Amraphel shifted his weight and gave the faintest shrug of the

shoulders. The sheep-like complaint must run its course. After it, a

victory would be a simple matter. But Belshazzar's expression was not

that of his father. Amraphel regarded it uneasily. The high-priest's one

desire was to get Istar, goddess or demon, whichever she might be, out

of Babylon, where her hold on the credulous and superstitious masses was

something against which the priesthood could not contend. And this

desirable end might easily have been arranged with Nabonidus alone.

Belshazzar's entrance at this particular time was the most unfortunate

thing that could have happened. Amraphel had some faint, hardly defined

suspicion of Belshazzar's state of mind; and he was instinctively aware

that to remove Istar from Belshazzar's seat of government, would be a

task next to impossible. Belshazzar, after a few moments of thought,

said, quietly:

"My father, Amraphel of Bel is right inasmuch as he saith that Belit

Istar should go down into Erech to receive worship in her holy temple.

Decree the festival in honor of her and of the great gods her brothers;

and let her be in Erech for that time. But as the goddess of Chaldea

suffered her first incarnation in Erech, and there dwelt during her

first earth-life, so now, since she received the flesh in Babylon, let

her also dwell here, returning hither again after the opening of her

temple in the ancient city. Is it not reasonable that it should be so, O

Amraphel?"

"Truly, truly, Belshazzar, thou art inspired of the gods!" cried

Nabonidus, delightedly, from his couch.

Little Shûla ventured to smile; and Amraphel signalized a partial defeat

by seating himself in an ivory chair, disdained by him a half-hour

before. Belshazzar remained standing. He felt that his point was won.

There were, indeed, more words on both sides, but nothing further was

gained by the priest. The festival was planned for the following week;

and it was decided that Istar, the king, the prince, and many of the

priesthood, should descend the river in the state barges kept ready

equipped and frequently used by the king and the official household. At

Erech itself there would be processions, pageants, sacrifices, and

merry-makings of every description. For three days should Istar be

installed in her holy house, returning afterwards to Babylon as she had

come. To this plan Amraphel was obliged to submit; for if the force of

logic pitted against him was as strong as his own, and the strength of

will were as great again, it was because Amraphel was laboring through

hate, while Belshazzar worked in the thrall of an overweening, hopeless,

unconquerable passion that meant more to him than his religion, and

against which none could have contended. It was part of their times,

probably, that in the midst of the dispute it should not once occur to

any of the three that Istar herself could best decide the place of her

future dwelling. Goddess though she might be, her gender was feminine;

and that fact, in this oldest of Oriental lands, in a way half

neutralized her godhead.

The discussion ended, Nabonidus waited fretfully to be alone; but the

high-priest still lingered, and Belshazzar, as Amraphel very well knew,

remained for the purpose of watching him and preventing any attempted

influence with the king. It was not, indeed, till Nabu-Nahid dismissed

Shûla, and, rising, announced that he was going to the apartments of his

low-born queen, that Amraphel took an obligatory leave, and Belshazzar,

in a very good humor, watched the high-priest drive from the portals of

the palace in his own chariot.

By now the sun hung low in the heavens. The heat of the day was passed;

and the prince, dismissing from his mind all further thoughts of work,

commanded his chariot again. The victory of the afternoon had almost

counterbalanced the hopeless affair of the earlier day; and it was in a

careless and light-hearted mood that the prince royal started forth into

the city, chatting as he went with Nebo-Ailû, and showing by this means

that his business was unofficial.

Their way led once more into the Â-Ibur, down which they rattled past

the treasury, the granaries, the house of Amraphel, the square of the

gods, and finally across the bridge of the New Year. Here they turned

off to drive along the street that ran by the south bank of the canal,

till they drew up in front of the palace and extensive gardens that

stood almost directly opposite the tenement of Ut. Here, at a bound,

Belshazzar alighted, dismissed his chariot, and turned to the

resplendent slave who hurried out to meet him.

"Tell Lord Ribâta that Bit-Shamash--nay, lead me rather into his

presence without announcement. I can speak for myself."

The servant cringed obediently, and led the way through the empty

court-yard into a long series of dimly lighted and sparsely furnished

halls, elaborately decorated, but as cold and as lifeless as unused

chambers always are. From these they presently emerged into a very

livable apartment, where, in a big arm-chair, in front of a narrow

table, bending over a heap of neatly inscribed tablets which he was

examining with the aid of a magnifying-glass, sat the master of the

house, Ribâta Bit-Shumukin, one of the most important and one of the

youngest officials in the kingdom. His back was to the door-way, and he

was much engrossed in his task. Therefore he had no inkling of the

appearance of Belshazzar till it was announced by a burst of hilarious

laughter, and the words: "Truly here is an example for thy prince!"

Bit-Shumukin started up and wheeled round. Belshazzar's laughter seemed

to be catching, for Ribâta, at sight of his friend's face, joined in his

merriment, and the two laughed together till the solemn secretaries and

the slave-porter were constrained to think the heir-apparent either very

drunk or very crazy.

"How art th--thou melancholy, O my Ribâta? Is it granaries or Elam that

know thy labors at this hour of repose?" gasped Belshazzar, when their

mirth had diminished somewhat.

"Granaries, my prince. But if I labor further now, it is thou that shalt

be blamed for it."

"Never! Dismiss thy sweating secretaries and send them to their play.

Then thou shalt once more show me Khamma, if thy jealousy hath indeed

abated. Let her dance for us to the strains of the zither. Let us quaff

wines of Khilbum and of Lebanon. Let us laugh, and make joy to flow

about us like rain in Tabitû. Yea! Harken unto me, for I speak as a

prophet; I speak as the mighty prophet of my father's father--what was

his name? Bel--Bel--"

"Belti-shar-utsur!"

"Belti-shar-utsur! That! Without the _ti_ it is mine own. Come away,

Ribâta, from this den of toil."

Belshazzar's flow of nonsense ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and

the last phrase was spoken rather impatiently. Ribâta recognized the

change and hastily obeyed his companion's suggestion, dismissing his

secretaries, and slipping a familiar arm through that of Belshazzar, as

they started away together towards the women's apartments. Here they

entered a small, empty hall, at the upper end of which was a raised daïs

covered with rugs and cushions, and overhung by a purple canopy.

Belshazzar threw himself wearily down, while Ribâta sent for refreshment

of cool wines and fruits, for slaves with fans and perfumes, and,

finally, for Khamma, the fairest of his dancing-women.

While he was waiting for these various luxuries, Belshazzar lay back

upon the soft resting-place with an air of intense weariness. His

evanescent gayety had gone, and he was bent beneath a weight of unknown

cares. Ribâta understood him in this state as well as in the other, for

the two men were as brothers--Bit-Shumukin having lived all his life

under the royal protection. Bit-Shamash and he had played together as

children; together had reached the period of adolescence; had tasted the

first delights of young manhood, entered upon a career of the wildest

dissipation, and finally settled down to take up the duties of life,

still in each other's company, still holding fast to a brotherhood of

spirit that was perhaps the most beautiful thing in the life of each.

Ribâta was in no way possessed of the remarkable personal beauty that

had rendered Belshazzar famous--or, some said, infamous, through the

land. Still, in his way, he was a handsome fellow, of good stature,

cleanly built, with refined features, a merry eye, and the blackest

possible hair and beard. His wealth was great and his taste highly

cultivated; so that Belshazzar had only to admire whatever he might find

in the house of his friend. This, a few weeks past, had been a fact

somewhat unfortunate; for a new slave of Bit-Shumukin's purchase, Khamma

by name, a dancing-girl of some beauty, had appeared before the prince,

and for the moment caught his fancy. The girl herself, being called to

him and receiving a word or two and a caress, suddenly fell on her knees

before her master, and pleaded with childish tears and sobs to be sold

to this man over whose wonderful eyes she was suddenly gone desperate.

It had been an embarrassing situation. Belshazzar knew Ribâta to be, for

the moment, enamoured of his purchase; and he escaped her adoring

presence as adroitly as possible. Yet for days thereafter Khamma had

chosen to weaken her eyes with incessant tears, her voice with moans and

wails, and, worst of all, her owner's affection by her exhibition of

dislike for him. The result was that Ribâta's passion cooled as rapidly

as it had risen, and, a day or two before, he had actually offered her

to Belshazzar, taking care to warn the prince that, save for her

dancing, she was a perfectly useless piece of household furniture.

Belshazzar was not too enthusiastic over her, but consented to see her

again, and hence his visit to-day. But now, while they waited her

coming, his mind was anywhere but upon her.

Side by side the two men lay back on their cushions. The perfumed air

was stirred about them by the huge, slowly moving fans. At their feet

stood a bronze pitcher of wine, and in their hands were chased silver

cups. After a sleepy pause the prince, taking a long draught, introduced

an unlooked-for topic.

"Beltishazzar, Ribâta, the prophet of Nebuchadrezzar--he was one of the

captives of Judea, I have heard."

"Ay. He is a Jew."

"_Is!_"

"It is so. He lives, I know too well where. Thou, also, must have seen

him many times. His dwelling is in the Jews' quarter, not far from the

traders' square, and close to the house of Êgibi. In time, my lord

prince, upon some council day, I shall speak to thee concerning the race

of this Beltishazzar. For the last two years I have watched them, and I

find them giving promise of danger to the state. Beltishazzar himself,

he whom his people call Daniel, is no poor man; but he goes about with

the slinking manner of a pauper, ill-kempt, unclean, dirtily dressed,

and yet--mark it well, O prince--he is not seldom seen in the company of

temple priests, with Amraphel himself sometimes, and with Vul-Ramân of

Bit-Yakin."

Ribâta paused, noting with regret that he had brought a frown of trouble

into the brow of Belshazzar, and that the prince was slipping away from

the present scene of enjoyment to a realm of anxious thought. "Priests!"

he muttered, half to himself. "Priests again! Priests forever! Priests!

I tell thee, Ribâta," and his voice rose high with anger--"I tell thee

that should Babylon ever fall it would be at the hand of a priest. Their

power is mightier than that of the throne. Everywhere through the land

they--"

He broke off suddenly, displeased with himself for having spoken in such

a manner here. Two eunuchs were entering from the lower end of the room,

and they seated themselves on either side of the door-way, with zithers

on their knees. Behind them appeared a woman, or, more properly, a girl,

lithe and slender, with pretty, vacant face and floating black hair

twisted with golden ribbons. Her feet were sandalled in red and gold.

Her dress was of flying, yellow gauze, with a girdle of crimson. Scarlet

poppies were bound about her head, and a crimson scarf was in her hands.

She halted in the door-way with an air of grave modesty, performed a

humble obeisance before the two men, never lifting her eyes to the face

of either; and then, as the zither-players began their music, she,

Khamma, began the dance. Certainly she was a graceful creature, and, in

her dreamy way, possessed of a perfect sense of rhythm. Belshazzar

watched her with half-closed eyes. Ribâta's attitude was that of polite

weariness. While the dance progressed, both men replenished their

wine-cups, and occasionally addressed each other in an undertone. Khamma

did not look at them. Nevertheless her whole body was cold with emotion,

and as she continued the dance she trembled, and her very teeth

chattered with terror and delight at the near presence of Belshazzar.

Ordinarily she had remarkable powers of endurance, and often danced for

half an hour at a time before Ribâta. But to-day was different. At the

end of fifteen minutes she was in a state of utter exhaustion; and, as

the eunuchs, noting her condition, mercifully began their closing

harmonies, she advanced up the room to the foot of the daïs, and

presently sank, half swooning, in the last prostration before her

master.

Ribâta glanced at his friend. "Wilt thou have her?" he muttered, too

softly for the girl to hear.

Belshazzar considered, and a different expression came over his face.

"Nay," he said.

"What sayest thou!" cried Ribâta, in astonishment. "Since when dost thou

refuse my gifts? Is she so unlovely?"

At this last phrase, which she had heard, Khamma looked up, straight

into Belshazzar's eyes. Instantly a sharp sigh, like a groan, escaped

her lips, and in spite of himself the prince softened.

"She is fair--enough. Let her be conveyed to my house. Thy gift could

not be unwelcome, Ribâta, thou knowest it. Accept this, my brother, in

place of her."

Belshazzar took from his shoulder a pin of beautifully wrought gold and

fastened it upon his friend's sleeve. Ribâta's little displeasure was

dispelled, and, after returning affectionate thanks, he signalled the

eunuchs to come forward and lead the girl away. Before going she knelt

before Belshazzar, and left upon his feet the hot imprint of her lips.

This act affected the recipient in a curious way. His color suddenly

fled. The storm-eyes opened wide, and flashed with a new fire. He drew a

gasping breath, and then, while his face grew crimson, the veins in his

neck and in his temples swelled out in bright, purplish blue. His

muscles twitched with emotion. Ribâta, watching him with a smile of

sympathy, looked to see his comrade rise and run after the dancer. But,

to Bit-Shumukin's vast amazement, he perceived that, for the first time

in all his life, Belshazzar was fighting fiercely with himself. The

animal in him was a very lion in strength, but the opposing force was

this time stronger. What this force was Ribâta had yet to learn.

Belshazzar, tight-lipped, lay back again upon the cushions, his two

fists hard-clenched. Ribâta bent over him and laid a hand upon his

shoulder.

"What is this, Belshazzar?" he asked, softly.

Belshazzar looked into his face with an inscrutable smile. "It is Istar,

Ribâta, Istar my goddess." Then, with a long-drawn cry, all the strange,

warped, blasphemous emotion in him burst forth: "Istar! Istar! Istar!

Beloved! Lift me up! Make me divine, or cause my mind to lose the

thought of thee! Istar! The iron sears my soul!"

"Belshazzar!" exclaimed Ribâta, in horror. And then, in an undertone, he

muttered: "By Nebo and Bel, our sins overtake us! He is going mad!"

V

THE JEW

On that July afternoon Amraphel, the high-priest, left the presence of

the king, bearing with him not only the discomfiture of a defeat at the

hands of Belshazzar. He had lost much that it had been his hope to

obtain, but he had also gained something that might prove more valuable

than what he had lost. Even if this something were a mere suspicion,

unfounded, not to be proved, yet it was what might, by adroit

management, be built up into a successful rumor which, spread through

the city, would form the first step in the long flight from the top of

which Istar, now the greatest menace to Amraphel's power, might some day

be hurled, in broken radiance, to her doom.

Up to this time, for hundreds, perhaps thousands--nay, as the naïve

Berossus has it, hundreds of thousands--of years, the Babylonians had

worshipped, nominally, their gods and spirits: virtually, they had bowed

before the priesthood and its orders. The priests themselves, knowing no

gods, had, from all time, held in their hands unlimited power. For many

centuries the king himself had been a patêsi of Anû--high-priest of the

sky-god. Then, when the temporal ruler became a man apart, when the

office was secular, and when Babylon had writhed under the lash of

Nineveh, the people had always their religion. The high-priest and his

seers became more than ever absolute; ruling king and slave by means of

unreasoning superstition; while in the houses of the priesthood the gods

were regarded as an amusing myth. But now--_now_--for two years past,

all Babylonia, from Agâdé to the gulf, had been in a state of feverish

religiosity, for the reason that there was a goddess in Babylon: a

goddess--a living, baffling, radiant presence, whose origin none knew.

Amraphel was baffled by her at every point; but, trained from his birth

up to a creed of absolute materialism, he still refused to believe in

her divinity, because he had lost the power to rise to a conception of

divinity.

To-day, as his carriage rolled slowly across the great bridge to the

east side of the city, the high-priest pondered again over this problem

of problems, though now less than ever seemed there any way of solving

it. Down the Mutâqutû, the second boulevard of Babylon, and from there

to the great temple of Marduk, the largest building in the city, but

second in size to that of Bel in Borsip, he went. By now the sacrifice

and heave-offerings for the afternoon would be ended, but it was

Amraphel's self-appointed task daily to inspect the temple, the shrine,

and the priests' rooms, before he retired to the college of Zicarû for

the evening meal and a talk with his under-priests.

The monster temple and the great square of Marduk were aglow with the

sunset as Amraphel's chariot drew rein at the platform steps. The old

man alighted with his customary assurance. He had not reached the

platform itself when his eye was caught by a figure in front of him

moving slowly towards the temple door. It was a lean and sorry figure,

ill-clothed, and hardly clean: that of a man hook-nosed and hawk-eyed,

who leaned wearily on his staff and muttered to himself as he went. Him

Amraphel overtook and familiarly accosted.

"Surely, Daniel, thou goest not into the house of a 'false god'?"

The Jew turned on him with a sour smile. "Yea, I go for my haunch of the

day's heave-offering. God pardons a poor man the acceptance of

unsanctified food."

"A _poor_ man--ay, verily. But since when art thou poor, Jew?"

Daniel turned an ugly look upon the high-priest, who, having motives for

policy, suddenly changed his tone and said, in a low voice:

"Come thou and talk with me. The heave-offering, or something better,

shall be sent to thine abode. There is a near matter that waits

discussion."

The Jew consented silently to the proposal and followed the high-priest

into the temple, across its vast hall, and back into one of the small

rooms used only by priests. The little place was empty, and Amraphel

seated himself in it with an affectation of feebleness. His back was to

the light, and he motioned his companion to a seat whereon the last

gleams of dying sunlight would fall direct from the small window behind

the priest. Daniel sat down, drew his garments together, laid his staff

across his knees, and caused his face to fall into an expression of

vacancy that betokened the utmost alertness of mind. Amraphel had,

however, not the least intention of trying deceit with his companion.

Rather, he was about to risk a very daring piece of frankness upon this

ruler of captive Judea.

"Daniel," said the old man, speaking in Hebrew, "you have told me that

your people worship one only God. In your holy scriptures is there any

word of another--a goddess--that is divine?"

"No!" was the quick answer.

"Hast thou--" Amraphel bent towards him--"hast thou beheld, closely, her

whom they call Istar?"

"Yea."

"Hast thou spoken with her?"

"Perhaps."

"Nay, be not cautious with me, Jew. I speak from my heart. I ask as one

that knows nothing, what is the idea of thy mind concerning the woman

that dwells in the holy temple of the goddess? Is she divine?"

"Divine! Say rather that she is the incarnation of Satan! Her heart is

full of evil."

"Yet you see in her a supernatural power?"

Amraphel asked the question with unmistakable anxiety; and Daniel,

raising his eyes, glanced for an instant into those of the priest. It

was the only answer that he gave, yet it was the one that Amraphel had

most feared. So, then, Daniel himself did not know the secret of Istar's

existence. It was well enough to call her an incarnation of evil. That,

according to Amraphel's way of thinking, did not at all lessen her

power. It was a rather discouraging silence that fell between the two; a

silence that Daniel finally broke.

"Why, O Amraphel, dost thou question me about the woman of Babylon? What

would you with her?"

The high-priest hesitated for a bare second. Then he answered, openly:

"I would have her driven from Babylon! Driven hence, because--because

she menaces the state. Because she takes our power from us. Because with

her the Elamite may find himself powerless against the city."

Daniel drew a sharp breath. "Cyrus, too!"

"Sh! Be silent! That name spells death. But consider what I have said.

The people of the city worship their 'goddess' as they no longer worship

the great gods of the silver sky. Should there come a time when Bel and

Marduk commanded the surrender of the city to the Elamite, if Istar held

not to us, if she raised her voice in behalf of the old dynasty, in

behalf of the tyrant, then indeed our lives might well be forfeited. For

when she commands, the people obey. And hark you, Daniel, I fear that

Istar of Babylon will not have the blood of Belshazzar redden the

streets of the Great City."

"Nay; for she _loves_ the tyrant Belshazzar!"

"Ah! You say it!" Amraphel, in high excitement, half rose from his

place. Here were his suspicions most unexpectedly confirmed.

Daniel, the imprudent words having escaped him, sank apathetically back

in his place, giving the high-priest to understand by his attitude that

nothing further was to be expected from him on that subject. And

Amraphel had the tact to waive the point. He felt it to be too broad for

discussion; for, in spite of himself, Istar roused in him unmistakable

feelings of awe. But now there was at least a strong bond of sympathy

between himself and Daniel. Amraphel realized that, and began at last

upon the real object of his conversation--a description of the proposed

festival at Erech, the three days that Istar was to spend in that holy

house.

"And why," queried Daniel, quietly, "should she not remain in Erech, the

seat of her ancient worship? Surely that were well for all Chaldea?"

"Ang!--all Chaldea--not for Belshazzar, the king's son," was the reply.

Daniel looked at his companion with a twinkle in his eye. "If they were

but married!" he muttered to himself, not quite daring to speak the

words. But aloud he said, softly, with stress on every syllable: "Yet,

Amraphel, if Istar of Babylon leaves the Great City, who is there to say

that she shall enter it again?"

"None! As I am priest of Babylon, there is none that may say it!

Yet--yet--I do not perhaps understand thy words."

The Jew relapsed. "I said nothing!" he replied.

"Yea, thou saidst. Say again, Jew, _how_ shall Istar not return again

into the Great City?"

Daniel would not speak; but Amraphel, perceiving that much lay behind

the obstinacy, tried every means in his power to open the mind of his

companion. Finally the high-priest, driven to bay, took the risk, and,

bending over the Jew, said, softly: "There is no deed that could be

called by the name of just execution that I would not see performed--for

the sake of Babylon and that captive race of thine that longs for

liberty again."

Thereupon Daniel, straightening, answered and said: "God is not flesh,

but spirit. I, with mine eyes, have perceived that Istar of Babylon is

of the flesh. Therefore, priest, she must be mortal, and subject, as all

of us, to death. There be points of bronze and of iron which, piercing

the body, free the soul. So Istar--"

"Thou hast said it! It shall be! When? Where?"

"It should be--thus." Daniel paused for a moment, his keen face working

with his thoughts as he arranged the plan. "Belit Istar, the king, and

the priests, descending Euphrates in boats, will come to Erech on the

evening of the second day. Let the woman, on that night, go to rest in

the sacred precincts of the temple, but not then penetrate to the sacred

shrine. On the morning of the third day from Babylon all the people

shall be assembled in the great hall of the temple that they may behold

their goddess ascend into the shrine. Let her enter there alone for

purification and for communion with the great gods her brothers. And

look you, Amraphel, if she come not forth alive from that place it shall

be for a sign that she was not divine, but an evil thing, that had

indulged in unholy mockery, and had angered the great goddess Istar that

dwells on high in the silver sky."

Not till after he had spoken did the narrow eyes of the Jew meet those

of his companion; and he found Amraphel regarding him with grave

stolidity. Such things as this that they were planning were in no way

unheard-of among the holy orders; for the goat-skin, had it taken its

true color, would, long years ago, have been dyed crimson with the blood

of those slain under cover of its power. To be sure, Daniel did not wear

this badge of office, and he proffered worship only to the God of Judea.

But his was a captive race; and just at present his position was

gallingly unimportant. Therefore he believed that there were no means

actually unjustifiable for him to use to free himself and his people

from their nominal captivity. Amraphel's next question, however, brought

up a new train of thought.

"And who is to perform this deed? Thou, Daniel?"

"Nay! Nay, verily!" Daniel spoke in haste. "Is it not written in the

laws of Moses, 'Thou shalt not kill'? It must be a man of Babylon, not

of Judea, that does this thing."

"Then shall some younger member of the priesthood be instructed to the

deed: Vul-Ramân, of the temple of Nebo; Siatû-Sin, of the temple of Sin;

Gûla-Zir, of Bel at Borsip--"

"Rather, Amraphel, than that one alone should be trusted to fulfil the

difficult command, let there be three concealed within the shrine. So

shall they gain courage, each from his fellow. Then there could be

little danger of cowardice or of impiety."

"Truly, truly, that is well spoken. There shall be the three of them.

Now, Istar hath not yet been told of the approaching journey. I, on the

morrow, bear the word of it to her. It cannot be possible, Beltishazzar,

that from any source she could hear anything of this plan? Surely there

is no danger that the dagger will fail to pierce her flesh?"

Daniel grinned evilly. "Ho, Amraphel! Thou that believest in nothing! Is

it divinity now that you attribute to the woman? And where is divinity?

Where is a god? Where a goddess? Those words are foolish."

"Time runs away. I must depart," observed the high-priest, rising

hastily. "I go for the evening meal to the house of Zicarû. There also

will be Vul-Ramân, and probably the others. Will you come with me?"

Daniel assented eagerly. It was not his idea ever to refuse a meal which

would cost him nothing. Moreover, he was well known to the members of

most religious houses, in which he was more or less respected as

representing the great colony of Jews in Babylon, whose co-operation in

the coming revolution was a very necessary thing. However little, then,

the ex-prophet might be personally liked, his presence commanded a

respect that was born of fear; and this, for him, in whose secret heart

was implanted an implacable hatred for the race that held him and his

people in so-called bondage, was enough.

The house of Zicarû was a kind of monastic institution in which

unordained members of the priesthood received an education, and where

all the various under-priests and attendants of the various temples

might lodge and eat. One of these houses was supported by nearly every

temple of Babylon, and the luxurious rooms of the house of the temple of

Marduk were the resort of high-priests and elders from every temple in

the city. As institutions of learning, the monasteries were celebrated;

and there were schools attached to them for the instruction of the laity

in such courses of study as were not taught in the market-place.

Astronomy, algebra, geometry, astrology, augury, and many languages--old

Accadian, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Sanscrit could be learned there from the

most efficient instructors in Chaldea. Without doubt the priesthood of

Babylon was a highly intellectual order, and the people whom they ruled

were ruled intelligently.

As Amraphel and the Jew reached their destination, daylight sank, at a

breath, out of the sky. They found the world within at supper. The

high-priest was greeted by a general rising, and the chief place at the

head of the table was vacated for him by Vul-Ramân, of the house of

Yakin, priest of Nebo and Nergal, next in rank to Amraphel. Vul-Ramân

was a far younger man than his immediate superior, and his face was

pleasantly expressive and unusually animated for a Babylonian, who, of

all peoples, were the most impassive.

Amraphel took the place at the head of the table with accustomed

dignity, while Daniel found a seat farther down, among the elders, and

his yellow face lighted with pleasure as he smelled the savory odor of

roasted meats taken from the day's sacrifices. No table in the city,

barring the king's own, was furnished so lavishly or so richly as this;

for the rarest offerings made each day to Father Marduk were sent to

this larder at sunset. That which was not eaten was afterwards given

away to the poor, who nightly clustered about the gates of the house,

giving thanks to the gods for their generosity.

Amraphel was a small eater, and never eager for food. To-night his beef

remained before him untasted. His bread was unbroken, and the barley

paste grew stiff and cold as he sat drinking cup after cup of the wine

of Lebanon, talking with those around him, using eyes and brain keenly

as he watched the right moment at which to speak. Vul-Ramân and

Siatû-Sin were side by side upon his left; while, as fortune arranged

it, Gûla-Zir was next but one upon his right, having come in from

Borsippa for the night.

Amraphel knew that every man at that table was at his command,

unquestioningly, day or night. None would dare dispute his word; none

dare even to ask his motive for a deed. Nevertheless he carefully bided

his time, waiting till the moment when that that he had to propose might

seem not only possible to do, but, in the interest of their creed, the

most desirable of all deeds. The time arrived. Vul-Ramân had happily

made reference to a somewhat similar affair of many months before, the

results of which had been beyond question beneficial--from the priestly

point of view. Amraphel took the last words out of the other's mouth,

turned them to unique account, and in less than five minutes had laid

bare to his companions the skeleton of his design. It was done so

deftly, so lucidly, and withal so delicately, that Vul-Ramân could not

but regard his superior with envious admiration. The whole arrangement

of the murder was planned by suggestion. Not once was an imperative

used. Yet the man of simplest mind could not have failed to see what was

to be done, how, and by whom. Amraphel concluded more boldly with a

phantasy of the deed:

"I can see the great and holy temple, and the many hundreds that stand

within, waiting the coming of Belit Istar. I see the steps ascending to

the holy shrine all carpeted with stiff gold. At last I behold her

coming radiantly into the dusky temple-room. Her tresses float lightly

behind her; her tresses, like spun silk, hang as a veil about her

shoulders. Falsely now she moves between the rows of kneeling men and

women. Falsely she glides up the holy steps, and, profaning all

holiness, draws aside the curtain of the sanctuary and enters alone into

the little room. The curtain falls again, concealing her from the

watching eyes. Silently and swiftly do the faithful of the great gods

steal behind, seizing her about the throat, with firm hands stifling her

cries of terror. Before her stands her judge. The instrument of his

justice is in his hand. Well he wields it. Three times it strikes

swiftly to the heart of the woman. The silent body is left in the

shrine. Only the false soul wails its way into the dismal land of

Ninkigal. The judges, high in favor with the gods, depart even as they

came, by the statue-door in the back of the shrine. In high heaven the

true Istar sings for joy. Crowns and much wealth she gives to those that

have served her. And now, down the golden carpet that covers the steps

leading up to the high place, flows a long thread of crawling crimson,

which, with its brightness, shall speak to the people of the mortality

of her whom falsely they worshipped. Belit Istar shall be discovered to

them as a woman."

These artistic and well-chosen words of the high-priest were greeted by

all those around him with mental applause. The three men detailed for

the work eagerly accepted their task, and were enviously regarded by

their companions; for would not the true Istar, doubtless in the person

of Amraphel himself, reward them with "crowns and much gold"? Ah! In the

days of the great gods how might a prince have envied his priest!

At the end of the meal, details of the forthcoming murder were discussed

by Amraphel and the three priests in a room apart. After everything was

properly understood Amraphel quietly left the house, and, once more

mounting his chariot, made his way homeward through the long, dark

streets. His mind was at peace. The defeat at Belshazzar's hands of the

early afternoon, had merely necessitated another battle, in which, this

time, victory to the other side was an assured thing. There would be

little fighting about it. The disposition of forces was the simplest in

the world. There remained only two things to do. A vast celebration must

be decreed, through Nabu-Nahid, for all Babylonia; and, more delicate

task, Istar herself must be persuaded into taking an interested part in

the festival. This last thing could best be done by himself. And in

order to prepare himself as adequately as possible for the coming

interview with the goddess in her own temple, Amraphel betook himself at

this early hour to his couch, and shortly after lying down, mind and

body alike being at rest, the aged and reverent man sank serenely to

sleep.

* * * * *

Unique as was Istar's outer life, splendid as were her surroundings,

awful and holy the places in which her time was passed, yet to an

ordinary person her existence would have been intolerable. Her absolute

isolation was something that those who regarded her from the outside

never considered. To them she was above all ordinary things. She was

part of many a pageant, a dazzling vision to be looked upon, stared at,

frequently prayed to in various affected ways, but in the end treated as

something inhuman, some one far from real life, the real world, real

feelings of joy and of sorrow. Gradually she had grown accustomed to her

vast solitude. Her loneliness was uncomplaining; but her days were

interminably, cruelly long. This was one reason why, when Lord Amraphel

asked audience of her on the morning after the breaking of Charmides'

lyre, she joyfully granted the request.

Istar lay upon a pile of rugs in the prettiest interior court of her

dwelling behind the temple, listening to the distant droning of a

flageolet that came from a narrow street behind the temple platform. The

rays of her aureole had been very faint; but, as Amraphel was announced

to her, her veil of light quickened into new life, and the vibrations

pulsated rapidly, as if to protect her from close contact with some

dangerous force. The high-priest was ushered into the divine presence

preceded by four eunuchs and followed by two black pages. Three times he

prostrated himself before her, with every mark of humility and

reverence. After the third obeisance Istar commanded a chair to be

brought for the old man, and bade him be seated in her presence.

Amraphel, however, with a sudden, inexplicable qualm, refused the honor.

"Belit Istar," he began, after a prolonged silence which Istar had not

thought of breaking, "for two years now, ever since the miracle of the

incarnation, you have dwelt secluded in the Great City. Here all men

have worshipped you in awe and in love. But now, from that city in which

your first earth-life was lived, where, in the early dawn of Chaldean

history, you and your bright Tammuz and the mighty Izdubar dwelt

together, your people cry aloud to you again. By the benevolent

generosity of Nabu-Nahid, their king, the men of Erech have raised a new

and mighty temple in your honor, have called it by your name, and they

pray, through my mouth, that you will go down into Erech and will with

your divine presence consecrate the far-famed holy house in which

henceforth, in all honor and glory, you will dwell. This, to-day, is my

mission to you, Lady of Heaven. May my words find favor in your ears!"

While he spoke to her Istar had watched the man with troubled eyes.

Something in his way of speaking moved her to distrust and to

unhappiness. When he had finished the trouble lay in her heart, and she

rebelled inwardly against him. But when she spoke, it was but to ask,

quietly:

"The people of Erech pray me to go down among them. When would they have

me come, and how?"

"Eight days hence they wish to consecrate to you their new temple. You,

the king, the king's son, the priests, your own attendants, and many

lords and slaves of the royal houses, will journey in barges down the

great river. It will be two days before Erech can be reached; but

entertainment will be provided by the way for you and for the king and

the king's son. Musicians, dancers, and singers shall show their skill

before you. Canopies will shade you from the fierce fires of Shamash.

Cool wines and fruits and grains, with the flesh of cows, will be

provided for your sustenance. Through the journey, Lady of Heaven, you

shall know no want."

"And at the journey's end I shall behold the temple?"

"Not on the first night. At sunset of the second day's journey the

sacred city will rise up before you; and all night there will be

feasting and rejoicing. You will be housed as fittingly as mortal men

can make your lodging, in the long rooms behind the temple. Far more

spacious are they than these. Here, in communion with the gods your

brothers, the night will quickly pass away; and when the morning dawns,

and many people fill the temple, then you shall enter among them, and

shall pass up the steps of the sacred shrine and shall enter into the

high place, where purifying water will be placed in the deep. When this

water is blessed at your hands it will be carried down among those in

the temple and sprinkled over them, and thereby great miracles will be

performed. Then, when you sit in the mercy-seat and receive the holy

prayers of the people, giving them leave to address you and worship your

holy name, all lower Babylonia will fall upon its knees before you, will

proffer sacrifice, and hold in highest honor you that are come to dwell

among them. Yea, and the city of Erech shall be forever holy among

cities. O goddess, may my words find favor in your ears!"

Istar listened to these words as to the others, quietly, but with a

distrust that she would have been unable to explain. When the

high-priest ceased to speak she let the silence remain unbroken for some

minutes. Finally, rising up before him, she replied, more dogmatically

than she had ever spoken to any one:

"I, O Amraphel, will go down into Erech, and there will I consecrate, as

much as in my power it lies, this newly erected temple. I will listen

there to the prayers of the people, and will answer them if I may. Yea,

for three days I will take up my abode in the city of Erech. But longer

than that I will not tarry. Babylon is the seat of my dwelling; and in

Babylon I will fulfil my time. Moreover, let not the festival be ordered

till two more Sabbatû be passed. Then shall the barges at the great

bridge be made ready, and the king, and the king's son, and the priests,

and lords, and slaves may assemble there on the twentieth day of this

month of Ab. Lo, I have spoken."

Amraphel made no protest. Once again he prostrated himself before her,

in token of obedience to her will. Then, for a moment, he made an effort

to scan her face. But the light flowed round about it so that he could

perceive nothing. Presently there came over him a sudden rush of dread

lest she should read the thoughts in his heart. Yet as his hands touched

the hem of her garment she did not shrink from him; and, as he turned to

leave her, she looked upon him with kindly eyes. He left her presence

with perplexity and doubt in his mind; though how it had entered in he

could not have told. _Was_ Istar human? _Could_ she be divine? As the

old man drove rapidly away down the Â-Ibur-Sabû, it seemed to him that

the firm, material beliefs of fifty years were swept from his mind, and

he was left again as a child before whom the world and its inscrutable

mysteries are opening for the first time.

When the high-priest was gone, Istar rose from the rugs upon which she

had sunk back for the moment, and began to move slowly up and down the

sunlit court. As she went the rays of her aureole grew dim, till the

embroidery of her purple robe could be distinguished, and her hair

glistened only under the beams of the sun. And Istar's thoughts, like

her steps, were slow. She would neither define nor analyze them. Only,

being as ever alone, she murmured them aloud to herself; and it was as

well, perhaps, that no one was at hand to hear her, as she said, softly:

"The king will go--and the king's son! Twelve days--and then--Belshazzar,

the--king's--son."

VI

ISTAR OF ERECH

Early on the morning of July 20th, half Babylon assembled at the great

bridge that connected the king's road with the Mutâqutû. Floating on the

water, beneath the bridge and along the west bank, were the twenty

magnificent barges destined to bear a divine and royal company down the

well-flowing river to the ancient city of Erech. It was not many hours

after dawn that the start was to be made. Istar, driven in her flaming

car, arrived in good time, but too late to see the parting between

Amraphel, who could not leave Babylon, and his three trusty priests,

Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin, Siatû-Sin and Gûla-Zir, priest of Father Bel in

Borsip. Their barge had been placed farthest from that of Istar, for the

purpose of attracting as little notice as possible. Their words with

their master were not many, but they were well chosen. Vul-Ramân was

smiling grimly as he moved to his place. The other two were serious, a

little pale, perhaps; but in neither heart was there any thought of

drawing back from the purpose.

Istar was in her place before the royal party arrived: Nabu-Nahid in one

chariot, Belshazzar with Ribâta in another, and behind them a long line

of lords, councillors, judges, and members of their households. As the

prince stepped from his vehicle to the embankment, Istar caught sight of

him. At the same instant his eyes, moving hurriedly over the scene as if

in search of something, encountered hers. A quiver passed through each

of them, and which was most affected it would be difficult to say.

In the general mêlée of embarkation that followed, Belshazzar and his

party managed to obtain the barge to the right of that on which Istar

lay. Nabonidus and his officials were on the left; and after them formed

the lines of other boats, three abreast. When every one was safely in

his appointed place, and the fastenings had been cut, Istar's boatmen

raised a long, quavering cry, that resolved into the first notes of a

song. In this the men of every boat joined; and by the time the first

phrase was at an end, the long, thick-bladed oars were moving regularly

through the water, and the brilliant pageant was moving down the ancient

stream.

To Istar the hours of this, her first day's journey, were long dreams of

pleasure. She had known nothing of the course of this river after it

left the confining banks of the city, through which it flowed darkly,

rapidly, unbeautifully. Now the freedom of its winding course, the

native life, and the richness of verdure along its banks, the mighty

palm-forests, the long stretches of grain-fields, the picturesque

irrigators at which men were continually at work, the droves of cattle

and water-buffalo on the banks, the troops of cranes, pelicans, and

flamingos in the water itself, the very warmth, the singing of the

hurrying river, and the mournful answers of the boatmen, brought to her

such a novel sense of joy and content as she had never before known. If

men loved life as she did for this moment--then she had already

discovered the secret of the Great Master. It was freedom--freedom to

roam at will through the fair world, with no tie to bind one to any

spot--the whole world one's home, one's delight.

This day, with all its varied beauty, ended at last--melted away through

the short, purple twilight into a starry night. The songs of the rowers

died. The river was very still. Those in the boats dropped away to

sleep, one by one. Only Istar lay through the velvet hours open-eyed,

trying to fathom the depths of this delight of hers--the delight that in

some way had not all to do with the day and the scenery. She seemed now

to have entered into life. Till to-day she had been so protected, so

hedged about with ceremonial and form, so hindered by her supposed

divinity, that now, in this first flush of her freedom, there rose again

from her heart that deep cry for mortality that should bring her true

knowledge as to the falseness or truth of the new-found joy. She had

hoped for Allaraine to come to her that night; but the hours wore away,

and when false dawn foreshadowed the morning he had failed her for the

first time since her incarnation. There was a little sadness over this;

but it was forgotten, presently, in the general stir of waking, of

eating, and of greeting the exquisite first moments of the day.

Just as the barges started at full speed again after the long night of

drifting, there came an incident that changed the aspect of the second

day from dreamy content to uneasy, troublous delight. One of

Istar's fan-slaves, whose duty it was to waft before her one of the

long-handled, peacock-feather fans, had disappeared in the night, no one

knew whither or why. Nothing was said to Istar about it. Some one had

taken the slave's place. Her fans were waving as usual. It was an hour

before some slight awkwardness in the manipulation of the implement

caused her to glance up at the wielder of it. Instantly a sharp cry

escaped her lips. It was Belshazzar who was playing the slave. Instantly

she bade him cease the work and return to his barge. This, stubbornly

enough, he refused to do; and the matter was finally ended by a eunuch

taking his place, while he lay down at the prow of Istar's boat, with

his face turned towards the goddess, who reclined uneasily on her

cushions, seeking to avoid his glance, but returning to it again and yet

again, perhaps not wholly against her will.

As Amraphel had foretold, the city of Erech appeared to them like a

shadow through the twilight of the second day, rising, many-towered,

from the east bank of the river. Darkness had come on before a landing

was made. Great bonfires had been lighted all along the banks of the

river; and thousands of people stood thronged together in their flaring

light, waiting to welcome their goddess and their king. Lusû-ana-Nuri,

the governor of the city, with his lords and judges, stood at the

landing-stage. Istar, supported on the one side by Vul-Ramân, on the

other by Siatû-Sin, waited till the prostrations of the governor were at

an end, and then mounted the magnificent car prepared for her, on which

she was drawn slowly between endless lines of kneeling and awe-struck

citizens to her new abode, the vast temple of Istar of Erech, rebuilt by

Nabonidus on the site of that ancient one that her prototype was said to

have inhabited thousands of years before.

On the temple platform, back of the great ziggurat, was the third

building--the dwelling-house of the living goddess; a palace of a

hundred rooms, pricelessly furnished and decorated. Hither, alone in her

car, Istar was driven. It had been arranged that the king and all of his

accompanying suite, together with Prince Belshazzar, should proceed with

the governor to his palace, where a huge feast had been prepared. The

goddess herself, it had been thought, would prefer to pass this night in

communion with her heavenly brothers, in preparation for the ceremony of

the morrow. At the entrance of her new abode she was received by a large

company of eunuch priests, and of female Ukhatû and Kharimatû, together

with veiled nuns, prophetesses, and dancing-women. By these she was

surrounded, and reverently conveyed to an inner room, where was spread a

savory repast. Of this she partook in solitude, to the mournful sounds

of flutes, lyres, and cymbals playing a slow, rhythmical dance, to which

two maidens postured before her. It was a lonely and a dreary meal--one

such as she had been long accustomed to, but which these two short days

on the river, where there had been many people, and laughter and gay

singing, had rendered more distasteful than ever before. Having eaten a

little, Istar requested that she be conveyed to her sleeping-room and

there left alone; for the strange faces and awed behavior of those about

her rendered her more forlorn than she would have been in entire

solitude.

The sleeping-chamber was a long, narrow hall--the usual shape of

Babylonian and Assyrian rooms. At one end of it, on a raised daïs, was a

couch of ivory and beaten silver, piled high with rugs and cushions of

the most costly materials. The walls and the narrow door-way were hung

with rich embroideries of a deep, purplish-blue color. The tiled floor

was strewn with rugs and skins, and the whole room was dimly lighted

with swinging-lamps of wrought bronze. Chairs of ebony, teak-wood, and

ivory, with tables of the same materials, were placed about the

apartment. High in the wall at the lower end was a little, square window

through which might be seen a single brilliant star.

Istar looked around her with pleasure. Two attendants remained at her

side till a eunuch slave had brought in a silver tray containing a jar

of rare wine with a golden drinking-cup. This he placed on a table near

the couch. Then all three of them, obedient to her command, departed,

after a series of the tiresome prostrations that were a continual

weariness to her.

And now, at last, she was quite alone again--alone with the night, with

the great silence, with the dimly burning lamps, and with the

awe-inspiring hush that had settled over her. She seated herself upon a

low chair and folded her hands upon her knees. The presence of God was

distinguishable in the room. All thought of the day that had just passed

was gone from Istar now. She felt a sense of the vastness of time, and

of the immateriality of all things. She seemed to be alone in a great

void, a void filled by the incomprehensible power of the universal

master. Her own thoughts frightened her. Her breath came more slowly.

For a little time it seemed to her that to-night she was to return into

her former state. Whether she welcomed the end with joy or with sorrow

she could not have told. But the end was not yet come. How long it was

before she was restored to herself by the appearance of the rosy cloud

of Allaraine she did not know. The strains of music from his lyre came

faintly to her ears, as from an immense distance. The mist and its

well-known nucleus were there with her. Yet now, and for the second

time, that nucleus did not take on its proper shape; was not formulated.

Allaraine was striving vainly to come to her. Considering the great

spirituality of her mood, this was doubly strange. Istar looked into the

cloud with eyes that spoke her fear. The music itself melted--slowly

died away. The cloud grew paler and more mistlike. Quietly Istar rose,

and, with mental insistence, held out her arms. There was one last burst

of chords--chords that fell as from a great height in organ-tones as dim

and beautiful as the evening wind. The single phrase struck home to her

heart; it was a phrase of sorrow, of warning, of preparation for coming

evil; a phrase that spoke, as a voice speaks, of suffering. Then, once

again, there was silence; a silence as oppressive as heat. The window

was clear again, and through it the star could be seen. The odor of

sandal-wood was strong in the room.

Istar lay back in her broad chair. The memory of her old life grew

faint. Babylon lay leagues to the north, and she was no longer part of

it. The history of the ancient and sacred city in which this, her

temple-dwelling, stood, the shadowy legends that clung about its

crumbling and honored walls, presented themselves vividly to her mental

vision. She seemed now to be a part of the spirit of that other Istar,

the Love-goddess, who, in her great incarnation, had loved and married

the warm and exquisite Spring, the Tammuz of present-day festivals, who

had appeared in human form then, when the world was younger and more

fair. And she knew also with what vehemence that Istar had loved the

great hero, the slayer of lions, the man of wisdom and strength,

Izdubar, who had sought her out for aid in battle when the power of his

good genius, Êa-Bani, failed him. And that Istar of old had not failed.

As she thought of the two, and how Istar the Love-goddess had become the

woman of war, the lady of Arbela, the mind of this other of divine race

was filled indiscriminately with the soft murmurings of spring and the

martial clang of arms. Happy, indeed, had been that Istar of old; for

she had loved, and had protected whom she loved, fearing none, obeying

no power higher than herself. But now--if the people of the city were

seeking such another as she had been, they must wail at last in their

disappointment. Neither Tammuz nor Izdubar--neither beauty nor

strength--had come to her to love her; nor could she have given all that

her predecessor knew so well how to give. Love! What was it? Vague

imaginings flitted through the Narahmouna's mind. She paused, in

thinking, to hearken to the silence. A city of sleep lay about her on

every hand. Stirred any creature there through the night? Her head

drooped upon her knee. She listened to the throbbing of the stillness.

Yea, some one besides herself was awake with the darkness. She could

distinguish soft footsteps near her door. Some slave, no doubt, was

going to a vigil in the temple. Silence again. The steps had not died

away, but seemed suddenly to stop near by her very portal. Istar

listened again, but still did not lift her head. She knew that the

curtain overhanging the door-way was being pushed aside. There was some

one else in the room with her. She felt the presence, and her heart

ceased to beat. Yet it was not fear that sent the blood to her heart.

Only when the some one was very near, when the fold of a flowing mantle

touched her shoulder, did she finally lift her bowed head and look. At

the same instant, before she could rise up, half in terror, half in joy,

the man sank abjectly at her feet. A white, fearful, half-daring face

was lifted up to her. A pair of haunted storm-eyes caught and held her

look. A moving, nerveless hand clutched the hem of her garment.

Istar hardly breathed. It was all too vague, too dreamlike, too

impossible, for her to realize what had happened. She was without fear,

yet she shook like an aspen. She let her eyes answer that other look.

Then, from the gaze, something was born within her. Something choked

her. She gasped for breath. Finally, with a sudden cry of terror, she

covered her face with her hands and rose unsteadily to her feet.

Belshazzar did not stir; neither did he take his eyes from her as she

moved across the room. His heart was pounding furiously against his

side, and his head swam with the power of the emotion that had driven

him in this way to her presence. A wonderful thing passed before his

eyes. That veil of light, that had held the goddess safe in its

protective depths since her incarnation, was almost gone. It had been

rent and torn from her by the force of the change within her; and now it

hung around her form in thin, glittering shreds that melted away like

hoar-frost in the sunlight. At last he saw unconcealed what that had so

long unbearably tantalized him: that which, hitherto, had only revealed

itself to him by accident, a line, a single curve accentuated by a

gesture, at a time. Now, all at once, it was before him quite

visible--the delicate, fragile form of a perfect woman, clad in clinging

draperies of purple embroidered in silver, sandalled in silver, the head

uncrowned, the waves of silken, black hair falling unbound behind her.

She had stood at the far end of the room, statue-like, for a long time,

before he came back to himself, before he realized how he lay. Then, in

some way, he got to his feet and went to her; carefully by instinct;

repressing himself at every step. She knew that he came, yet did not

seem to shrink. Before he reached her side, however, he broke the

silence between them, saying, huskily:

"Istar--do you bid me go?"

She did not at once reply, though he did not know whether or not she

meditated over her answer. While she still paused, the eyes of the

prince dilated with anxiety. Finally came the reply in a whisper so low

that it was a miracle he heard it: "Not Istar of Arbela; Istar of Erech,

I. Go--if thou wilt--"

In another instant Belshazzar was upon her, had taken her into his

heroic arms, was drowning her cries of amazement in the passionate

torrent of his emotion; and for a little she was still, while wonder

took full possession of her. Then there came from her lips one cry that

would not be silenced--a cry that rang through the room and passed out

of the window, winging its way upward to high heaven: a cry of momentary

anguish, of something forever lost, of something also gained. It was no

more the voice of the Being Divine. It was that of a woman.

Hearing it, involuntarily, Belshazzar drew back from her, smitten with a

kind of terror at what he must have done. She was there, wide-eyed and

shivering, before him. The last shred of her aureole was gone. She

sobbed. Her eyes had become blindly bright, and presently overflowed. In

that first moment of humanity she wept. It was her destiny. Something

more she did also. In her weakness, in her great solitude, she did what

women will. All alone in a strange world, unsheltered, unprotected,

amazed and confused by the great tumult raging within her, she turned to

him who stood before her, the embodiment of human strength and beauty,

and to him she held out her arms.

Belshazzar went to her, not fiercely now, but reverently, almost as much

amazed as she herself at this more than fulfilment of the dream that he

had so long and so blasphemously cherished. Holding her again close in

his arms, his senses reeled under the human warmth of her body. Bending

his dark head over hers he whispered to her, in such a tone as he had

never used before, those words that make the world immortal:

"Istar! Oh, my beloved! I love thee!"

One of her arms crept fearfully round his neck, and the tears from her

eyes fell upon his cheeks, and he understood that she answered him.

Knowing not what else was left for her, she clung to him the more

closely as he lifted her slender body and carried her up to the daïs at

the far end of the room. And so through the night, while the lamps

burned low, and the white star sank from sight, for those two, through

the wisdom of God, time ceased, and their souls were mingled with

eternity. And over them, though neither of them saw, in answer to the

mortal cry of their one-time sister, archetype on archetype descended

from the height to watch over the place where Istar had become a woman.

* * * * *

Night, the enchanted night, the twenty-second of the burning midsummer

month, hung heavily through the great spaces of the temple of Istar.

Silence, far-reaching and luminous, spread within from the open portals,

past the altar and the deep and the sacred recording-stone, to the foot

of the first of the steps that led up to the curtained door of the

sanctuary, within which the sanctification of the temple was to take

place in the morning. The east was still black when the first dim

figures, forerunners of the vast crowds that by sunrise would fill the

temple to overflowing, passed the bronze gates and took their places at

the foot of the sanctuary steps.

White dawn entered, mistlike, through the portals of the high house, and

the myriad temple lights that had pierced the night with their tiny

points of flame grew very dim; and when at last the sun sent his first

scarlet and golden messengers up the eastern sky to announce his coming,

these lights came to resemble mere reflections of the burnished brass

and beaten gold that covered the temple walls. By now there was an

immense throng inside, and moment by moment it was augmented; for all

Erech, and all the country-side for miles around, was making its way to

this place. Finally the long-awaited Shamash leaped into the sky,

holding before him his shield of glory, sending a great shaft of light

into this dwelling-place of his sister Istar. A murmur of prayers for

the morning rose up through the lofty spaces of the temple-roof, and the

silence that followed these was intense with expectation; for now, at

any moment, their goddess might come to them.

Within the sanctuary everything had long since been prepared. During the

night several priestesses of Istar had kept a vigil there, offering up

continuous prayers before the stone pedestal on which, in any other

temple, the statue of the goddess would have stood. Water, over which

one hundred charms and incantations had been said, filled the purifying

basin. The place was sweet with the odor of spices, and its air hung

hazy with incense. Beside the broad basin, upon a table plated with

gold, stood a flask of perfumed oil, treasured for many years for use

upon some such holy occasion as this. The little, windowless room was

lighted by a swinging-lamp of exquisite workmanship, kept burning night

and day in the perpetual gloom. In this place the consecrated hierodules

had held their prayerful watch through the long night of the passion;

and at dawn they left it empty, to await the coming of its divine

occupant. Five minutes after the departure of the veiled women, however,

the sanctuary was invaded by three persons who bore no resemblance to

gods. Vul-Ramân and his two companions, their priests' dresses covered

with long cloaks of sombre hue, glided in through the concealed door

behind the pedestal. The three of them were pale and rather anxious-eyed

as they took up the positions suggested by Amraphel. Vul-Ramân, only,

carried a weapon: the same thin-bladed, delicate knife that he had used

on more than one occasion similar to this. Twice he ran his finger

carefully along the edge of the blade, and the last time his skin was

neatly slit by the metal. Satisfied with the trial, he slipped the

little instrument under his cloak again, and then the long, nervous

vigil of the murderers began.

By the time the sun was half an hour high, the crowd outside the temple

had become restless, and the close-packed rows of men and women were as

impatient as they dared to be. No one of any importance had yet made an

appearance. Surely the king, the prince, the governor, and their

attendant lords should be here by this time. Would Istar come if they

still delayed? Would that she might! And then, the mention of Istar

again bringing up the most absorbing of all topics, every man and his

neighbor fell to talking of how he had seen her on the previous evening

on her way from the river to her temple; and on every hand were heard

descriptions of her wonderful and unearthly presence. That baffling

radiance that flowed about her was the veil of Sin, her father. It

proclaimed her divinity as nothing else could have proclaimed it.

Heretofore there had been not a little scepticism over the exaggerated

reports brought down from Babylon during the two past years; but there

was no scepticism in Erech to-day. Goddess she assuredly was; and as a

goddess she should dwell in the heavenly house they had built for her,

on ground consecrated to her many thousands of years ago.

At last, from the street leading up to the temple, came a blare of

trumpets and a clangor of cymbals, and a shiver of excitement overran

the people when they realized the approach of the king and his royal

train. Four ushers with lily-topped wands forced a passage through the

crowd, and finally entered the temple itself, where the making of an

aisle was no easy task.

Amid tumultuous shouts the lordly company left their chariots, and

passed in processional line, between the people, clear to the foot of

the sanctuary steps. Gentle-faced Nabonidus, arm-in-arm with the

governor of the city, came first; and the throng made reverent way for

them. Belshazzar, pale-faced and utterly overwrought, physically

exhausted, mentally apprehensive, followed his father, walking alone.

The people looked after him curiously as he passed, and many were the

whispers to the effect that the prince-royal was a wild and dissolute

fellow. After these three notables came the lords, judges, and

councillors, Ribâta among them, more puzzled than he would have

acknowledged at his friend's too apparent state of mind. This entire

company found places immediately at the foot of the sanctuary steps.

Nabonidus and his son faced each other, standing the one on the left,

the other on the right hand of the spot where Istar must pause ere she

went up into the high place. Both king and prince were in priest's

dress--white muslin, goat-skin, and golden girdles, with anklets and

bracelets of gold, and feather tiaras set in wrought gold. Seeing this

garb, a few among the people chanced to remember the three Babylonish

priests that had come down the river with the king. But there was no one

that knew where they might be, and none cared enough to press an

inquiry.

Now, certainly, Istar was late. The people were tired and impatient, and

there were not a few who, having waited here since dawn, complained

bitterly of the divine tardiness. But there was only one person in that

throng that suffered both physically and mentally with suspense. This

was he who, one hour before, had left Istar's side; he who now stood,

ghastly pale, heavy-eyed, and nerveless with anxiety, at the sanctuary

steps. Could she come here this morning? Would she come? And how would

the ordeal affect her? It seemed almost impossible that she could go

through with it, overwrought as she was. Yet what would be the result

with the people did she fail them?

Ah! What was that? The minor cadences of the chant of priestesses were

to be heard outside the temple. She was coming then. She was here!

At the door of the temple stood a large company of yellow-robed women,

half of them veiled, half of them with their faces bare. In their midst,

as yet invisible to the people, was Istar. Still, they recognized her

presence, and there was a sudden, vast rustling, as all that immense

throng, with one impulse, sank to their knees there in the sacred hall.

After a momentary pause on the threshold the ranks of the women parted,

and Istar came forth alone.

Clothed like the sun she was, in tissue upon tissue of woven gold, that

shimmered with a thousand rays. Her hair was crowned with gold,

incrusted with deep-hued beryls, and from the back of the diadem floated

a gold-wrought veil, beneath which lay her lustrous hair, a dark, silken

mass. Dazzled at first by her shimmering garments, it was not till the

second moment that the ten thousand eyes sought her face. Then--it

seemed to Belshazzar that he could _feel_ the change in the multitude.

_Goddess?_--That?--That pale-faced, wide-eyed woman? Nay! And yet--she

was beautiful. She was so beautiful in her unveiled pallor that she

might well have been looked on as something more than human. There was

no radiant aureole of divinity around her now. Perhaps that had been a

twilight dream. And, the first shock of disappointment over, most of the

people would have worshipped her still. Men's eyes followed her with

inexpressible wonderment as, inch by inch, she moved up the aisle. What

agony that passage was to her even Belshazzar could not know. She was

barely conscious as she neared the steps; for it was the first time that

she had ever really walked.

To Istar's eyes the temple was dim. The murmur of whispers reached her

as from a great distance. She realized vaguely what she was expected to

do, while her eyes were riveted on one thing, and her soul was striving

to leave her body that it might reach the sooner that which she loved.

In the first instant of her mortality Belshazzar's image had been

stamped indelibly upon her heart and in her brain. And now that he

himself was there before her, she felt only that she must get to him.

She cared to go no further.

The long distance was traversed at last. She stood at the foot of the

sanctuary steps, Belshazzar close upon her right hand, the king upon her

left, all the mass of people behind her. She must go up, she must mount

up into the space that for a moment seemed to stretch out before her

like the spaces of heaven--vast, limitless, infinite. She placed her

foot upon the first step, hesitated for an instant, shivered with cold,

then, with a mighty effort, lifted herself up and stopped. Perhaps it

was well that at this moment neither Vul-Ramân above nor the crowd below

could see her face. It bore an expression of fear, of horror, such as

cannot be pictured by human imagination. Still she ascended one more

step, and none could have realized the heroism that carried her there.

Could she go on? Must she? Suddenly a great cry burst from her. Her face

became livid. Her teeth chattered, and her hands worked nervelessly. She

was forbidden to progress. There, towering above her in menacing wrath,

was a throng of shadowy things, of huge wings, of heavenly forms, just

discernible to her eyes, invisible to all others. The archetypes of

heaven were before her, barring her way, crying her fall to her, driving

her back from the high place to which no mortal might attain. One

gesture she made--lifted both arms to them in pitiable pleading. Then,

with a fainter cry, she reeled and fell, backward and down, and, while

the mighty vision faded from her mortal eyes, Belshazzar caught her

lifeless body in his arms. As he did so there came an uproar from every

side of the temple: vague, indeterminate, angry murmurs, presently

silent before one trumpet-voice, bolder than the rest, that voiced the

feeling of the men of Erech. This cry was taken up and repeated, and

cried again, till the temple-roof quivered with it, and the stoutest of

hearts quailed before its wrath:

"This is a woman! A woman! It is a woman!"

Belshazzar, with lion mien, and storm-eyes blazing with fury, faced them

all with his burden in his arms; and, angry and disgusted as they were

at the great deceit, not a hand was lifted against this prince of their

blood who espoused the cause of the false woman, the pretender. As he

bore her from them out of the temple, there was none to notice the

parting of the sanctuary curtains; none to perceive the pale, peering

face of Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin, whose glittering knife was cold with

desire for human blood. The priest stared fearfully upon the general

tumult; for of all that company he was now the only one that believed in

the divinity of Istar of Babylon. For how but by divinity had she that

morning escaped her death?

VII

LORD RIBÂTA'S GARDEN

Istar did not keep her word about Charmides' Greek lyre. It was not

returned to him at all, whole or broken. So, after a little waiting, the

Greek, hungry for an instrument, was obliged to replace his old one with

one of the awkwardly fashioned Babylonian lyres, on which his skill was

admirable, but which did not by any means produce the music of the Greek

instrument. He felt the circumstance in two ways: one of disappointment

with his goddess, the other as an omen--that the last tie that had bound

him to Sicily was forever broken. Henceforth, in everything but

complexion and religion, he was of Babylon. The Great City held every

interest of his life. Everything that belonged to it was dear to him;

and he wished nothing better than to have no distinction made, even in

thought, between him and the natives of Chaldea. Only Apollo and the

memory of his mother lived in his heart to remind him that his childhood

had been something far away. And more than once, by night, thinking of

the mother's loneliness, he sent her, by Castor and Pollux, fervent

messages of affection. Perhaps Heraia received these and was content;

for a mother-heart is quick to feel even a thought, though it be

generated ten thousand miles away, and a mother can rise to any

sacrifice for the happiness of the child of her flesh.

By the middle of July Charmides began to know Babylon, its ways and

byways, very thoroughly. At first he had lost himself almost every time

that he ventured from Ramûa's side; but, by much wandering to find his

way back again, he learned the streets and their crooked twistings as

not all of the old inhabitants knew them. He was likewise in a fair way

to overcome his greatest and most uncomfortable difficulty--the

language. His necessarily constant intercourse with those that knew no

word of any tongue but their own, very shortly familiarized him with the

commonest phrases of every-day life. Beyond this, his greatest help came

from the temple in which he worked. During the long hours that he spent

behind the high place, listening to the plaints and confessions of

devout ones, and while he chanted the replies put into his mouth by the

attendant priest, he had, perforce, to occupy his mind in some way; and

the way most obvious was by trying to comprehend what he was saying, and

what the people before him were talking about. With the assistance of

the words that he had acquired, and his very slight natural aptitude,

supplemented by an ardent desire to learn, he made quite astonishing

progress. By the end of July it would have disturbed the priest not a

little to know the thoughts that were in Charmides' head as, little by

little, the gigantic system of deceit unfolded itself before him. But

Charmides was discreet. Never by word or look did he betray the least

knowledge of the Babylonish tongue, but performed his required duties

regularly, and appeared satisfied with the position, while becoming

gradually more and more disgusted with the realities of this new

religion.

Some days before it was generally known in the city, Charmides learned

from the temple-priests about Istar's journey to Erech. That her

departure was to be for good was generally understood among the

priesthood, though of the intended murder not a single member of the

lower orders dreamed. The Greek, however, was sorrowful enough over her

going; and it was the desire of his heart to be one of the musicians of

the voyage. Of this, however, there was no hope; for Charmides had

become too valuable an adjunct of the temple of Sin to be spared even

for a week to the service of Sin's daughter. He, however, with Ramûa and

Baba, went down to the water-front by the great bridge, and looked, for

what the Greek in his heart thought to be the last time, on the form of

her for whom he had come to Babylon. For the next few days he was very

unhappy. It seemed to him that he had in some way been untrue to his

vow. Babylon was his Babylon no more; and were it not for Ramûa, he

would have set out instantly for Erech. But Ramûa had become even more

necessary to his happiness than the great Istar. To leave her would mean

undying regret. Either way, apparently, his existence would be

incomplete, and what to do to remedy it was a cause of speculation that

was happily ended by Istar's return to Babylon. She came unheralded, in

a covered barge, and went back to her temple in a close-fastened litter,

surrounded by a troop of Belshazzar's cavalry. To all the strange tales

and sinister rumors circulated through the city about this unexpected

return, Charmides turned a deaf ear. She, his goddess, was again in her

abode. It was enough.

During this time the affairs of the Greek's non-professional life had

become very absorbing. When his peace of mind was restored by the

home-coming of Istar, he discovered that he was utterly and hopelessly

in love with Ramûa. That Ramûa returned some part of his affection he

sometimes, for a wild moment or so, permitted himself to hope; more

often doubted so entirely that his misery seemed to be complete. She

could not care for him, of course. Yet, barring the two or three hours a

day that he spent in the temple, the two of them were never apart while

the sun was above the horizon; and no one ever heard Ramûa object to the

arrangement, or appear to be wearied by it. Eyes, ears, mind, and soul

of each were all for the other, though as yet neither could believe that

the other cared. And neither of them, in their joyous selfishness,

perceived the little creature who stood apart from them both, watching

in silence that which was bringing heart-break into her eyes. Poor Baba!

Many a time by day, and more often still by night, Zor's silken coat was

wet with her mistress' tears. Beltani had caught more than one stifled

sob coming from the hard pallet in the dark hours; but Ramûa, wide

awake, perhaps, yet dreaming of sunshine and bright hair, never heard at

all, or else put it down to that most unpoetic of all sounds--a snore.

One evening, some time after Istar's return from Erech, when Charmides

had become more proficient in the Chaldean tongue, and when he also felt

quite at home with Beltani and the two girls, he asked a question of

which the effect on the family was something entirely unlooked for. It

was simply as to how Ramûa obtained her daily supply of fresh flowers.

A silence, complete and strained, followed his words. Ramûa flushed.

Baba hid her face on Zor's back; and even Beltani looked uncomfortable.

Charmides, puzzled, and wholly ignorant of any reason for the silence,

instantly feared some embarrassing mistake in his language, and quickly

repeated the question in different words, wishing to remedy any possible

impropriety that might have crept into his former speech. Ramûa now

looked at him imploringly; but Baba, turning to her mother, said, in a

low voice:

"Let us tell him. Then Bazuzu will no longer have to wait till so late.

Now he loses his sleep."

Beltani considered for a moment or two.

"Let us trust him. He will be silent," said Baba again.

"No! No, indeed!" cried Ramûa, unhappily.

Baba regarded her sister with the slightest hint of scorn. "Will you

always deceive him?" she said, bitterly.

Then Charmides, not a little disturbed by these unpleasantly suggestive

words, looked at Ramûa to find her lips quivering and her eyes ominously

bright.

"Tell me of this thing! Let me hear, that I may know all!" he demanded,

stumbling more than usual, in his new-born anxiety.

Then Beltani, perceiving that matters were being made to look worse than

they actually were, took the affair into her own hands, and proceeded to

answer at great length, with the assistance of many gestures and much

tautology, Charmides' unfortunate question.

The tenement of Ut, in which Beltani and her family dwelt, was, as of

course Charmides knew, separated from the palace and the extensive

gardens of Lord Ribâta Bit-Shumukin only by the canal of the New Year,

and by two or three hundred feet of waste ground on the other side of

the stream. And in these gardens behind the palatial residence, bloomed,

all the year round, flowers of every kind known to Babylonia and the

West, in such countless numbers that a hundred blossoms taken daily from

the wilderness of fragrance, could never be missed. Moreover, neither my

Lord Ribâta nor any member of his household, ever, so far as Beltani

knew, appeared in these grounds. Therefore, if, every night, black

Bazuzu went, unseen and unheard, into the gardens, and very carefully

selected enough flowers for Ramûa's basket next morning, could either

the gods or Ribâta be very angry? Nay, indeed, had not my lord himself

on more than one occasion actually purchased a rose of his own from the

flower-girl on the steps of the temple of Istar? And was not this a sign

from heaven that the great gods winked at the whole proceeding? Ramûa

might weep if she would. She had countenanced the arrangement for two

years, and it was not exactly honest to be smitten now with repentance.

Beltani finished her explanation a little defiantly and looked up, not

without apprehension, to find Charmides' face filled with relief, and as

cheerful as possible. Ramûa refused to look at him, though he was

smiling at her broadly; and it was only when he said, "Let us together

go and seek thy flowers for to-night," that she flashed at him a look of

happy acquiescence.

Charmides' eyes grew brighter yet. Evidently that fateful garden was

going to prove a little paradise for him. He had a quick and delicious

vision of himself and of her shut far away from everything sordid and

unbeautiful, wandering together through fragrant, flowery paths in the

moonlight, whispering words meant only for the stars and for themselves.

Moreover, this was a dream that might be repeated many times; for, while

Ramûa must sell flowers for her livelihood, and Bazuzu deserved a night

of unbroken rest, it--

Here this pleasing reverie came to a halting finish. Charmides suddenly

felt that Baba's mournful, owl-like eyes were reading his thoughts as he

would have read a Greek tablet. Beltani, too, was by no means blind; and

she, at any rate, had not the slightest intention of permitting Ramûa

and the hare-brained Greek to go alone together into Ribâta's garden.

The good woman's mind was of a purely Babylonish turn, and the ideas

attendant on a fine sense of honor had never occurred to her. Charmides,

therefore, was not of high enough birth, nor possessed of sufficient

wealth, to admit of any dangerous philandering. This fact Beltani made

known to him in terms as terse and to the point as only she was capable

of using. It was nothing that Charmides should clench his fists and grow

purple with rage at the insult; or that Ramûa was ready to dissolve in

tears of shame. To these things the good housewife closed her eyes

pleasantly. What did they signify? She was mistress of the situation,

and, as such, the feelings of others had no effect on her.

The sunset hour was over at last, and the small household descended from

the roof and entered their rooms, where the regular incantation was made

and the prayers to Marduk and to Sin were said. Then Beltani and her

daughters passed into the inner room, and Charmides was left alone for

the night with Bazuzu.

In spite of his ill-humor, the Greek could not lay him down for the

night without his address to his patron, Father Apollo. Bazuzu watched

him as he knelt, his face turned towards the west, and saw his fretful

expression gradually soften to one of reverence and love as the

melodious words left his lips. Charmides did not guess how often and how

closely Bazuzu followed his devotions, nor realize that, in the heart of

the deformed black man, a very deep affection for himself had been

growing throughout the summer. His prayers finished, he gave Bazuzu

good-night and a smile, as he lay back upon his pallet. But sleep was

not very ready to his eyes. Now that the explanation had been made, now

that Ramûa's tearful face was no longer pleading with him, the matter of

the flowers took on rather a different aspect in his mind. In the year

539 B.C. the Greek notions of justice were strict and well defined, and

the laws were enforced far more stringently than in later times. The

word theft was a synonym for dishonor. And Charmides was thoroughly

imbued with the traditions of his race. Therefore, now that he had begun

to consider the affair impartially, it had not a pleasant look. Twist it

as he would, he could not but see that Ribâta was being wronged, and

that--much worse!--the maiden who was dearer to him than anything else

in the world, had been for two years an open party to this wrong. To be

sure, Beltani was the originator of the scheme, and Beltani was the

girl's mother. Implicit obedience to one's parents was also another law

of Greek social life. Was Ramûa, after all, so much to blame? Then, as

Charmides thought of his own mother, her honor, her goodness, her

sympathy, there came to him the wish that he might be to Ramûa all that

and more than his own mother had been to him. He determined that Ribâta

should some day be made aware of this whole matter, and should be repaid

for his loss by Charmides himself, who would have the right to do so

when Ramûa was his wife.

This thought came to him together with the first touch of drowsiness;

and so comforting was the idea, and so heavy were his eyelids, that,

five minutes later, the Greek was dead to the world. Thus he did not

know when Bazuzu, basket in hand, slipped quietly away into the night.

It was much earlier than the slave had been accustomed to depart; but,

now that Charmides knew the household secret, Beltani's slave might as

of old choose his hour of departure on the unlawful errand.

It was very dark to-night as he crept down the alley to the bank of the

canal. The moon had passed the full, and its red rim had just peered

over the horizon, as the slave, having crossed the little bridge over

the stream and traversed the intervening distance between it and the

garden, stood before the high hedge and the concealed opening in the

wall through which he was accustomed to enter Ribâta's domain.

Bazuzu could have come to this place blindfolded and have entered with

perfect accuracy. Now, for the thousandth time, he crawled in on his

hands and knees, drew the basket after him, straightened up, and,

looking neither to the right nor to the left, hurried over to the long

bed of flaming red lilies, now in their prime, and, in consequence,

Ramûa's chief stock in trade till the paler flowers of early autumn

should come into bloom. Here, with by no means ungentle fingers, the

black man began to pluck the shapely flowers, selecting them with such

care that no one, casually overlooking the bed, could have perceived how

many had been taken. Bazuzu was in no hurry. Perhaps, once here, he

enjoyed being in the garden. Any one might, indeed, have enjoyed it, for

the place was rarely beautiful. The newly risen moon, showing now above

the shadowy, distant towers of the various temples, flooded the dreamy

recesses of tropical verdure with a soft, bluish light that drew forth

perfumes from every blossom, and caused the new-fallen dew in the

flower-cups to glisten like opals. Occasionally Bazuzu paused in his

work, and lifted up his head to look about him in the luxuriant

stillness. Dimly he realized that even sleep rested and refreshed him no

more than this. He did not now regret that Ramûa and Charmides had not

been allowed to come here together. To what raptures of love their souls

would have been drawn by the beauty of this scene, the black man did not

know. In the midst of his small, untutored ecstasy, he passed

from the lilies to a clump of rose-trees that overhung a pond where

lotus-blossoms floated. It was here, while bending over the perfect

specimens of the fair flower of Persia, that his quick ear caught the

sound of steps--footsteps--coming measuredly towards him.

Bazuzu's heart gave a throb of terror as he looked up the path leading

to the palace. Yes, it was true. Two figures--men--were approaching.

Clasping the basket close to his breast, Bazuzu knelt and drew himself

as far back as possible in the shadow of the rose thicket. He was no

more than hidden when the men passed him, so closely that the rich

mantle of one of them dragged over the slave's hand. Down to the hedge

and then back by the same beaten path, always slowly, always earnestly

conversing together, moved the twain; and as they passed him again,

Bazuzu had recovered himself sufficiently to recognize both. One was

Ribâta himself, lord of the house, whom Bazuzu knew, as a matter of

course, to be Beltani's landlord. The other was a figure familiar to

every one in Babylon: Bel-Shar-Uzzur, governor of the city and

heir-apparent to the throne. It was he who talked most. Bazuzu watched

him interestedly, for it was no small thing to sit listening to the

conversation of royal princes. Hitherto, when he had chanced to see the

prince, or when he had heard others tell of seeing him, Belshazzar had

worn an air of over-confident and joyous pride, of haughtiness, even,

for which he was none too well loved by his people. Perhaps now it was

only the whiteness of the moonlight that changed him so; but to-night

there was neither pride nor joy in that imperious face. A great pallor

was on him and his look was troubled. From the fragments of speech that

he caught, the slave could not determine what difficulty Belshazzar

might be in. He spoke often of temples and of priests, and there was

some one whom he never called by name, but spoke of as "she," or

sometimes, extravagantly, as "Belit"--"goddess."

In his interest in the scene before him, Bazuzu gradually forgot the

danger of his position. A dozen times the two lords had brushed him as

they passed, but never chanced to see the shadowy figure huddled at

their very feet. Presently, however, in his eagerness to catch the end

of a sentence, Bazuzu crept an inch or two forward, and did not draw

back when the two turned towards him once more from the end of the path.

They drew near, and Belshazzar's eyes were fixed on the ground. Ribâta

was speaking, when, three feet from the thicket, Belshazzar suddenly

seized his comrade's arm and stopped short.

"Dost thou, fearing danger, keep about thee concealed guards,

Bit-Shumukin?" he cried, roughly.

"What sayest thou, Belshazzar?"

For answer, the prince strode forward, stooped, seized Bazuzu by the

collar, and dragged him to his feet.

There was a silence. The slave, cold with fear, stood open-mouthed, his

eyes wildly rolling, the basket still clasped tightly in his arms.

Ribâta, who had grown white with astonishment and anger, stood staring

at him. Belshazzar, lips compressed and brows drawn together, moved

aside.

"Are you of my house, knave? And for whom art thou here? Speak! Answer

me!" And Ribâta stamped upon the ground.

Bazuzu, remembering, even in his terror, the helplessness of Ramûa,

answered, shiveringly: "Yea, of thy house, O lord!"

"He lies, Bit-Shumukin," interrupted the prince, sharply. "His collar is

of leather. Those of thy house--"

"Yes, yes!" cried Ribâta, still more angrily. "Speak the truth, thou

villain, or--there is death in my garden. Who art thou?"

With thickening tongue and reluctant heart, Bazuzu made reply: "I am the

slave of the Lady Beltani."

"And who is the Lady Beltani?"

"She dwells across the canal, in the tenement Ut of my lord."

"Ho! _Lady_ Beltani! A dweller in Ut! And why, then, art thou here and

not in thy lady's own spacious gardens?"

Bazuzu helplessly held out his flower-basket.

Ribâta seized it by the handle, and examined it and its contents. "These

flowers--they go to beautify, no doubt, the person of the Lady Beltani?"

"My lord, they are sold by the Lady Ramûa, her daughter, who sitteth

daily on the steps of the platform at the temple of Istar, that she may

obtain bread-money for her mother. My lord knoweth well that the

dwellers in the tenement of Ut know not gold."

"Ah! Ramûa, the flower-seller, is thy mistress' daughter?" demanded

Belshazzar, stepping forward a little.

Bazuzu inclined his head.

"Then, Bit-Shumukin, unless the knave lies again, the gods favor thee

well. Have her brought to thee, the Lady Ramûa. She is as fair a maid as

any in Babylon; and as she has sold thy flowers--let her now pay for

them."

Ribâta turned to his friend with interest in his face. "Do you laugh at

me, Bit-Shamash, or is this thing so?"

"It is so, Ribâta. Send only for the maid, and see if Bel is not kindly

disposed to thee."

"Send for her here? Now? Nay--the knave no doubt lies."

"By my father's throne, I think he does not! The maiden Ramûa is known

to me. Have I not passed her daily for months, sitting on the temple

steps? Have I not oftentimes worn a handful of flowers bought from her

for a _se_, to win a smile from her maiden lips? Br-r! Ribâta! Thou hast

the blood of Oannes[9] in thy veins. Send for her to be brought before

thee. She will teach thee the beauty of Sin's bright beams better than

I. Buy her, Ribâta, and keep her for thine own. 'Tis those that cannot

be bought that make men miserable. Send for this maiden, I tell thee.

Brother, I go home."

Finishing this rather cynical advice, Belshazzar turned on his heel and

started for the palace. Bit-Shumukin, catching him by the arm, tried all

his eloquence to make his friend remain. The prince was obdurate, in his

light, self-willed way, and finally concluded the argument by saying:

"Now I will send a slave to thee from the court-yard, who shall go with

this man to bring the lady to thee from her dwelling. Quarrel not with

thy fate, O son of ingratitude! May Marduk bless the meeting!"

And thereupon Belshazzar departed and went his way, leaving Ribâta alone

with the still trembling slave. By this time Bazuzu was utterly

wretched, bitterly angry with himself for speaking Ramûa's name, vaguely

hating Belshazzar for his mockery, thoroughly apprehensive of the power

of the man who stood at his elbow tentatively regarding him.

Fortunately, Belshazzar lost no time in carrying out his own suggestion,

and presently a slave of Ribâta's household appeared, coming rapidly

down the path from the mansion. Reaching the spot where his master

stood, he inclined himself profoundly, and waited his lord's will. After

a little hesitation Bit-Shumukin, seeing nothing else to be done, said,

in a tone of quiet command:

"Thou, Baniya, must go, in company with this slave here, to the tenement

of Ut, across the canal, and bring to me, from her abode, the Lady

Ramûa--her, and none other. See that none but you attends or follows her

hither. In this place I shall wait for your return. Behold, I have

spoken. Hasten to obey."

The slave inclined himself again, and then, driving Bazuzu peremptorily

before him, left the garden by a gate that was always fastened on the

inside. Once without, the two started together across the bare field

leading to the foot-bridge that crossed the canal. Baniya knew the way

as well as Bazuzu himself, for the tenement of Ut was one of Ribâta's

largest buildings, and any one familiar with the poor quarter of the New

Year was sure to know where this house was. Therefore there was no hope

of Bazuzu's leading the man astray. There was but one thing that he

could do now for Ramûa, and this he tried.

In spite of his ungainliness, which amounted to actual deformity, Bazuzu

was a powerful, and, in a way, an agile man. He had come victorious out

of more than one brawl, and physical pain meant very little to him. Now,

as the two of them came to the edge of the bridge, the black man fell a

step behind his companion, and after a second or two darted quickly upon

Baniya, seized him about the body, and lifted him high in the air with

the intention of flinging him into the canal and then taking to his

heels in an opposite direction. But Bazuzu had reckoned on Baniya's

losing his head at the crucial instant; and this Baniya did not do. The

moment that he was seized, the sinewy little slave twisted one arm from

the other's grasp, drew something from his girdle, and struck twice at

Bazuzu's brawny shoulder. The black slave uttered a quick cry and

dropped his burden. His right arm fell helpless at his side, and the two

red streams that had gushed forth from different points in his shoulder,

met on the upper arm and flowed in a thick flood down to his hand.

"Let the slave of the Lady Ramûa guide me quickly to her," observed

Baniya, with a grin at the distant moon.

And Bazuzu, thoroughly cowed, made no answer, but started in advance of

his companion across the bridge.

The door to the general room of Beltani's _ménage_ was open, as Bazuzu

had left it an hour before. Across the threshold lay Zor, quietly

asleep. From within came the faint, regular sound of Charmides'

breathing. Everything was perfectly still. As Bazuzu started to enter

the first room, however, Baniya pulled him back, and, once more drawing

his knife, breathed softly:

"I will enter that room first, slave, and my knife is in my hand. Thou

shalt rouse the Lady Ramûa from her sleep and bring her to me alone. But

if any man or any other living thing in this house wakes, know that thou

shalt not escape death at my hands. Now heed me!"

Bazuzu signified his acquiescence by a nod, and presently Baniya was

left alone beside Charmides' pallet, while the black man crept on his

hands and knees into the other room. Ramûa's bed was near the door.

Beltani lay in the far corner, Baba on the other side of the room.

Beside Ramûa Bazuzu stopped and knelt down. All three women were asleep.

Beltani's light snores brought reassurance to the slave's heart, though

the task of waking one of the sleepers in this room without rousing

either of the other two seemed, on the face of it, impossible.

Nevertheless, Bazuzu must try for his life. Therefore, with the most

delicate of touches he laid a finger on Ramûa's forehead. She quivered a

little. Her eyes flew open. Then, seeing the strange shadow beside her,

she asked, softly:

"What is it? Thou, my Baba?"

Bazuzu, speaking between his teeth in a tone scarcely audible, answered:

"It is I, Bazuzu, Lady Ramûa. Rise thou without noise and creep into the

outer room. There we may more safely speak."

Forthwith he set the example by starting upon his hands and knees back

into the other room, where Baniya waited and the Greek slept.

Ramûa, instinctively dreading her mother, and fearing also the unguessed

errand of Bazuzu, implicitly obeyed the words of the slave and

made her way skilfully, without the faintest sound, out of her dark

sleeping-place into the moonlit living-room. Seeing her, Baniya stepped

swiftly forth, causing an exclamation to rise to her lips. Bazuzu stood

one side, his head bowed, till Ribâta's slave had insolently examined

her, from the pretty head with its loosened hair, down the ragged tunic

to her delicately arched feet. Then a slight smile broke over the face

of my lord's servant, and he bowed as he whispered:

"Will the Lady Ramûa deign to follow me?"

Ramûa, who had been regarding the man in mute amazement, now turned

quickly round and looked to Bazuzu for some explanation of this

astonishing request. Bazuzu, weary, suffering from his wounds, and

utterly despairing over Ramûa's impending fate, lowered his head still

further.

"Lord Ribâta waits," he muttered.

"Ribâta!" In her terror, Ramûa scarcely whispered the words. She looked

wildly from Bazuzu, who had lost all hope, to Baniya, uneasy with

impatience. Then, slowly, she turned her eyes to the spot where

Charmides lay. He slept. The Greek slept tranquilly on while she passed

through this great peril! It was the sight of him there, sunk in

oblivion, that suddenly decided Ramûa. That he _could_ sleep through

this time was an omen that he was not for her. A sudden anger against

him rose up in her breast. With her heart full to bursting of tears, of

terror, of misery, she started forward into the moonlight, following the

footsteps of the swiftly moving slave.

In the mean time my lord, kept up later than he had expected to-night,

was trying to amuse himself with the beauties of his unfrequented

garden. While he wandered up and down the deserted paths, he could not

but muse on the rather curious and entertaining incident of the night.

Ribâta was not by nature an ungenerous man; and now, as he looked about

him on the extreme beauty of his surroundings, it seemed rather well

than otherwise that some one should have had so much benefit from his

unheeded flowers. Certainly the plants seemed to have suffered no harm

at Bazuzu's hands. Instead, the gardeners had, in all probability, been

saved a daily hour or so of labor of the same kind. Then Ribâta pondered

for a little on the code of laws that might put a slave to death for

just such a deed--something that did no harm to any one, and on the

other hand helped a poor family to live. Certainly, for a judge of the

royal court, Ribâta was not narrow; neither was he harsh. Presently, as

he continued his walk, he came upon the basket still containing a

handful of red lilies, lying, as he himself had finally dropped it,

beside the rose thicket. Ribâta picked it up, and, as he moved on again,

began, half absently, to pluck flowers--such flowers as Bazuzu had never

dared take--and to put them into the light receptacle. My lord confessed

to himself that his work was not artistically done. Great clumps of

jasmine from their carefully trained vines, thick bunches of heliotrope,

heavy lotus-blossoms with their rubber-like stalks, golden roses and

waxen camellias, the rarest of his garden's lustrous treasures, he

pulled and dragged about with his unpractised hands, and threw in a

fragrant, tangled heap into Ramûa's basket.

It was soon filled to overflowing, and then Ribâta went back to the gate

through which Baniya must return. Near this was an arbor overgrown with

sweet, white flowers, and here he seated himself to wait. He was not

impatient. The beauty of this unvisited part of his own domain had made

a strong impression on him, and he leaned back comfortably to gaze out

upon the moonlight and to dream unwonted dreams. Around and above him

the heavy jasmine exhaled its overpowering sweetness into the limpid

moonlight. Near him row upon row of brilliant lilies lay like scarlet

butterflies asleep. Presently, from a distant thicket, a nightingale

began to pour forth its full-throated song; and then, as Ribâta in a

quiet ecstasy raised his head to listen, the gate opened, and Ramûa,

bare-footed, with flowing hair, came into the garden.

She could not, from where she stopped, see Ribâta; and he, wishing to

know her first, did not immediately rise. Baniya, however, broke in upon

him by running forward, performing his obeisance, and demanding to know

if he had done well. My lord peremptorily dismissed him, and then,

rising reluctantly, went to the maiden.

"Ramûa is made welcome to Ribâta's dwelling-place," he said, quietly,

looking at but not offering to touch her.

Ramûa's reply was to cover her face with her hair, and to fold both

hands across her breast, in token of the deepest woe.

Somewhat against his will, Ribâta changed his tactics. Assuming a tone

of severity that did not in the least accord with his mood, he said:

"And it was you, then, that despatched your slave into my garden, that

he might steal my blossoms for your gain?"

The girl fell upon her knees and touched her forehead to the earth.

"Alas, my lord! Alas, it is true! My lord, be merciful to me! May my

lord grant a little time and he shall be repaid--shall be repaid for

all. I will repay him. By day and by night shall my hands labor. I will

earn a maneh of silver wherewith to buy new plants for his garden, if he

will let me now depart from him. May the great gods put mercy into the

heart of my lord!"

Ribâta looked down at her with a smile that she could not see. An honest

maid, apparently, yet too pretty to give back to toil and poverty. The

solitude, the song of the nightingale, and the intoxicating odors of the

jasmine, had put Ribâta into a sentimental mood. He lifted Ramûa in his

arms, carried her inside the arbor, and placed her tenderly upon the

seat that he had occupied. Then, while she vainly struggled to free

herself from his touch, he continued his scrutiny of her face and form.

Ramûa was choking with terror at her position. It seemed to her now

that, rather than have come hither, she should have killed herself. Yet

Charmides had slept through her trial! Charmides! Doubtless he was

sleeping yet. And, unreasonable as it was, that thought angered her

anew. Ah! When he did finally awake he would find his world changed for

him.

These bitter thoughts, that occupied her mind even as she strove to hold

off from the man at her side, were broken in upon by Ribâta, who

plaintively addressed her:

"Lady Ramûa, I have no need for manehs of silver. They are mine in

plenty. At the thought that you labored for my sake my heart would be

cut with each hour of your work. Nay, maiden, rather than that, I offer

you or your mother as many golden manehs as you desire if you, fair one,

will become a flower of my garden that shall bloom near me forever. This

that is around you now, and my palace yonder, and slaves and silks and

perfumes, sandal-wood and frankincense, wines of Helbon and spices from

the East, soft couches and embroidered garments, shall be all your own.

Come, then, Ramûa! Let us out of the sweet night into my house! And

to-morrow shall thy mother be made glad with wealth. Say that thou wilt

follow me, my beautiful one!"

Now this offer was a very fair and more than generous one--for the day.

There was no insult in it. So much Ramûa knew. And she knew also that it

was something that Beltani would have heard with unbounded delight. It

was a chance that any girl of her station might regard as a gift from

the silver sky. For this reason Ramûa could show neither scorn nor

anger. She had no refuge but tears. Weep, however, she certainly did,

and to much purpose; for, before the deluge, Ribâta was perfectly

helpless. He was also not a little amazed, for he knew no man who had

ever been refused such an offer. It was not a little mortifying to his

vanity; and as he thought the matter over while still she wept, his

temper began to rise. Poor man! He was unaware that he was pitted

against a youth with a halo of shining hair, eyes like the summer sky,

the physique of a Tammuz, and a voice like the notes of an ivory flute.

Even he would scarcely have expected to compete with these things,

added, as they were, to the hope, faint though it might be, of an honest

marriage with such masculine beauty. But in his ignorance the good man

began to regard his rebellious prize with no little impatience.

"Well, maid," he observed at length, "are these silly tears all thine

answer? Hast thou no other word? If so, thou shalt be carried in!"

Then Ramûa, terrified in earnest, repeated, tremulously: "My lord! Have

pity! I will work! I will repay the debt! Only, in the name of the great

Sin, be merciful!"

"Now is this girl surely a fool!" muttered Bit-Shumukin to himself.

"Listen thou, Ramûa! I will take no money from thee."

"Then let my lord take my life," she answered, wearily.

"Gladly!" was the eager reply.

Misunderstanding her entirely, he would have seized her in his arms

again, but that the girl, shuddering a little, drew the knife from his

belt and pressed it into his hand.

"Ramûa is ready!" she gasped, faintly.

Ribâta uttered an exclamation. "Child! Would I kill thee, thinkest

thou?"

She looked up at him stupidly. "Thou hast said it."

Now Ribâta was amazed. Fool she might be, indeed, but she was no coward.

He had not thought any woman possessed of such ready courage. Stepping

back a little, while she still sat there before him, drooping and

silent, he considered the situation. He was not brutal at heart,

Bit-Shumukin; and he was too experienced to lose his head through that

mad intoxication known only to youth in its first freedom. Besides this,

no woman in all Babylon could have said that he had not been perfectly

fair with her. This present matter being, in his wide knowledge, unique,

demanded a unique finale. Presently he took up the basket with its rare

and fragrant burden, and put it into Ramûa's passive hand.

"There, my maid, are thy morrow's flowers. Go thy way with them, and

sell them as is thy wont. But may it be thy last day upon the steps of

the temple of Istar. To-morrow, at sunset, I and my slaves will come to

thee in thy dwelling. By then thy heart must be softened towards me.

For, as Sin sheds his light from above, I swear that I will have thee

for mine own! Go thy way in peace to thy home, and the great gods bring

sleep to thine eyelids."

He made way for her to pass; and Ramûa, panting with anxiety to escape,

still clinging to her basket, rose and ran from him, swiftly as a deer,

to the unfastened gate. Ribâta watched her go, and heard the little sob

of relief that she gave as she found Bazuzu, weak from loss of blood and

bitter anxiety, awaiting her outside.

So Ribâta, pondering philosophically upon the mysteries of woman-nature,

and looking forward with no little interest to the sunset of the morrow,

wended his way slowly towards his palace.

VIII

BABA

Next morning, just as the sun rose over the city, Charmides opened his

eyes. If ever Charmides could be said to be lighter of heart, brighter

of face, and cheerier of spirit at one time than another, it was in the

very early day. The smell of the dawn, its peculiar, charming freshness,

that penetrates to the very heart of the most crowded city, was as life

to his soul. To-day, when he went forth for his solitary stroll by the

edge of the canal, the air, unbreathed and dewy as it was, brought him

as usual a sense of undimmed delight.

As he walked, scarcely heeding the rows of ungainly flat-boats drawn up

along the edge of the canal, or the small army of scavenger-dogs that

slept the sleep of the hungry near them, Charmides dreamed. This,

indeed, was a matter of course. The morning and the sunlight would have

lost half their beauty had not the thought of Ramûa been in his heart.

To-day his pure pleasure in her was a little tainted by the impression

that last night's revelation had made upon him, in the not very clear

sense of right and wrong that it betrayed in her whom he loved. Yet he

had absolute confidence in his influence over her; and, as he returned

to the house, no premonition of the new trouble disturbed his happy

tranquillity.

Upon recrossing the threshold of the outer room an unwonted sight met

his eyes. It was still early: so early that neither the girls nor

Beltani would, ordinarily, have been about. Yet here was Bazuzu, sitting

near the door-way, bare-shouldered, while Baba bent over him, deftly

applying a paste of bruised onions and sesame to the two blood-incrusted

wounds in the slave's back. Bazuzu sat dumb and patient beneath the

gentle hands; but Baba's face was drawn, and the tears rained from her

eyes as she worked. Beholding them, Charmides uttered an exclamation:

"Apollo! What is it, Bazuzu? What has happened?"

There was no answer. Bazuzu did not even look up. Baba gave the Greek a

wretched little glance, compressed her lips, and bent over her task

again with a stifled sob.

"Baba! Bazuzu! Tell me!"

Still they were silent. But as the rhapsode, more and more bewildered,

was about to question them more intelligently, the slave, lifting his

eyes for an instant, muttered, indistinctly:

"To him that sleeps too well by night Nebo grants little knowledge."

"Stop, Bazuzu! I will not have thee speak so!" cried Baba, instantly

resenting the suggestion.

"What is this that you say?" And Charmides, who had but half caught the

slave's words, moved closer to him. Then, suddenly, a new idea struck

the rhapsode. His heart shot downward for one sickening instant.

Speaking very slowly, out of his dread, he asked: "Ramûa--where is she?"

Baba sobbed again; and Charmides, with a great cry, sprang to her side

and laid a fierce hand on the child's shoulder. "Ramûa!--Ramûa! Where is

she?"

Baba raised her eyes and made a sidelong gesture towards the door of the

other room. Charmides followed the look, and he almost laughed with

relief to see Ramûa standing there in the door-way, looking at him. She

was just as usual: her hair smoothly coiled and bound about her head

with strips of bright cloth; her feet shod with wooden sandals; her

ragged tunic fitting her slender figure closely. But Ramûa's eyes were

red--far more red than Baba's. She was not, however, weeping now.

Charmides thought her tears for Bazuzu, and he went to her with

sympathetic phrases on his tongue and comforting tenderness in his

heart. It was a shock, then, when she shrank from his approach and

turned her head away. Baba, watching them both, read both their hearts;

but her tightened lips let no sound escape them.

By the time that Bazuzu's shoulder was bandaged and bound up, and

Charmides, stung to silence, had seated himself on his bed and bowed his

head, Beltani bustled forth from her chamber, her face beaming, her

whole manner breathing busy cheerfulness. As she called a loud greeting

to Charmides, the youth started up in hopeful astonishment. Beltani was

on her way up-stairs to the roof, however, to begin preparations for

breakfast; and no one spoke as she left the room. Ramûa seated herself

listlessly on Bazuzu's bed, and Baba presently went to her and sat down

at her side. Bazuzu, after moving vaguely about for a few minutes,

crossed suddenly to the far corner and drew out the basket of flowers,

now arranged in small nosegays, and sprinkled, as usual, with fresh

water. At sight of them Ramûa gave a faint groan, and Charmides, hearing

it, jumped suddenly to his feet, strode across the floor, and confronted

the two girls in a manner that showed his temper:

"Baba--Ramûa--I know not my fault. Before I leave you, then, you shall

tell me what it has been. Speak to me!"

Ramûa's only reply was to droop her head a little lower; but Baba

answered and said: "There is no fault in you, Charmides. Our trouble is

not yours."

"What, then, is your trouble? Why is it not mine? Your mother smiles

to-day. Is it Bazuzu, then?"

"Nay."

"Then what? What? Will you never tell me?"

"If thou wouldst know--Ramûa is to be sold to-day--at a goodly price.

Therefore our mother smiles."

Baba spoke in a stupid, matter-of-fact tone, and Charmides heard her

stupidly. "Ramûa to be sold!" he repeated. "Ramûa to--be----RAMÛA!" he

shouted. "RAMÛA! Speak to me! Apollo! My lord! Tell me what this thing

is! Tell me that this woman speaks lies to me! Apollo!"

As understanding finally came home to him, he broke into his own tongue.

Ramûa's gentle, dog-like eyes were lifted for an instant only to his. In

her glance Baba's words were corroborated. Charmides knew from her look

that the thing was true. Then he suddenly went forward and took her into

his arms.

"Ramûa," he said, brightly, "I love thee. Thou shalt be my wife."

Then at last her resignation was broken through, and she caught him

wildly about the neck. Clinging to him, she gave forth a long, wailing

sob that seemed to have no end. Baba, white and choked, moved from her

place and aimlessly crossed the room to where Bazuzu crouched, nervously

twisting a rosebud in his hand. Tight and yet more tightly Charmides

held her whom he loved; and in that close embrace peace came upon them

both. It would take more strength than my Lord Ribâta had to part these

two now.

At this juncture some one came upon the scene--not Ribâta, but Beltani.

At the sight that met her eyes her harsh face lost its light, and

Charmides was made aware of her presence by a stinging blow on the back

of the neck. With the strength of a strong man she tore him away from

Ramûa's close embrace, thrust the girl back upon Bazuzu's pallet, and

lifted her hand again to strike the Greek in the face. Charmides caught

her by the wrist. Then they confronted each other, the wide, blue eyes

blazing into the small, glittering, black ones. The woman's look did not

falter. She seemed to have in her no sense of shame. Then Charmides,

suddenly flinging her off from him, spoke two words in such a tone as he

never again used towards a woman:

"Thou fiend!"

For a second Beltani cringed; but she recovered herself. With an

unconcern that to the rhapsode was incomprehensible, she presently said,

addressing the room generally:

"The food is ready. If any would eat, let him come up-stairs." Then,

turning on her heel again, she retreated to the roof.

Not a single one of the four left behind her, disregarded the summons.

Such was Beltani's peculiar power. Baba, Bazuzu, and Ramûa, went from

fear. Charmides followed them, out of a sense of prudence--the prudence

which told him that Ramûa could only be protected if he were permitted

to remain in the household. He knew also that her one chance of escape

was through him; as perhaps her single desire to escape was on his

account. Therefore, with a superhuman effort, he forced himself to bland

attention to Beltani throughout the meal, during which the entire story

of the adventures of the past night was recounted at length. Charmides'

horror at what Ramûa had been through was equalled by his shame and

self-reproach at having slept while she, with Bazuzu and Baniya, had

stood almost at his side. He made no comments on the tale. Only, when

Beltani concluded her recital with the information that at sunset on

this very day Ribâta would come in person to bring the gold and to take

Ramûa away, Charmides, seeing the girl's shiver of dread, met her look

with a smile that sent the first glow of hope back to her heart. The

Greek had made a very simple and feasible plan, as it seemed to him.

Ramûa would go forth that morning as usual with her flowers, while he

would set out towards the temple of Sin. But at nightfall, when Ribâta

arrived at the tenement Ut, with his manehs of gold to exchange for a

soul, Ramûa, for the first evening of her life, would not be under her

mother's roof. Rather he, Charmides, her husband, would keep her out in

the city, wherever he chose to lodge, rightfully and lawfully, and with

her full consent; for there was no doubt that the priest of Sin would be

quite willing to tie the marriage-cord about their wrists for such a sum

as the Greek could afford to pay out of the still unemptied bag of his

father.

Truly it was a pretty scheme, and an easy--so obviously easy, indeed,

that it happened to occur to Beltani also, and she so arranged matters

that Baba was detailed to sell the flowers on the steps of the temple of

Istar, while Ramûa remained at home under her mother's eye. When, at the

usual hour for the departure of the workers, this forethought was

displayed, Charmides began to realize his helplessness. There seemed

nothing to do but to go forth as usual to the temple, to do his work

there, to fill out the day as he might, and to trust to the love of

Apollo to preserve her whom he loved from the fate that hung over her.

Between now and sunset were ten round hours. Cities had been taken in

less time than that, did one but know how to set about it. But there was

the rub. The only thing that seemed left to do--go to Ribâta himself

with an appeal--was a manifest absurdity. Charmides knew enough of

Babylonish character for that. And even had Ribâta's reputation as a

roué and a roisterer not been what it was, still, the notion that he

could be prevented by a mere nobody from acquiring a beautiful slave in

such a simple manner, was something that a man of Charmides' own race

would never have thought of. Ramûa knew this as well as Charmides. She

said good-bye to him in the door-way of the tenement Ut, her mother

beside her, and Baba just behind. There was no more than a long look and

his miserable whisper:

"At sunset I will be here."

He knew that she quivered at the mere mention of that hour. Then he

turned abruptly away, and she could only watch him go.

Charmides went straight from the bank of the canal to the temple of Sin,

by a much shorter way than that that held so many happy memories for

him. He must accustom himself now to take his walk in solitude. Never

before, however, had he realized what a dreary distance it was. The city

lay about him, spread out in all its filth, ill-kept, teeming with

naked, half-starved children, noisy with mongrel dogs, rattling with

buffalo-carts. He saw to-day only the wretchedest and ugliest sights.

His own heart responded to the wails of every child throughout the

endless walk; but he reached the temple a half-hour before his usual

time.