day feast of Tammuz; and Charmides

himself was weary and a little faint when he entered Istar's presence.

Belshazzar, with what seemed a scarce pardonable liberty, had thrown

himself face downward on a rug near the portal of the court. At the

first note of Charmides' song a slight twitching of the muscles in the

prince's back betrayed his hearing of the song. But as the voice went

on, as Charmides, even in his weariness, sang with a depth of feeling

that he had never before exhibited, the other man lifted his head to

look at Istar. Under the spell of the music that was a divine gift, she

was becoming more and more the old-time unapproachable goddess. The rays

of the aureole, which, half an hour before, had vibrated so slowly as

scarcely to disturb the eye, were quickened to a new life. Blinding

streams of light poured about her now. And Istar herself was quivering

with a strength, with a delight, that was apart from earthly things.

Charmides' voice showed its power, its beauty, its clear heights, its

mellow depths, as never before. He had begun with a most delicate

pianissimo, in tones of exquisite restraint and purity, the old myth of

Alpheus and Arethuse--a thing that he had sung a hundred times before,

yet never as now. The tones blended with the rippling harmonies of his

lyre in a stream as pure and limpid as the current of the sacred river.

The Greek syllables, music in themselves, fitted so perfectly to the

melody, that Allaraine himself, afar off, listened with surprise and

pleasure. Belshazzar alone, perceiving how Istar's divinity increased

with each sweep of the instrument, trembled with anger. The song rose

towards its climax. Istar had become oblivious to everything but the

sound of that voice. Charmides, inspired, had lost himself in the heaven

of his own making. Suddenly, from beside him, came a hoarse, choked cry,

the sound of hurried running, and the lyre was struck furiously from his

hands down to the brick pavement.

"~Hôs eipôn Alpheus men~...!" The song stopped. Panting with broken

emotion, Charmides faced about. His face was pale and his lips drawn

with displeasure--with something more than that. Before him, shaking

with jealous wrath, towered Belshazzar, his hand uplifted, his eyes

flaming.

There was silence. Charmides waited immovably for the blow to fall. But

Belshazzar did not strike him. Istar lay back, trembling. Under the

influence of these human and gross emotions, the vibrations of light

around her diminished so rapidly that one could see them melt away; and

soon she was left almost without divine protection--a woman, in woman's

garb. Finally, however, with no trace of weakness in her manner, she

rose, confronting the two men. For a moment her gaze travelled from one

to the other. Then, passing to Charmides, she halted by his side,

touched his shoulder lightly with her hand, and pointed to the door-way.

"Go, thou disciple of Apollo. Fear not. I will send to thee a lyre that

is not dishonored. To-morrow come to me again--as always."

Then, while the Greek still quivered with the thrill of her touch, she

walked with him, two or three steps, towards the open arch.

In the mean time Belshazzar, broken now, waited before her place. When

the light trailing of her garments passed near his feet again, he

suddenly lifted his head and looked at her. They were face to face, and

their eyes met. Istar's glance shone clear and baffling upon the man,

yet before it Belshazzar would not lower his. He was making an almost

inhuman effort, mental and physical, to overcome the perfect poise that

proclaimed her more than human. But Belshazzar could not cope with a

thing divine. His strength, to the last drop, was gone. She was superior

to him. He knew it. Goddess she was--must be! He must acknowledge

it--must submit. Slowly he lifted his arms and crossed them on his

breast. Slowly his dark head was lowered. With bitter humiliation he

gave the signal of defeat. Istar moved slightly.

"Give me the broken lyre," she said, softly.

Belshazzar sought it where it lay, bright and shattered on the pavement.

He proffered it to her humbly, and saw her, receiving it, touch it to

her breast. He shut his eyes that he might not see the hated thing made

whole; but, looking up again, he saw the instrument still splintered,

still unstrung. She had not, then, performed the miracle.

He had but a moment more with her. Presently she raised her hand, and,

with the slightest of gestures, dismissed him from her presence.

Belshazzar could not disobey the command. Blindly, weakly, without a

glance behind, he moved towards the portal. Thus he did not see the

goddess, as he left the court, suddenly reel, and an instant afterwards

fall back upon the pile of rugs, covering her face with her hands, and

exhibiting every sign of human distress. On the contrary, humiliated,

hopeless, and disturbed by the temerity of his thoughts, yet as

rebellious as before, the prince of Babylon crossed the platform and

descended the steps where Charmides sat with Ramûa. The prince scarcely

saw the Greek as he passed him; and Charmides only lifted his eyes in

time to behold Belshazzar's back, and to watch him cross the square to

the spot where his chariot waited. The driver, at his master's approach,

leaped to his place, drawing up the heads of the powerful black animals.

The prince entered the vehicle. Nebo-Ailû gave a quavering cry. The

horses plunged forward, and the shining chariot clattered after them

down the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

"To the house of Amraphel," said Belshazzar; and Nebo-Ailû inclined his

head.

They passed swiftly down the great street to where, north of the square

of the gods and the holy houses of Nebo and Nergal, stood the spacious

palace of Amraphel, high-priest of Bel-Marduk, and chief of the

priesthood of Babylon.

As the chariot of the prince royal drew up before the palace gate, two

attendants always in waiting there ran out, their swords held

horizontally above their heads, in presentation to one high in

authority. Belshazzar remained like a statue where he stood, and

Nebo-Ailû requested audience with the high-priest in such terms as the

prince would have used towards an equal; for the priest of Bel-Marduk

was not at the command of the king.

The slaves disappeared with their message, and Belshazzar waited,

motionless, moving not so much as an eyelash, acknowledging no obeisance

made him by a passer-by: for such was the etiquette of royalty at that

day. After many minutes in this trying attitude, a little company of

eunuchs emerged from the gateway. In their midst, shaded by a large,

swinging parasol, and fanned on either side by black slaves, was

Amraphel, an old man, white-bearded, bright-eyed, his stiff, white hair

crowned with a red, conical cap, his flowing muslin skirts sweeping the

pavement, and the goat-skin bound upon his left shoulder. Slowly he

moved towards the chariot. Ten feet from the wheel he stopped. At the

same instant Belshazzar turned his head. They gave to each other the

brother salute--of the mind, the lips, and the heart. Then Amraphel, who

was doing the prince an extraordinary honor, said:

"Will the lord prince, governor of the city, enter into my house?"

"Receive my thanks for thy favor. Nay, Amraphel, it is Nabu-Nahid, the

king, my father, that asks if thou wilt be conducted by me to his

presence. He has some communication to make to thee."

"I will command my chariot."

Belshazzar leaped from his place, while Nebo-Ailû descended more

carefully and went to stand at the horses' heads. "Let my chariot be

yours, Lord Amraphel," observed the prince, courteously.

The old priest bowed acknowledgment, and, having quickly whispered in

the ear of his nearest slave: "My chariot at the gate of the new palace

within an hour," stepped forward and mounted into the royal vehicle.

Belshazzar followed him, and this time took the reins himself, leaving

Nebo-Ailû to reach home on foot; for there were few chariots that

afforded comfortable standing-room for more than two people.

Nebo-Ailû left the horses' heads just as Belshazzar's ringing cry sent

them plunging up the Â-Ibur-Sabû. At no great distance north of the

palace of the high-priest there ran off from the boulevard a narrow but

well-paved road, that wound eastward and north to that part of the river

that was lined with palaces--on the east shore Nebuchadrezzar's and

Nabopolassar's, side by side, connected by the great bridge with those

on the opposite bank--the hanging gardens, Nabu-Nahid's royal dwelling,

and the vast hunting-park used by Belshazzar. The Street of Palaces

skirted this park, passed the portals of the present royal palace, and

branched off to the west end of the great bridge. Along this way to-day

Belshazzar guided his steeds at break-neck pace; for in all Chaldea

there was not such another horseman as he, when he chose to exercise his

skill; and it must be confessed that there was nothing in the person of

Amraphel that made Belshazzar desirous of prolonging their drive

together. The priest showed neither nervousness nor displeasure at the

pace set. Through all the jolting, the jarring, and the swift, dangerous

curves, he maintained an expressionless, passive demeanor. It was only

when, with a wide sweep, the vehicle rounded up and the quivering steeds

came to a halt before Nabû-Nahid's gateway, that Amraphel, alighting

first, remarked, ceremoniously:

"Thine are goodly horses, Prince Bel-shar-utsur. May Ramân guard them

that you break not their breath some day with fast running."

"There are other horses to be bought for gold," was the brusque answer,

as Belshazzar leaped from the chariot and signed to a slave to lead the

frothing animals to their stables.

Prince and priest entered the palace together; but, once across the

outer court-yard, Belshazzar left his companion to be announced before

the king, while he himself retreated to his own apartments, where

many hours' labor awaited him. Steward and chancellor sat in his

council-chamber when he entered it, and he greeted them with the air of

a man who was about to begin work. Yet work was impossible to-day to

him. Treasury and grain reports, accounts of the crops within the walls,

lists of taxes, military supplies, arrangements of reviews, matters of

pension and promotion, deeds of sale, mortgages, matters of transport,

all alike were impossible to be considered. That thing which was

haunting him would not go; and, after half an hour of wearisome effort

to concentrate his mind on what was before him, he suddenly pushed away

all the clay tablets and rolls of papyrus, leaped to his feet, and,

curtly dismissing the officials, himself left the room. Passing out of

his many and rather forlorn apartments, he walked aimlessly out across

the wide, central court-yard, around which the separate portions of the

palace met, and went through a small gateway that led into the seraglio.

The small court, off which opened various sets of rooms, was white with

the glare of the afternoon sun. Three piles of scarlet rugs, an

embroidery frame, and a broken peacock-feather fan, gave evidence of the

feminine character of the inhabitants of the court; but there was no

woman here at the present moment. Huddled in the shadow of the wall, his

bronze back turned upon the world, lay a child of three or four years,

fast asleep. Before each of the several door-ways stood a cotton-clad

eunuch, palm-staff in hand, rigid and sleepy. These inclined decorously

as Belshazzar swept across the court, and they watched him from under

their eyelids as he halted near the great entrance, looking thoughtfully

around. From some chamber far in the interior came the droning sound of

a dulcimer and the crooning of a woman's voice. Other than this, the

seraglio was still.

Belshazzar stood apathetically listening to the song. Should he seek out

the singer? After a moment's indecision, and a step or two in the

direction of a small door-way, he halted. He had had enough of singing

for one day. Yet, till the day was cooler, time must be passed in some

way. He might go to his father--his father and Amraphel, who were

closeted together. His father and Amraphel--clay and a sculptor; soft

metal and a hot fire; an arrow and the bow. Belshazzar caught at his

idea, never looked again at the court-yard, but turned sharply on his

heel and set off across the palace for his father's favorite

lounging-room. He was met at its curtained door-way by Shâ-Nânâ-Shî,

chief eunuch of the king's house, who regarded the advisability of an

intrusion by the prince as a matter of doubtful wisdom.

"The priest of Bel is within, Lord Belshazzar."

"Who else?"

"Shûla--"

"The architect?"

"My lord speaks."

"Let me enter, then. Amraphel is dangerous, I say!"

Nânâ, his duty done, stood aside; and Belshazzar, unannounced, strode

into his father's place of dreams.

His entrance brought with it sudden silence. The prince felt this before

his hand had dropped the curtain. He looked from the effeminate figure

of the king, reclining on a couch, to Amraphel, who stood stiffly on the

other side of the room, and then back to little Shûla, with his scrolls

of papyrus upon the floor before him, and his expression apprehensive of

some unexpected disturbance. Belshazzar, in his one swift glance, read

the drama, smiled inwardly, shrugged, and stepped over to Nabonidus'

side.

"My coming is ill-timed, lord my father?" he asked, in a gently grieved

tone, after the filial obeisance.

"No, Belshazzar, no," replied his father, with hasty courtesy. "I

rejoice at your arrival. You may, perhaps, show us the way out of our

discussion."

"And of what is it that you speak?"

"The great temple of Ishtar, in Erech, which I, at the behest and for

the love of the gods my fathers, have lately restored. Shûla's drawings

of the new building are here."

Little Shûla's face betrayed wary signs of enthusiasm. Shûla, alone with

his master the king, was an inspiriting sight; for the one was no less

ardent than the other on their particular hobby. But Shûla with Amraphel

on the one hand, Belshazzar on the other, and Nabonidus in the

background, was an unhappy object. The high-priest was like a wedge

inserted between two teeth; himself unfeeling, impassive, unswerving, he

possessed the unhappy faculty of causing everybody about him the most

exquisite discomfort by the mere fact of his presence. From behind the

drawings that had been presented to him by Shûla, Belshazzar looked

about him. The constraint of the atmosphere was still a mystery.

"So," he said, presently, in a tone of slow good-humor, "your discussion

is regarding the holy temple of Istar of Erech. And what of this

temple?"

"My Lord Nabu-Nahid, why should this feeble matter in any way concern

the prince thy son? Has he not perplexities enough in the ruling of the

city--"

"Nay, Amraphel," cut in Belshazzar, hastily, "I am here because of my

idleness. Here, if my father says me not nay, I will stay, and listen to

your speech. What speak you of?" He turned again to his father, as the

high-priest, with an angry frown, gave up the point.

"Yes, yes, Belshazzar, stay and tell Amraphel that the goddess Ishtar

must not be removed from Babylon to dwell for evermore in her holy house

at Erech."

Belshazzar's head swam; and he felt a pang as of a stab at his heart.

The knowledge that Amraphel's hawk-eyes were reading him like a bare

tablet, enabled him to straighten up, without having betrayed himself

utterly.

"The Lady Istar removed from Babylon?" he repeated.

"Listen, Lord Belshazzar," observed Amraphel, smoothly. "The primeval

seat of Belit Ishtar was, as you know, in the ancient city of Erech. It

was from there, more than sixty thousand years ago,[8] after the death

of Izdubar, that her worship was extended to all Chaldea. Now, on the

site of her old and ruined temple, your father has caused to be erected

the magnificent building of which the plans lie yonder. The king, out of

the goodness of his heart, is about to decree a great religious festival

in honor of the goddess and the opening of the temple. At present the

rightful inhabitant of that temple is alive in Babylonia. How

displeasing to her and to the gods her brothers would it be, if her

temple should be opened without her!"

Amraphel finished in a tone of quiet authority that was peculiarly

irritating. That his logic, however, was incontrovertible, was at once

apparent to Belshazzar. Again, however, Nabonidus began with his

plaintive, unreasoning: "No, no. Babylon shall be protected. Babylon

must keep her goddess."