The mercy-hour had not yet come. A sacrifice, however, was in progress,

and the officiating priest called to him to play while the augurs began

their work. He saw the goat quartered and its flesh cooked, while the

entrails, which had been removed, were carefully examined for any

special omen of good or of evil for him who offered the sacrifice. When

this was over the Greek retired alone to the sanctuary, where, from the

sacred image, he was to listen to the plaints of those that came to seek

aid in trouble. How vain that quest was he knew too well. Yet, because

this was a consecrated place, the Greek knelt to his own fair god, and

prayed as a man prays once in his life, for Ramûa, her honor, and his

happiness.

When finally a priest came to him and opened the door in the back of the

statue, Charmides' heart was a little lighter. He ascended quickly into

his place, where he could look through the eyes of the god and speak

through its mouth to those who knelt before it. Presently came a woman

with a sick child in her arms. No conjurer had been able to help her, no

god would take pity on her. Charmides told her a charm that could not

fail, mentioned the price of the information, and sent her away. Then

followed in rapid succession a stream of men and women, each with a tale

of misery. By this time the Greek knew the types by heart, and, while he

pitied, he was wearied by them. Which of them all had a heart as sore as

his to-day? Alas! Could they have known that their god himself stood in

the shadow of despair's black wings, would they have departed from him

serene in faith, and so confident in their new-found wisdom?

However, when half the allotted mercy-time was over, there came one

suppliant who, for a moment, took the Greek's thought from himself. A

man, entirely muffled in a dark mantle, his head covered with such a

cloth as desert-travellers wear, entered the secluded place before the

statue, prostrated himself thrice before it, finally lifted his head,

and, throwing the embroidered cloth back from his face, clasped his

hands in the attitude of abject supplication. Charmides started to find

himself gazing into the deep-blue eyes of Belshazzar, the prince royal.

"May Sin look mercifully upon me from the high place," began the

suppliant, according to the ritual.

"Mercifully looks Sin upon them that approach him with humble hearts."

"Father Sin, bring peace to my heart!"

"Child of Sin, peace is to thee."

"Hear thou the woe of my spirit. Heal me, and guard me from pain."

"I hear thee. Speak."

Here the suppliant began in his own words, and Charmides listened

eagerly to him; for Belshazzar, priest as he was by birthright, was not

often to be found at the mercy-seat of a god in whom, in his own heart,

he could have no faith. How far he had been initiated into the monstrous

deceits of the church, however, the Greek could not tell. And he now

spoke with a humility of which Charmides had not deemed him capable.

"Great Sin, lord of men, father of Ishtar the divine, hear and pity me!

Tell me, I beseech, wherein I have angered the great gods? I have

offended my goddess. With me my goddess is exceeding wroth. I kneel down

before the gate-way of the temple of Istar, and am not admitted to her.

I am become unholy in her eyes. I may no more pass over the threshold of

Ê-Âna. The Lady Istar knows me not. O god, her father, hear my prayer,

that I may learn how I shall placate the great goddess thy child! How

may I again in peace behold her? Bring answer, O god, to my prayer!"

Once more Belshazzar touched his brow to the floor, while Charmides

watched him in amazement. For the moment he forgot to listen to the

prompting words of the priest at his elbow. But when, after half a

phrase, the fellow stopped and was silent, Charmides turned to look at

him, and remained fixed in astonishment. The under-priest was in the

throes of a frenzy such as the Greek had never seen before. Belshazzar,

kneeling below, waited anxiously for his answer, while the oracle could

only stand there, helplessly, looking at the priest who trembled and

shook so violently that his joints were threatened with dislocation.

Presently, after a long stillness, when the suppliant had become not a

little impatient, there came from the mouth of the Zicarî words that

were not of his making, spoken in a deep and sonorous voice with which

Charmides was quite unfamiliar:

"Belshazzar, be not disturbed. The heart of Istar undergoeth change.

Thine hath she been; thine will be. In time, of her own will, she will

seek thine aid. Then, by the might of thine arm, shalt thou protect her;

and cherish her unto the end. Yet a little while and that end cometh for

both. Therefore go forth in peace, and wait her will."

Silence followed these words, and Belshazzar, trembling with strange

emotion, touched his brow to the floor, and rose, and went his way.

Charmides turned from him back to the priest, who stood beside him in a

normal attitude, and said, presently:

"Reply thus to the suppliant: 'Thou must sacrifice to the Lady Istar, in

her temple, fifty fat oxen and one hundred goodly lambs. By this shalt

thou be brought back into the favor of Istar, the child of my heart. Sin

hath spoken. Arise. Go thy way.'"

And Charmides, wondering more and more, repeated the words, as he was

bidden, to the empty air. The temple of Istar had lost a hecatomb; but

Belshazzar had, perhaps, been won to faith in his native gods.

At the end of the mercy-hour the Greek left the temple as usual, and

went forth into the streets. He did not turn to the square of Istar. It

were too miserably empty for him to-day. Rather he set off in another

direction, wandering drearily along. And how the long hours of noon and

the afternoon slipped away, he hardly knew. His unhappiness took no heed

of time; for, all of a sudden, time had become worthless to him. It was

just one hour to sunset when he turned his steps southward towards the

canal of the New Year.

Meantime, while the Greek had wandered through unfamiliar quarters of

the city, Baba had sat all day on the steps of the temple of Istar, with

Ramûa's flowers in her lap. Of the three young people who passed those

unhappy hours in brooding over the general misfortune, it was the

youngest that endured most, and had suffered most acutely. Baba had to

review the situation of her family always hopelessly for herself,

sometimes not without hope for the cause of her sister and Charmides.

Child as she was, Baba loved Charmides with a love to the heights of

which Ramûa could not have risen. For, for the happiness of him whom she

loved, the woman-child was willing to renounce him, to give him up to

another, though by that act her own life was spoiled forever. From the

first moment of seeing Ramûa and Charmides together, she, with the quick

perception of one who loves unloved, had foreseen the end. Never once,

after the night of their first meal on the roof of the tenement, had she

rebelled at this fact. Her resignation was absolute. It had even been a

little comfort to her to dream of her sister's happiness, of the wedded

home in which she, Baba, might hold a definite place. That she might

continue to see Charmides, and to hear his voice day by day, was all

that she had asked. But now it seemed that this, too, might be taken

from her. She saw Ramûa, a slave, secluded deep in the labyrinth of

Ribâta's inaccessible palace; Charmides departed, in his grief, back to

his dim, distant home; herself and her mother left alone, to toil

through the endless days, living only on the memories of a doubtful

happiness that was hopelessly gone.

It was at this juncture in her imaginings that Baba began to rebel.

Ribâta should not have her sister, though he perished by her own hand

there in the tenement of Ut. This resolve she made at a little past

noon; and she looked up from the vow to find my Lord Ribâta about three

feet away, regarding her.

"By Nebo, maid," said he, "thou art not she who came last night into my

garden!"

"Nay, verily, lord."

"Yet these be the flowers that my hands plucked for her who becomes mine

to-day. Who art thou, girl?"

"Baba, I," was the answer, as the child lifted her elfin face and

dog-like eyes to the man.

"Baba! And she--the pretty one--is Ramûa. What is she to thee?"

"A sister."

"Ah! And you sell her flowers while she waits at home for me! Then give

me of my roses, Baba, and I will pay for them."

As he spoke, he picked two crimson-petalled blossoms from the tray,

tossed a shekel into the girl's lap, and passed on, laughing, while Baba

stared after him, just realizing the opportunity that had come--and

gone. Had she only killed him as he stood before her there, with the

little weapon that she carried always in her girdle, who, in the

excitement of the moment, would have thought of her family? She would

have been carried off at once before the royal judges, have been

speedily condemned, and probably taken straight from the court to her

death. But to kill Ribâta in the tenement was a different matter. It

would implicate every member of her family: Charmides, as well as Ramûa

and her mother. Undoubtedly some desperate chance must be run to-day,

but how or when Baba did not know. It would probably be left for the

exigencies of the sunset hour.

That hour was approaching. Baba watched it come, dreading it as much as

did Charmides, and more than Ramûa. Ramûa, indeed, had been singularly

dull all day. The grief that she suffered was not poignant. It was as

heavy and as lustreless as only despair can be. The fact that this was

her last day of youth, of freedom, of love, of maidenhood, her last day

in her home, the last day, in fine, of the life she had been born to,

was something that overwhelmed her completely, and made sharp

realization impossible. She followed her mother obediently about the

house. She bathed the wounds of Bazuzu, who hid his face from her touch.

And the only tears that she shed were over Zor, Baba's goat, which had

stayed at home to-day, and had eaten its noon meal from her hand. At the

touch of the creature's tongue Ramûa gave way for a few seconds. But she

recovered herself quickly, and presented an impassive face when, a few

minutes later, her mother came down from the roof.

Ramûa also watched the sun; but in her case it was more to know when she

might be expecting Charmides than anything else. Baba and the Greek

arrived somewhat before the time, within five minutes of each other.

Baba had a scolding because four of the flower bouquets remained in her

basket unsold. She made her peace by producing Ribâta's silver shekel,

forbearing, however, to tell who had bestowed it upon her. After this

little, indecisive skirmish, there was stillness in the lower room of

the tenement of Ut. All the family, Zor included, were gathered there

together. Ramûa sat at Baba's side on one of the beds. Beltani knelt

near the door-way, grinding sesame in a mortar. The slave Bazuzu wove on

at his baskets; while Zor lay comfortably at the feet of Charmides, who,

very pale and silent, sat on his pallet on the darkest side of the room.

The sun reached the horizon line--and passed it. The evening flung out

her victorious banners of purple, crimson, and gold. Still no Ribâta.

Ramûa lifted her head at short intervals, to look across the empty space

that stretched out from the open door. Charmides' heart palpitated so

that breathing became difficult. There seemed to be a hope on which he

had not calculated. Ribâta might have repented of his bargain and not

come for the girl. This idea occurred to Beltani also, perhaps, for

presently she rose from her labor, set the grain-jar aside, and hurried

out of the door to look down the lane towards the canal. When she

re-entered the room the look of smug satisfaction on her face was easy

to read. Charmides' heart ceased to beat as she bustled over to Ramûa,

stood her up, examined her with the greatest care from head to heels,

fastened in a flying lock, saw that her poor tunic was straight, and

that the garland on her head contained no withered leaf--for this might

be considered a most unfortunate omen. She was still fingering her

daughter when there was a clatter of yellow wheels outside, a prancing

of glossy steeds on the hard pavement, and Ribâta, in his most

resplendent chariot, drew rein at the door of the tenement of Ut.

Beltani's pride knew no bounds. She saw in her heart how every soul in

the neighborhood was eagerly peering out from its corner to look at her

door, where, this time, no mere steward-collector of rent had stopped,

but my lord of them all, in golden attire, was come to pay them a visit.

As he dismounted from the vehicle and entered the room, Beltani was

nearly on her knees to him, though Ramûa, from her dark and shadowy

corner, shrank back as far as she could. Charmides, scowling bitterly,

and so pale that his face made a white spot in the gloom where he sat,

clenched his two fists, but made no sound. Bazuzu's fingers dropped from

his work, while he craned his neck to examine the enemy.

Ribâta saluted his hostess in his most elegant manner, asked carefully

after her welfare, wished her health and fortune in the name of

Bel-Marduk, and then casually, without too much interest, inquired for

the object of his quest.

"The fair one, the Lady Ramûa, the flower of my heart, let mine eyes

behold her, O mother of lilies!" said he, with a manner that matched his

words.

"Ramûa!" called Beltani, gently--"Ramûa, greet thy lord!"

The girl, trembling like a frightened rabbit, the fire of despair

burning in her large eyes, rose from her place and came haltingly down

the room. Never, perhaps, had she been more beautiful than in this

wretched hour. Charmides knew it. Ribâta, who watched her every move,

gave perceptible signs of pleasure. Bowing before her as he might have

bowed to the queen of Babylon, he lifted one of her cold and unresisting

hands to his lips. It had scarcely reached them when, with a suddenness

that startled Ribâta, Ramûa's hand was snatched away. She was pushed

violently backward, and my Lord Bit-Shumukin found himself eye to eye

with Charmides of Doric Selinous.

The Greek was choking with rage, with excitement, with biting jealousy.

For a moment after his act he could not speak. Ribâta regarded him with

frowning amazement. He said nothing, however, till Charmides, with a

convulsive breath, opened his lips and began, very quietly:

"My Lord Ribâta--"

"Knave!" thundered my lord, finding his voice. "Out of my way!" He

lifted his hand to strike, but Charmides rather nonplussed him by

awaiting the blow without a movement. He merely stood, white-faced and

unflinching, looking Ribâta in the eyes.

"My Lord Ribâta," he repeated, still more gently, "I beg you as a man,

as one of the judges of the Great City, to hear me. This lady whom you

would purchase for gold to be your slave is my promised wife."

"Are you wedded?" asked Ribâta, quickly.

"No, no, no!" screamed Beltani, shrilly, hurrying forward.

"No," admitted Charmides, with that extreme of calm that held Ribâta's

attention in spite of himself. "No. She is but my promised wife."

"He lies, my lord!"

"But can I see her whom I love taken from me without one word? Nay,

verily, it must be over a lifeless body that Ramûa goes to you."

It was all the plea that Charmides could make; yet perhaps it had stood

him in good stead if Beltani had not been there. She, flashing-eyed and

furiously angry, cried loudly:

"My lord! My lord! This man lies! He is no suitor to my daughter. She

shall not call him lord though you cast her away. I say it, and I am her

mother. Behold, he came a stranger into my house, and I sheltered and

fed him. Thus does he repay the charity. My lord, wilt thou take Ramûa?"

Ribâta listened to her quite as attentively as to Charmides. The

situation puzzled him not a little. Many and varied as his experiences

had been, he had never met with one like this. His official nature, as

one of the judges of the royal court, came up and stood him in good

stead now. Having heard both sides of the case, he turned, for

corroboration of the one or the other, to the principal factor in the

whole matter--Ramûa herself.

"Maid, what sayest thou to all this? Wilt thou come to me in peace, and

willingly?" he asked.

Ramûa's answer was not encouraging to his hopes. She moved forward a

little, still trembling, the sudden hope of release lighting up her gray

pallor. She did not reply to the question in words, but sank to her

knees on the floor at Ribâta's feet, her hands upraised and clasped, the

pleading in her face too easy to read. Not Beltani's daughter, this.

Ribâta gazed at her in pronounced admiration. Suddenly he coughed,

turned on his heel, and began to pace up and down the narrow space

before the door, head bent, brows contracted. Charmides knew well enough

all that was in his heart, but he mightily feared the outcome of the

debate. Nevertheless, the very fact that there could be a debate

considerably raised Ribâta in his estimation. Even as he thought,

Charmides prepared himself for a further and greater struggle. If Ribâta

decided against him, if Ramûa went forth with the man, it should be, as

he himself had said, over his, Charmides', dead body. Therefore he

quietly loosened from its place the short, broad knife that had

travelled with him from home, and with this in his right hand, lying

along the under-side of his wrist, he stood leaning against the door,

watching the death of the bright sunset in the west, the gay chariot

with its rearing horses in front of the door, and, finally, the group in

the room with him. No one spoke. Ribâta alone moved.

At length my lord's head gave a quick jerk, and he turned briskly

towards Beltani:

"Mother of fair women, is thy daughter Ramûa ready to follow me? There

lie in my chariot certain bags of golden coin that I have brought for

thee; not that these could be any payment for a thing so priceless as

thy child; but they shall go to show the love that I bear thee for her

sake."

Beltani grew radiant. Here, certainly, was no indetermination. "Ramûa!"

she cried. "Go thou instantly to my lord! He will take thee into the

land of happiness."

Ramûa obeyed her mother's words by moving swiftly to Charmides' side,

laying one light hand on his arm, and saying, quietly: "Behold my lord!

Him will I follow forever, into Mulge and Ninkigal, or up to the silver

sky, as Marduk decrees."

Charmides, looking into her face, smiled at her with his soul in his

eyes. Then he turned again to Ribâta. "My lord," he said, "thou hearest.

Thou wilt not take her from her heart; and her heart is with me."

"By Nebo and Bel, I will take her!" cried Ribâta, furious at last. "Do I

not buy her? She is my chattel. You, foreigner, can, at my word, be

slain like a dog!" With a heavy stride, and a mien that had more than

menace in it, he strode over to where Ramûa stood cowering at Charmides'

shoulder.

He had put out his arm to grasp her, and the knife became visible in

Charmides' hand, when suddenly there was a faint exclamation from the

other end of the room, and a little figure came running forward, and

projected itself in a heap at Ribâta's feet.

My lord paused and looked down into an elflike face, with a pair of

wide-open, black eyes, and a little mouth of rosy hue, parted just so as

to show a row of snowy teeth. Masses of unbound hair hung loosely around

her head and neck. Beneath her tattered vestment the lines of a

remarkably graceful little body could be discerned. Ribâta, looking at

her steadfastly for a moment, found something in her face that caused

his own to relax its unpleasant expression.

"Thou art--Baba--!" he said, with a recognizable imitation of her way of

speaking, and an ensuing grin at his success.

"My lord remembers!" said Baba, with every appearance of coquettish

delight.

Ribâta laughed as he touched a scarlet rose on his embroidered tunic. "I

remember--sprite," he said.

"My lord, I am Baba, the sister of Ramûa. I have no lover nor husband.

Behold, were my lord to ask it, I am my lord's. Let him take me in

Ramûa's place for half the gold that he offers for her!"

Ribâta, Beltani, Ramûa, most of all Charmides, stared at Baba in open

amazement at her shameless suggestion. All of them judged her exactly

according to her words. Only one in the room guessed at the real reason

for this unparalleled act, and he, knowing that reason, wept and loved

her. Bazuzu, who had long ago realized the great, concealed sorrow in

her life, was capable now of appreciating her unbounded devotion, and in

his secret heart he hated Ramûa for the innocent part that she played in

this pitiable drama.

Ribâta, his thoughts quite turned out of their angry channel, looked for

a long time down into the lively, witchlike face, and finally a smile

parted his severe lips.

"Good Beltani, hearest thou thy daughter?"

"My lord, I have heard her," returned the woman, in a subdued fashion,

not sure that Baba had not found the real solution of their difficult

problem.

"And thy words, woman?"

"May my lord accomplish his will," she replied, disclaiming all further

responsibility.

My lord, who by this time began to find himself not absolutely certain

of his will, bit his lip and looked thoughtfully from Baba to Ramûa, and

back again. The goat-girl sat at his feet, curled up like a kitten, her

eyes staring unwinkingly into his face, her lips pressed together in

apparent anxiety. Her whole _ensemble_ struck Ribâta as peculiarly

pleasing. Ramûa was hiding her face from his gaze, and certainly her

figure was not so graceful as that of her sister. Baba was not pretty,

in the correct sense of the word; but Baba, he felt, would not weep for

another in his presence.

"Straighten thy garments, bold one, and rise up. Thou shalt come with

me," he said, suddenly, with a half shrug of the shoulders.

Ramûa quivered, whether with delight or displeasure she scarcely knew.

At any rate, it was not to Baba that she turned. Baba was strange to

her, all of a sudden; was some one to pity, perhaps, but also to be

ashamed for. Her good-bye to her sister was reluctant and very gentle,

but not warm. Beltani, satisfied, now that one daughter had found wealth

and the other a husband, kissed her little one light-heartedly. Black

Bazuzu pressed his lips to each of her bare feet, feeling her quite as

worthy of the homage as his sovereign could be. Last of all, on her way

out of the house of her childhood, Baba passed Charmides. His blue eyes

looked into hers for an instant with an expression of puzzled distaste.

She had won for him his life's happiness. This was all his thanks. Baba

knew his mind, and a dull, half-human smile crept over her face--a smile

that Ribâta would not have thought pretty had he been watching her just

then. On the threshold of the door, however, Zor was standing; and as

she perceived her goat, which she had always loved better than she loved

herself, she suddenly seized the creature by its silken hair and gave it

a wrench that drew from Zor a long bleat of indignation. Ribâta,

catching this proceeding on the part of his new possession, laughed

deeply. Here, at last, was something original.

Day had crept in upon Baba in her new home before, at last, she could

turn her face to the wall of her luxurious prison-house, and wail out

her little agony alone, in the pale, golden light of the new dawn.

IX

BABYLON BY NIGHT

Baba's departure into her new life left an unexpectedly large gap in the

household of the tenement. The child's personality had been very strong;

and though she had been little heard, little seen even, she had been

much felt. Charmides especially found this true. He had always believed,

when he played and sang for himself at home, that Ramûa's presence had

given him the support of understanding and sympathy. He was scarcely

willing to admit, even to himself, that, in the absence of Baba, the

pleasure of improvisation had materially lessened. Baba's action in

going to Ribâta he still misunderstood. But as time passed and the want

of her was as strong as ever, she came gradually to assume in his mind a

place that she had dreamed of filling but had never hoped to attain.

Though Baba was at liberty to visit her home, if she chose, during the

four or five hours at mid-day, when her lord would never demand her

presence, she had the strength to withstand the temptation, knowing that

by such visits her unhappiness would be greater than ever. Her

homesickness was pitiable enough. She managed to conceal it from the

eyes of the curious very well. Her tears would never flow when any one

was near. But by day and by night the iron entered into her soul; and as

day followed day, the weight of the hours past, and yet more the presage

of those to come, crushed her spirit with a merciless slowness. Baba was

too young to realize the healing power of time, how it bears

forgetfulness on its kindly wings, how its shadow becomes finally a

shield by which the keen daggers of remembrance are blunted and turned

aside. She did not know that the human soul can suffer only so far. Her

capacity seemed infinite. She appeared to have entered into an eternally

dreary land, the boundless valley of shadow. She wept till tears were

gone. Day renewed the misery that night confirmed. Finally, when she had

come to dream wildly of death as the one desirable thing, the limit of

her unhappiness was reached and the tide turned. The beginning of the

change for the better was made by the appearance of Zor, her beloved

goat, who had mourned for her mistress so continually that life in the

neighborhood with her became impossible, and finally Bazuzu carried the

creature to the gates of Ribâta's palace, and commanded the magnificent

slaves of the portal to carry it instantly to the Lady Baba. The Lady

Baba being, at the moment, an unconscious but none the less real power

in my lord's household, Bazuzu was obeyed with alacrity, and the eunuch

that led the animal into the court-yard, where Baba lay alone upon her

cushions, could only stand in open-mouthed astonishment to see that lady

run forward, screaming with delight, throw her arms about the animal's

neck, and clasp it to her heart with a warmth that my lord had never

discovered in her.

Zor herself baaed with joy; and, having completely forgotten the

anything but affectionate parting of two weeks before, put her nose to

her mistress' cheek and loudly sounded her pleasure.

Baba always remembered this meeting as the first ray of light in her

gloomy existence. Little by little, now, the luxury of her new home

began to grow more worthy in her eyes, when she contrasted it with the

squalor of her childhood's home. Little by little, as the feeling of

silken garments became more familiar, she lost the craving for her rags,

and the hair that could fall in unrebuked tangles round her face. The

courts, the halls, and the rooms of Ribâta's beautiful abode, no longer

looked vast, barren, and tomblike to her eyes. Ribâta himself was not an

object of terror now. He had always been gentle, always kind, with her.

This, long ago, she had begun to realize. And now, at length, a visit to

the tenement began to seem possible--desirable. Bazuzu, indeed, had come

to see her more than once, to bring her her mother's love, and to say

that she and Ramûa would see her as soon as she could come. Ramûa was

very busy and very happy. Her wedding with Charmides was to be

celebrated before the first rains of Tasritû (September), and it was now

well along in Ulûlu, the last of summer. Baba heard the news without

surprise, but determined to wait till the knot was tied before she went

back to see her home.

The time came soon enough. It was not quite three months after the

Greek's first sight of the Great City that he took up that city as his

abode for life, bound to it by every tie that can bind a man to his

home. Throughout his wedding-day, with its quaint ceremonies and its

high feasting, Charmides' mind was upon his mother and her distant land.

Could she only know his wife, see her for an hour, behold her pretty

gentleness, and read her great love for him, Charmides felt that Heraia

would rejoice with him. But, as it was, through this, the most important

day of his life, the youth was rather silent and grave, save when Ramûa

looked at him with her shy, inquiring smile.

The wedding ceremony was long and fatiguing. It meant prayer and

purification in the morning before the assembled images of the gods.

Then there was the procession to the nearest temple, the signing of

contracts, the giving of Ramûa's hard-won dower by Beltani, and

Charmides' reverent pledge to support, protect, and cherish his wife so

long as she should remain faithful to him. Then his wrist and hers were

bound together with a woollen cord, a prayer was chanted, there was a

great blare of trumpets and clashing of cymbals, a public proclamation

that Charmides had taken unto himself Ramûa, the daughter of Beltani of

the tenement of Ut, and then, at last, the sacrifice. The chief portion

of the animals slaughtered was carried to the house of the bride for the

wedding feast, which lasted as long as the food held out.

Not till early evening did Charmides find himself alone. The guests had

departed, and Ramûa and her mother were up-stairs in the little room

that Charmides had taken for Ramûa and himself on the top floor of the

tenement. The Greek seated himself on a stool in the door-way of the

living-room, watching the sunset, that poured, a river of living gold,

over the lane and square before him. The thought of Sicily and his

family there was with him still; and he tried, for a little while, to be

alone by the sea with his parents and his brother. With all his soul he

prayed to Apollo for happiness in the new life, for forgiveness of any

past wrong, for a blessing for his wife, and a continuous renewal of

their love for each other. Then between him and Ramûa came the thought

of little Baba. Her life was dishonorable, despicable, in his eyes; yet

it was she that had saved him either from a great crime or the loss of

that that was dearest to him. Did she know of her sister's wedding? If

she knew, why had she not come to it? There was no telling. But, in any

case, he thought of her very kindly to-night, as he sat alone with the

gathering dusk.

Charmides' head was bent with abstraction and he was no longer looking

at the square before him. Presently a four-footed creature ran against

his knee and laid its head there. He looked up quickly, to find Zor at

his side and Baba in the square. She came towards him through the

twilight like a wraith, in her trailing, silken garments, with her hair

piled up on her small head in a crown of black braids fastened with

wrought golden pins. Beneath the dark hair her face looked very pale and

pointed. It was infinitely different from the face he had known. There

was no longer anything of the child in it. The elf-look was gone. In its

place was an expression of gentle weariness, of patience, of

long-suffering that affected the Greek strangely. As she came closer he

looked her full in the eyes, and, with one of his old, shining smiles,

held out both hands to her.

Baba had steeled herself to meet any greeting, but this was the one that

came nearest to breaking down her self-control. She managed to answer

the look steadily; and no one, least of all Charmides, could have

dreamed how her heart was bleeding. She gave him her hands, and he saw

what she carried in one of them.

"For Ramûa's bridal," she said, placing on his knee a long, golden chain

of Phoenician workmanship. It was far more valuable than anything Ramûa

had dreamed of possessing; and Charmides, examining the fine work on the

metal links, said so to her.

Baba dropped her eyes. "It was from my lord to me," she said. "But it is

my hand that brings it to Ramûa. Thou wilt let her wear it--for

me--Charmides?" The tone was doubtful.

Much as he might not have desired it, the Greek could not refuse her.

"Ramûa is above. Go thou and make thy costly gift to her thyself, Baba."

Baba bent her head, accepting the dismissal with the unquestioning

obedience that she had had instilled into her all her life through.

While she mounted to her sister, to hear the tale of that sister's

perfect happiness, Charmides sat him down again, the current of his

thoughts quite changed; his dreams all of the new life, no longer of the

old.

One week and then another passed away. The rains had come upon the land,

and all Babylon rejoiced that the fiery summer was over. Wonderful and

terrifying were these rains. Sometimes, for six hours at a stretch, the

skies would open wide, and all the waters of the upper air descend upon

the earth in such floods that, by the time they had passed away, and

Ramân and his demons ceased to scourge the souls in Ninkigal, Babylon

would lie quivering in mud, her brick huts melted into shapeless

puddles, her drains overflowing with water and refuse, her river tearing

along through its high-bricked banks, threatening to inundate all

Chaldea, from Cutha to the gulf. And yet--one short day of sunshine and

the Â-Ibur and all the squares were dry again; the canals flowed soberly

between their banks; the troops of beggars, children, and dogs came out

from their lurking-places, and homeless ones gathered their scant

furniture out of the muddy ruins and began the yearly task of rebuilding

their unstable homes.

The days were growing short, and Charmides, whose work at the temple

occupied more time than formerly, while his salary had correspondingly

increased, frequently walked home at the very end of twilight. One

evening, during the first days of Arah-Samma (October), the young Greek,

who had been detained by a special sacrifice in honor of the full moon,

was wending his way homeward by its light. His steps were slower than

usual and betrayed the reluctance that he felt. His mood was arbitrary.

For the first time since his marriage, for the first time in his life,

perhaps, Charmides felt a great craving for masculine society. The idea

of the eternal supper with Ramûa and her mother, the evening spent in

hearing his wife discourse upon effeminate matters, or in poetry of his

own making, palled upon him. Were there a single man in all this city

whom he could call comrade, Ramûa might have waited for him in vain

to-night. So at least thought Charmides, as he loitered along in

childish ill-humor; and either Sin or Apollo must have read his heart.

Presently, as he came to a turn in the way, he espied, just emerging

from a door on the left, a whilom familiar figure, bandy-legged,

crook-shouldered, with spotless white cap and tunic, and a walk by which

he would have been recognized at the end of the world. Without

perceiving Charmides, he turned towards the south. But the Greek, his

heart leaping with pleasure, darted forward and grasped the little

fellow by the shoulder.

"Hodo!" he cried, in Phoenician. "Hodo! Dost thou forget me?"

"By Nebo, my little Greek!" shouted Hodo, blinking violently once or

twice, and then opening his eyes wide with delight. "Well, my Greek!

Still in Babylon? And how? And where? I will turn my steps in the way of

thy going."

"They go in mine already. Come you home with me, Hodo, and greet my

wife."

"Wife--_wife_! Horns of Bel! Why, Greek, thou art the wonder of my

heart! 'Home'--to thy 'wife'! Who may she be? Thou hast not won the

goddess over?"

Charmides flushed, but did not lose his temper. "Come you home and eat

of my bread, and behold the light of Ramûa's eyes."

"Oh, ay. Give you thanks. I will in happiness break bread with you.

Then, later, come you out with me where I am going--to the temple of the

false Istar. Let us behold the witches who wander abroad; the vultures

that snatch at the bodies of the fallen in the pale beams of Sin; and

the vampires and ghouls that haunt the Great City by night. The Lady

Ramûa will sleep soundly enough for this only time."

Charmides laughed blithely. "Verily, 'tis what I would do, Hodo. Babylon

by day I know all too well. But Babylon by night--often have I heard of

the Îgigî and the bat companions of Mulge. Together we shall behold

them. Now yonder is the tenement of Ut, wherein I dwell."

"Aha! Near to Ribâta's palace. Is thy wife awaiting thee?"

"It is Ramûa in the door-way there, with the jar upon her head."

"By Nebo and Bel, a slender lass!"

As the two men arrived at the door Charmides introduced his wife to his

friend; and Ramûa, for Charmides' sake, greeted the grotesque little

creature with cordial if modest hospitality. Beltani hurried forth to

purchase a river-fish from the nearest vender, and this was hastily

cooked for supper, along with the usual sesame. These things, and the

milk, figs, and dates, they ate in-doors; for, though the moon still

shone brightly, none could say that in fifteen minutes a hurricane might

not be raging. Ramân was fickle, and, in the rainy season, he was the

supreme god of the skies.

Hodo seated himself delightedly at Charmides' table. Here, indeed,

thought he, was a miracle: that a fellow scarcely attained to manhood,

ignorant of every detail of the life and the language of a people also

new to him, should have entered the gates of the greatest city in the

world, and in four months find himself master of a household, earning a

creditable income, and should at the same time have won for a wife one

of the most delightful young women that the little Borsipite had ever

seen. Ramûa, in fact, with one long-lashed glance, had completely

conquered him. The crooked little man forgot his food in the interest of

observing what went on around him; and only by the noble efforts of

Beltani was the conversational ball kept moving, however fitfully and

unevenly. Ramûa, shy and a little nervous at this first tax on her young

matronhood, said almost nothing, but managed that Bazuzu should keep

every plate and cup filled without putting too severe a strain on the

diminutive larder. It never occurred to Charmides to watch the food, nor

to be in the least ashamed of their open poverty. His Greek nature was

too primitive for that. He was decidedly sorry when the meal came to an

end, and Ramûa, making the proper salutations, followed her mother into

the inner room, leaving Charmides and the guest to divert themselves as

best they might.

"Thy wife--does she dance?" inquired Hodo, hopefully, when they were

alone.

Charmides shook his head. "No. Had she the aptitude, I should forbid it.

A dancing-woman is not for a man's wife."

Hodo sighed, nodded, and seated himself resignedly, while Charmides

moved over to the door and looked out upon the night. Presently he

darted out and up the stairs, to return a moment later wrapped in a

voluminous cloak of dark stuff: an article never unacceptable at this

time of year. Re-entering the room, he turned eagerly to his friend.

"Come, Hodo! Now let us go forth into the city, up to the temple of the

false Istar. For I am ignorant of all that happens within it at night.

Demons and witches I have never beheld. Come you and show them to me.

Rise up and come!"

The trader obeyed these suggestions with alacrity, there being no

further prospect of seeing Ramûa that night. Before leaving the house,

however, Charmides went to her to explain whither he was going, lest she

might lie awake for him. Like a dutiful wife, she made no protest;

though had he chosen, Charmides might have read in her eyes her little

sense of disappointment and depression. However, Charmides did not

choose. Hurrying quickly out of the house, he and Hodo crossed the

silent square and reached the bank of the canal, across which, at a

little distance, rose, like a huge shadow, the great palace of

Bit-Shumukin, where the tiny windows set high in the bright-colored

walls were marked in blotches of pale light.

Down in this quarter of the city the streets were deserted. Stillness

lay over everything. The moonlight made a fairy day, that hid all the

blemishes, the filth, the ruinous rubbish-heaps, and so beautified the

things that were shapely that one might have been walking through a city

of the silver sky. But the heavens were not perfectly clear. As the two

walkers finally arrived upon the Â-Ibur-Sabû a heavy cloud suddenly hid

Sin from their sight, and a faint growl of thunder rolled out of the

mists, coming to their ears as from a great distance. Charmides

straightened up, muffled himself a little closer in his cloak, and

turned to Hodo.

"Where find we the second Istar?" he asked, crisply.

Hodo looked at him with a little smile. "Charmides is changed since that

day that he took part in the rites of Ashtoreth," he observed, turning

towards the north.

In the darkness the Greek frowned. It was the one incident in his life

of which he could not bear to be reminded. And this--was this to put him

back into that day? It was only with an effort that he shook off a

sudden reluctance; but it passed as the moon suddenly shot a stream of

light forth from the cloud, and he looked about him. They were well

along the Â-Ibur, just opposite the royal granaries. So much the Greek

realized. But otherwise the street had a most unfamiliar appearance.

Many, many people were abroad in it: shadowy, dark-flitting forms,

whether of men or of women it would have been hard to say. Cries, vague

and incomprehensible to Charmides, yet each with its peculiar

significance among frequenters of the streets by night, came weirdly out

of the shadowy darkness. At short intervals on each side of the broad

street a string of lamps stretching above a door-way would mark the

entrance to some drinking or gambling den unknown to daylight. Into

these places muffled figures were continually passing; but few emerged.

It was yet too early for that. Charmides would have paused to look into

one or two of them, but Hodo hurried along, glancing neither to the

right nor left. Every few yards, now, the younger man was accosted by

some creature of the night, a devotee of false Istar, or a priestess of

Lil the ghost, the queen of Lilât, who was lord of darkness. Not once

did Charmides make reply to the women; but, had it not been for Hodo, he

would have liked very well to halt at some dark corner to watch more

carefully all that was going on around him.

The Borsipite knew Babylon too well to stop on so transitory and

uninteresting a site as the Â-Ibur-Sabû. Far to the north, almost under

the shadows of Imgur-Bel, near the gates of Sin and the Setting Sun, in

the square of the temple of the false Istar, all the viciousness of all

humanity was visible to every man, and was permitted, in the name of

religion, to go on between the hour of the first darkness and the gray

of dawn.

On the right side of the square, on the usual platform, but without any

ziggurat or tower near it, was the low, broad building miscalled

"temple," dedicated to the worship of the goddess of night. This

building by day was gray, silent, deserted, shut as to doors and

windows, open to no one. By night one would not have known it for the

same thing. Its unguarded gates were wide to any that chose to

enter--and these were never few. The hundreds of miniature apartments

that composed the interior of the place, glowed with light. In the first

of these rooms the eager or the new-comers were waylaid, while the idle

or the fastidious penetrated as near as possible to the central shrine,

where she who represented the goddess, the living substitute elected

every year on the first of Nisân, reposed in a dimly lighted grotto of

unsurpassed splendor. To her many were summoned; and one out of every

twenty, perhaps, remained. But the Chaldean visitor in Babylon that

passed five nights in the city and saw not the queen of the temple of

false Istar, was, indeed, an old and ugly man.

On the opposite side of the square stood a little row of houses, also

quiet but not utterly deserted by day. In them dwelt the orders of

witches, sorceresses, hierodules, priestesses, and vampires attached to

the far-famed and infamous temple across the square. These, like their

queen, lived by night and slept by day. Into their houses none but

members of their orders were admitted. The greatest precision was

observed in their rules of life; and the great public knew nothing at

all of the real and rather pitiable existence of these dwellers in

silent places.

These buildings were the only ones upon the square. To the north and to

the south it was enclosed by high walls pierced by as many gates as

there were streets leading into it; for no one ever had any difficulty

in getting into the place if he cared to enter it.

Finally, what was the square itself? By day it was the quietest spot in

the city. By night it was the most crowded and the most wonderful. Great

throngs of people always assembled here during the first hour of

darkness--men of every station and age; priest and lord, bondsman and

official, tradesman, shopkeeper, farmer, laborer, and soldier. All of

them were solemnly clad, and they mingled together in an inextricable

mass about the myriad bonfires that served to light the performances of

the jugglers, snake-charmers, and wizards who earned their living here.

Fanatical priestesses of Lil flitted among the people; and these women

were a very real danger, for they menaced life in a peculiar way. They

were professional vampires, whose habit it was to slip a delicate,

poisoned dagger into the vital spot below the heart of a victim, throw

themselves upon the body as it fell, and rob it, under the horrid

pretence of sucking the blood. Incredible as it is, these women were

held in superstitious reverence. No one dared resist the attack of a

vampire, through fear of becoming one of them after death. Vigilance and

flight were the only means of safety; and certainly what violence was

done did not seem enough to deter all Babylon from congregating at this

place.

As Hodo and Charmides at length ended their weary walk and entered the

square, the trader gave his companion a quick warning of the dangers

there to be encountered; and the Greek, feeling nothing but a

pleasurable thrill of excitement, placed his left hand on his not

too-well-filled money-bag, and eagerly followed his companion towards

the bonfire nearest the door of the temple. It was not easy to force a

passage through the close-packed crowd that stood here about the

performer. But with some expostulation, a good deal of elbowing, and not

a little Babylonish profanity, the two finally reached a vantage-point

whence they could watch the performance of the wonder-worker. The man

was a Hindu outcast from the Sindh, come hither only he knew how. But

from some one, somehow, perhaps by aid of his own mystical religion, he

had learned a profession that could not but win him a living, wherever

he might be. Charmides, who had never before heard of an exhibition like

this, looked on wide-eyed, in great delight. He was utterly absorbed in

watching a parrot come slowly forth out of a ferret's throat, when a

lithe arm slid gently around his neck. He started backward in terror.

Hodo was upon him instantly and the white arm was withdrawn, its owner

melting so quickly into the throng that Charmides could not even

recognize her. Trembling a little, with a combination of outraged

dignity and fright, the youth drew away from the scene that had now lost

its interest. Once in the more open spaces of the square, Hodo went to

one of the liquor venders who passed continually to and fro, carrying on

their backs skins of the heady liquid made from the cabbage of the

date-palm, together with various other cheap and highly intoxicating

drinks.

"Come hither, my Charmides, and drink with me!" called his guide, as he

bought a double cupful of red liquor from a little, shrivelled man with

newly filled pig-skin.

The Greek bravely accepted the invitation and lifted the cup to his

lips. He took a single mouthful of the stuff, and then poured the rest

of it quietly out upon the ground. Hodo saw nothing. He had taken his

beverage, with no joy in its flavor but with every confidence in its

happy result. Charmides was not to be outdone in good-fellowship.

Straightway he made for another vender, Hodo, grinning approval, close

at his heels; and the first performance was repeated, save for the fact

that this time the Greek paid for both drinks. Hodo was now bent upon

having too much. Charmides watched him quaff for the third time, himself

offered a fourth cup; and after that, having wasted thirty _se_ to very

good purpose, took his companion by the shoulder and remonstrated.

"Hodo, I shall leave you if you do not cease."

"Spirit of Lil, my wonder, we have but begun! The n-night is young.

Behold, Sin and his little brother ride still low in the sky.

Well--w-well! If thou wilt be foolishly wroth we will wait your most

reverent pleasure. Come now into the temple. It is time. By the battle

of Bel and Tiâmat, thou wilt win in to Istar herself, with your golden

curls and pale eyes. Come on, little Greek! By all the gods, come on!"

Once again Hodo took the lead; this time rather more crookedly than

usual, and Charmides followed at his heels, through the roaring throng,

up to the wide gates of the many-roomed house of the false Istar.

Together they ascended the platform steps, reached the threshold of the

temple itself, wavered there for an instant, like birds ready for

flight, and then plunged together into the first torch-lit passage.

Four hours later Charmides emerged alone. His cloak and his money-bag

were both gone. His tunic was rent in more than one place. His face was

whiter than Zor's milk; and his hair was in wild disorder. Heeding

little how he went, he passed down the steps again into the square. It

was nearly empty now. Jugglers and magicians were gone. The fifty fires

burned low, or were on the verge of extinction. The moon hung in the

west, and the sky was heavy with storm-clouds. The Greek staggered as

the cool darkness stole over him. In the house he had left the revelry

was at its maddest pitch. Hodo was lost in it, his companion knew not

where. Charmides himself had learned the highest form of worship of the

false goddess, for he had attained to the inmost shrine. He was young;

the flame of his fire had burned too fiercely while it burned at all;

and now the reaction had set in. Exhausted, apathetic, half fainting

from weariness, he longed for the liquor that he had refused earlier in

the night. But drink was impossible now. His money was gone. All that he

had with him he had flung into the open coffers of the great courtesan.

Now--now there stretched before him the endlessly weary homeward way,

that must be traversed on foot. At the prospect he shivered with misery.

Pausing for a moment or two to gather a little warmth for his chilled

body from the dying embers of the nearest fire, preparatory to setting

forth into the city, he saw, coming towards him out of the gloom of the

opposite side of the square, two well-robed men, one of whom he

recognized as an under-priest in the temple of Sin. They were going in

his direction, and as they passed he moved after them, that he might

keep himself awake by listening to snatches of their conversation. Both

of them were oblivious of his presence, wholly absorbed in themselves.

They did not talk at first; but a sensitive person would have realized

that they were indulging in that species of mental intercourse that

exists only for those whose hearts are bare to each other. Charmides,

even in his irresponsible condition, recognized the sympathy, but could

not, of course, partake of it. At the first spoken word, however, he

pricked up his ears and listened with all his mind. Oddly enough, he

found their topic one of peculiar interest to himself. It was the priest

of Charmides' temple who spoke.

"From Siatû-Sin I heard all the tale--all that any one knows. It is

incredible, thrice incredible, that she was cried 'mortal' by the

people."

"The people! The cattle, rather!" rejoined his companion, scornfully.

"Howbeit--howbeit--there is something strange in the story. Divine, she

knew that death was intended. _Human_, she feared it. That we know."

Kaiya shook his head impatiently. "Since Babylon knew her again, neither

Amraphel nor Beltishazzar has dared go to her."

"Amraphel, nor Daniel--nor any man. Her very priestesses, we are told,

do not see her face. The silver glory is gone from around her, they say.

Now walks she veiled in black and gold from Babylonish looms. Veiled she

sits in the mercy-seat. Veiled she receives her food. Veiled she ascends

to the ziggurat, and there passes whole days alone in meditation."

"And it is said that one standing on the ziggurat, by the door of the

sanctuary, may hear the sound of human weeping in that room."

"Istar weeping! Ho, Kaiya--thou laughest!"

"No. I say what I am told," repeated the other, seriously.

"A goddess--does not weep."

There was a little pause. The conversation had reached a point whence it

could not proceed. Neither man would make the inference implied. It was

preposterous--also unnecessary.

Presently, however, when the reverence had been strained a little,

Bel-Dur, the priest of Sin, broke into a laugh. "Love we the woman,

Kaiya?" he asked, in amusement.

Kaiya was no laggard. He whipped off his religious mood like a garment,

and went a step further than his companion. "Let us love her!" said he.

Bel-Dur turned his head to stare at his companion, and once more began

to laugh. "Why not? Is it forbidden? Let us carry comfort to the weeping

one. Let us banish her loneliness. Let us--"

"Nay, be silent, Bel-Dur, and listen to me. If she be proved a woman,

and hath thus deceived all in the Great City, let her--let her, for

punishment or reward, be removed--from one temple of Istar into the

other."

Kaiya looked swiftly over his companion's face, and then let his eyes

move farther afield. Charmides, behind the two men, listening intently,

but slow, from weariness, to understand, waited stupidly for the next

speech. Kaiya continued:

"Too long we have worshipped her as Istar to banish her now from Istar's

place. Let her be carried to the greater temple, and placed there in the

inner shrine on the golden couch of the false goddess. Eh? Say you that

I speak well?"

At these ruthless words, spoken in jest though they were, Charmides

halted. The blood poured into his brain. He clenched his hands. There

was a moment of wild impulse to rush forward and throw himself bodily on

the Zicarî that spoke. But the two figures moved on through the

darkness, and he lost the next words. Much as the priests had shocked

him, Charmides felt the greatest anxiety to hear more of their talk. He

stumbled forward again as fast as he could, and presently caught up with

them, realizing their nearness by the distinctness of their voices; for

the moon was now under a cloud, and the night was black and thick. When

he was again able to distinguish words, Bel-Dur was speaking; and the

topic had evidently shifted a long way from its previous point.

Charmides was puzzled at the first sentences.

"I do not know. Amraphel only admits the Patêsû, Sangû, and Enû

to their councils; these, and, of course, the three Jewish leaders:

Daniel and the sons of Êgibi. The men of Judea--captives, they call

themselves--will be a strong force in the uprising."

"Will this come in winter?"

"I do not know. Nothing is commonly known. Yet, in the rainy season, the

army of the Elamite could not move northward without great difficulty.

It is whispered through the temple that there are to be two armies--one

that of Kurush himself; another that of Gobryas, the governor of Gutium.

Have you heard it?"

"Whispered, yes. But nothing is sure. If this uprising were to be a

matter of three months hence, surely more would be known of it than is

known now. Everything is rumored; nothing is definite--"

"Save that Amraphel covets Nabonidus' high place--and will have it.

Belshazzar, look you, will never sit upon the golden throne of his

fathers."

"Istar being no woman--maybe Belshazzar will be proved no man."

"Then is he a demon. Nabonidus, indeed, may be a woman in man's garb, O

Kaiya. But thou wilt find Belshazzar no sluggard in war."

"Verily I believe it. Here is my house. Wilt come in to us, Bel-Dur?"

"Nay, I keep my way to the temple. There is but a short time for

purification before the auguries of dawn."

"Farewell. Amraphel be with you!"

Bel-Dur laughed at the bold sacrilege and departed towards the temple of

Sin, while the Zicarî entered into the little house of which he was a

member. Charmides was left alone in the narrow street, too weary to go

as far as the tenement, undecided as to where to turn his lagging steps

for a sorely needed shelter.

Even while he stood, fagged and drooping with sleep, at the door of the

monastery, the dawn broke. Night melted and swam before his eyes in

rivulets of misty gray. Shadowy buildings reared out of the dim light.

From the far-away came the faint howls of waking dogs. There was the gay

crow of a cock from some distant field. Then the world was still again.

The sky grew eerily clear. Charmides saw the white stars and the fallen

moon sink away into the bright heavens. Still the morning was not one of

sunlight. It was only a luminous fog that poured down from the sky in

swirls. In the midst of it the Greek shuddered with cold, and longed for

his lost cloak. Somewhere--somewhere he must go, and quickly. Somewhere

he must find shelter from the coming rain. His head throbbed. He was

wretchedly nauseated. The night that was past stretched behind him

hideously, like the tail of a loathsome reptile. All things were

distorted in his mind. He cursed Hodo for making possible for him the

night that he had secretly desired. Finally, he put away every thought

save that of physical distress, and moved forward at a crawling pace

down the narrow street, till he came to the square of the true Istar,

whose temple loomed up before him like a cloud-shadow.

The temple gates were open. As Charmides entered the grateful refuge he

found more than one wanderer asleep in the silent twilight of the holy

house, where sacrificial lights burned by day and by night. Here

Charmides also should have laid him down; but, for some inexplicable

reason, he was not satisfied with the place. His mind groped for

something else. Istar was not here; and he wished to be near her, to

feel her presence closer than it was. Following his instinct, he hurried

out of the temple and crossed the platform to the foot of the ziggurat,

on top of which, in her shrine, Istar had begun to pass her nights;

though of this fact the Greek, in his right mind, was quite unaware. He

made his way upward, round and round the thick tower, along the inclined

plane, till he had reached the top. There was the door to the sanctuary.

Across it the leathern curtain was closely pulled. Charmides went to

stand beside it, listening intently for the sound of weeping. Had not

Bel-Dur said that she wept? No sound came from within. Still, Charmides

was quite sure that his goddess was there. With a long, shivering sigh

he laid himself down protectively across the door-way, pillowed his bare

head upon the bricks, and then, all numb and drowsy with fatigue and

cold, he sank into a heavy sleep.

X

THE ANGER OF BEL

Charmides was roused by an exclamation. His eyes fell open, and he found

himself gazing up into a face that for months had baffled alike his

dreams and his actual vision, and that now stood out clearly above him.

He sat hastily up, and immediately a pair of gentle hands were laid upon

his shoulders, and the most wonderful of voices said to him, sorrowfully

and in amazement:

"Rhapsode! Rhapsode! How came you here? Rise quickly from that place!"

The Greek obediently tried to scramble to his feet, but relinquishing

the attempt, he put his hands to his burning head and dizzily closed his

eyes.

"'Tis the cold!" he gasped, wretchedly.

Istar looked around her. Far below, in the square, many people moved.

But the things that took place on the ziggurat were invisible to them.

"Come thou within--into the shrine. Here wilt thou find warmth," she

said, drawing him with her own strength to his feet, and pushing back

the curtain before the door.

Charmides went with her blindly, and blindly obeyed her whispered

behests. He lay down upon her own couch, was covered over with the

costly rugs that she herself had used, and felt the human warmth of the

little place with a sense of peace and comfort.

"Oh, goddess--forgive--this profanation--of--thy--high--pla--" The

murmur ceased, and before the last word had been completed he had sunk

away to sleep, this time in a manner to recuperate his strength.

Istar of Babylon drew a stool to the side of the couch and seated

herself thereon, almost without moving her look from the face of the

youth before her. Again and again her great eyes traversed his features,

the delicate, straight brows, the white eyelids, the long, golden-brown

lashes, the short, straight nose, and that perfect mouth which, on a

woman, might well have caused another Trojan war. A face as beautiful as

ever man possessed was this, and as she watched it a great sigh, that

was like a sob, broke from her lips.

"Thou, too--thou, too, perhaps, hast been immortal!" she whispered over

him.

Charmides did not hear her. He lay like a statue, his sleep made

dreamless and perfect by the presence of her whom he worshipped. And the

face of the Greek bore the marks of a peace and content that were not on

hers. Istar the goddess, the superb, the omniscient, was no more.

Instead--Ah! There was a question that lay eternally at Istar's heart,

that she could not answer, that burned her with its insistence. Now she

bent closely and more close over her charge, seeking to forget herself

in contemplation of his beauty. The eager suppression of herself was

pitiable, for the power of her self-control showed how great was its

necessity. It was while her lashes almost touched the cheek of the

Sicilian that from beyond the curtain came the voice of a ministering

eunuch, raised in his regular morning formula:

"Belit Istar, the sacrifice is made: the meats have known the fire. A

sweet savor ascends from the consecrated flesh, inviting the goddess to

her morning repast. Let Belit Istar command her slave."

"Bring to me goat's flesh, and milk, and cakes of sesame. Let these

things be placed outside my sanctuary door. Let no one enter my shrine

this day, on penalty of my wrath."

"Belit Istar is obeyed."

Istar sat up, straight and stiff, for full five minutes after this

dialogue had taken place. She was pale with the momentary danger, the

remote possibility that the slave, contrary to custom, might have lifted

the curtain of the shrine, and, looking in, have beheld Charmides there.

And now that the eunuch had safely gone, a trembling seized her, and she

leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. The rumors that had

spread through the city concerning her were in so much true, that she

was in a state of great suffering. The world had become her wilderness.

It enclosed her now as a prison from which she could not escape, yet in

which her liberty was appalling. Her sense of omniscience, of

companionship with the infinite, was quite gone. Nothing was left

except--except what she feared as a woman, except what, as a goddess,

she cried aloud to the high God and his archetypes mercifully to spare

her. Things to which she would give no definite place in her thoughts

crushed her by day and by night with their indeterminate weight. That

the worst had not come, that a great and terrifying cataclysm, which

would rend her spirit in twain, drew day by day nearer to her, she knew

too well. And as these days, these miserable, pain-filled days, crawled

one by one away, she would fain have held them to her forever; for,

wretched as they were, they were almost happy in comparison to that that

must finally come upon her. At this moment as she leaned again over the

young rhapsode, Istar scanned his face carefully, minutely, to find a

trace of human unhappiness. And, finding none, a great envy of him and

of the life that he had found in Babylon came over her. Was it possible

that so much of joy might belong to any of God's creatures? And was she,

then, utterly forgotten? She pulled herself up with a start. _This_ was

human, this question of hers. For a moment or two she saw truly what she

had become, and a fresh wave of fear swept over her. It passed, however.

The supernatural perception was rarely with her now, and then only in

quick, reminiscent flashes. She was indeed one of those whom she had so

profoundly pitied from her dim abode; for whom she had broken the law of

her order; in whose name God had driven her forth from the realm of high

indifference into the sentient world, the world of pain.

This vague and unhappy reverie was broken in upon by the return of the

eunuch with food, which he set down outside her door. The proceeding was

unusual, and after the man's departure Istar was seized with a new fear.

What would the slave think, that she had bidden him not enter the

shrine? Would he suspect? Of all things now, she dreaded suspicion; she

dreaded being watched; she dreaded beyond measure the exposure that must

inevitably come--but not yet! Not yet for a little while! Stealthily now

she drew aside the curtain and looked out upon the narrow platform of

the ziggurat. No one was there. Upon the door-sill were two dishes of

chased gold, the one filled with steaming goat's flesh and roasted

pigeons, the other heaped with barley cakes; and the two of them were

flanked by a tall silver jar of warm goat's milk. These Istar lifted one

by one, carried them into the shrine, and set them upon the table where

her shew-bread was usually placed. Then, when the meal was safe within

and ready, she went over to where Charmides still lay motionless, and

laid her hand gently upon his forehead.

"Rise thou, Charmides," she said.

"Ramûa!" muttered the Greek. He stirred slightly. His eyes opened. Then,

suddenly realizing where he was, he leaped to his feet, stared about him

irresponsibly for an instant, and finally threw himself on his face

before Istar.

"Forgive me, my goddess! I knew not what I did!" he whispered,

terror-stricken.

Istar smiled mournfully. "You ask forgiveness for that that I bade you

do. Rise, my Greek. Eat of the food that is here. I command it."

Charmides looked quickly up. He could not deny that he was ravenously

hungry. The smell of the meats caused his nostrils to quiver, and the

sight of them did away with his reverent wish to refuse. Istar watched

him closely as he sat down to her morning meal. She herself could have

taken not one mouthful of food, but she had already had a draught of

milk; and now, urging the Greek to eat his fill, she turned aside and

sat down near the door-way, waiting in silence till the young fellow,

after a final cup of the mild beverage, wiped his dagger on his tunic,

muttered a line of grace to the gods of Greece, and rose a little

shamefacedly.

"Thou hast eaten and art filled, Charmides?" Istar asked, turning to him

quietly, with the shadow of a smile.

For answer the Greek bent his knee and bowed his head.

"And now thou goest forth again into the city?"

Charmides looked at her to read the answer that she wished him to make.

But the words on his lips were never spoken.

Istar was standing before him a little to the left of the door-way, from

which the curtain was half pulled aside. The daylight fell relentlessly

over her face and her form. It was upon her face that the Greek's eyes

rested: rested in wonder, in amazement, finally with something more than

either of those things. Was this last expression one of horror? Istar

saw the look and read it; and before its piercing inquiry she quivered.

Involuntarily she began to shrink away from him, but escape him now she

could not. Knowledge was his. There was no concealment. Then, at length,

she accepted the situation, as it was necessary that she should.

"I am a woman," she said, with a gentleness and an unconscious dignity

that nonplussed him anew. "Thou mayst not kneel to a woman, Greek. Rise

up."

"I kneel to thee, O Istar!" was his reply.

Then, indeed, her lips quivered, but with a little effort she regained

her self-control. "Go then, Charmides. Thou knowest me--now."

Charmides got to his feet, but he made no move towards departure.

Instead, after an instant's hesitation, he went a little closer to her,

and spoke as he might have spoken to Baba--Baba as she was now.

"Istar--art thou indeed the Istar whom first I beheld in Babylon?"

"Yea, Charmides. I am that Istar; yet I am not the same. Then was I more

than human. Now--less."

"Who decreed it? Who defiled thee?" he asked, as much of the air around

him as of her.

"That thou must not ask. It is what none shall ever know. Depart from me

and go thy way. Tell whom thou wilt what I am become. Not long--Ah! It

is not long when all the world must know me--as I am."

"Not from the words of my mouth, Belit," Charmides said, sadly. Then,

for a little, silence fell between them. He knew that she waited for him

to go, and yet, before he went, he felt that he must warn her of the

danger that she ran--that danger that he had learned by night. Twist it

as he might, the facts were too brutal to be made plain to her. He

flushed as he connected, even in thought, the scene of the past night

with the grave and grandly beautiful creature before him. Woman she

might be, but the mark of her godhead was on her still, could never

leave her; for no living woman, of his race or of any other, was

comparable to her. And while he thought these things she also stood

regarding him, and finally, having read half his mind, opened her mouth

and spake:

"Charmides, tell me thy thoughts. I will bear with them."

He grasped the opportunity eagerly: "O Belit, I must warn thee--warn

thee against all the priesthood, those of every temple and house in the

city. They threaten thee with untellable disaster. Watch them, lady, and

take heed to thyself. Beware whither thy steps lead thee, what things

thou turnest thy hands unto. They watch thee with numberless and unholy

eyes. They mean great wrong."

"If they will bring me death, I welcome it gladly."

He shot a glance at her that caused her suddenly to drop her eyes. Then

he said, quietly: "It is not death. Ah, Istar, do not ask its horror. I

myself would deal thee death with my right hand to save thee from it."

Istar shuddered.

"Belit, know this. When comes the day of thy trial, if thou wouldst seek

shelter from the pursuers, ask to be taken to the palace of Lord Ribâta

Bit-Shumukin, on the canal of the New Year. There, at the gate, demand

the presence of the Lady Baba. Baba will conduct thee to the home I live

in. It is very lowly, but in it thou shalt find safety. Thou wilt

remember this?"

"Truly, Charmides, thou deservest all happiness!" she said, impulsively,

coming nearer to him.

He bowed his head. "For thee I came to Babylon. Through thee my heart

has found its home. Therefore, when thou shalt ask it of me, my life it

is thine."

With this, then, and a last puzzled look at her, he went forth to his

much-belated temple duties.

Istar, once more left alone, turned slowly back into her shrine. The

little interlude that had broken in upon her loneliness made her shrink

from the pall that waited to overwhelm her again. Thereafter the one

hour of Charmides' presence remained like a little golden disk in the

memory of her solitary months. But now the momentary sense of

companionship was too terribly contrasted with the melancholy of her

solitude. Hurriedly covering herself with a great, silver-woven,

heavy-meshed veil, she left her retreat in the upper morning and left

the ziggurat for her dwelling-place behind the temple.

She did not see her sanctuary again for seven months. It was not that

she felt any reluctance about entering it. Simply, her apathy had become

such that she was incapable of the physical effort necessary for the

ascent of the tower. Once a day she took her place in the mercy-seat in

the temple. All the remaining time she spent in the inmost court of her

particular suite of rooms, or in the miniature apartment where she was

accustomed to sleep. She reclined generally at full length, doing no

work of any kind, her eyes shut, the heavy veil shrouding her figure but

thrown back from her face, her body perfectly motionless, her very

thoughts apparently at rest. Her attendants watched her, wondering at

the great change that was working upon that formerly magnificent

personality. And through these same temple-slaves, eunuchs, and

hierodules, strange rumors concerning the once universally worshipped

goddess continued to fly abroad through the city. Certainly there

appeared to be little enough of the divine about this weak, ill woman;

though why the change had come none of those connected with her had the

faintest idea.

These were the days of Istar's wandering in the wilderness. Pain, mental

and physical, she learned in every stage, from slight discomfort to

nerveless agony. Each morning she woke with the prayer in her heart that

night might bring the end of it all, yet knowing well that her end was

far away. Her old, archetypal world became gradually more and more

indistinct to her memory, till she had all but forgotten it. Her one

wish, that she dared not utter, was for annihilation. Yet this would

involve a sin that she could not but recognize as unpardonable; for

Istar of Babylon bore within her another life, a life that was, as yet,

part of her, that by natural law was hers to cherish, that she could not

love, that she dared not hate. And it was the day when this new life

should take unto itself individuality that she lay dreading through all

those dreary months, from the death of summer to Airû, when the new

spring came to Babylon.

The fall of Istar was accomplished. This, by day and by night, she cried

to herself, in her agony of self-mortification. It seemed to her that

the wheel of the law was the most merciless of all ordained things. The

former dead-alive existence of her godhead seemed holy, now that she

could know it no more. The very present, indeed, unendurable as it was,

was infinitely better than what was to come. As a matter of fact, her

extreme dread of the future was very near to turning her brain, for at

every hour she lived the moment of discovery, till, at times, she was

like to go mad with it, and to disclose it all, then and there, and so

have done with it.

There were two or three of her priestesses who realized, through many of

her symptoms, her mortal state; and these were very tender to her in

this time of her trial. From their lips no word of her condition reached

the outside world. The underlings, only, talked; and it was from

underling to Zicarî, Zicarî to Pasîsû, Pasîsû to Sângî, and so to the

Patêsi at last, that distorted accounts of Istar's life and suffering

passed rapidly in the late autumn. And these rumors quickly reached the

ears of the three people who had the strongest personal interest in

Istar of Babylon. Two of them were her enemies, bitter, unscrupulous,

and powerful. These two were also closely connected. But, while one knew

perfectly the mind of the other, and each knew that the greatest desire

of the other's political life was Istar's ruin, yet, while matters

slowly ripened and daily grew more absorbing, the subject of the

approaching disgrace of the whilom goddess was never once opened between

them. Amraphel of Bel, from his palace on the Â-Ibur-Sabû, and Daniel of

Judea, from his humble house south of the canal of the Prophet, in the

Jews' quarter, watched, planned, listened, read each other's hearts, and

bided their time, in the way peculiar to those that know well their

world. The time for action would come, and without any planning on the

part of either of them. But when it did arrive there must be no bungling

of the affair.

Only one little thing in the case, as these two considered it, failed to

assume its proper proportion in the perspective of their reasoning. The

cause of Istar's undoing was as much a mystery to them as it was to the

lowliest kalî in Istar's temple. Both Amraphel and Daniel had long ago

ceased to reckon Belshazzar as a factor in this affair. The old

suspicion had been a mistake--an incomprehensible mistake. The prince

royal went no more to the temple of the goddess, never spoke of or to

her, gave rather all his time to affairs of state; which at this moment

sorely needed the firm will and the strong hand that he alone, of all

his house, possessed.

It was well enough that Amraphel could not read Belshazzar's heart.

There was indelibly written what would have startled that reverent man

out of all his omniscient composure. For if Istar mourned unceasingly

the loss of her godhead, Belshazzar, of the house of the Sun, mourned

the loss of her to his life as he would hardly have mourned the fall of

that kingdom that was dearer to him than his life. After the strange

return from Erech, he had gone daily for two months to Istar's temple,

and had sought by entreaty, threat, prayer, and imprecation, to be

admitted to her. And again and again, and yet again, had he been

refused, till finally he turned his thoughts to the life of his city.

But by this means she was not taken from his heart. By night he dreamed

of her, and by day, when she was as far from him as the sun, as near as

his children, as unapproachable as the silver sky, she was forever a

sub-consciousness in his thoughts.

Thus passed, unhappily and uneventfully, the long winter months of the

last year of Nebuchadrezzar's Babylon. In the first week of Airû

(April), Belshazzar determined finally to reach Istar's presence. The

stories of her condition had of late become alarming, and in the depths

of his heart he had begun to dread what had never occurred to him

before--the possibility of her death. The mere thought left him

agonized, and he felt himself unable to keep away from her longer.

It was late in the morning--a glowing morning in Babylon's fairest

month--when he left the palace on foot, clad in a dark mantle that

completely covered his head and his figure, rendering him unrecognizable

to any but his closest companions. He chose this hour for going because

he knew that now Istar's vitality would be strongest, and he dared not

give her the shock of seeing him at a time when she would be especially

weak. The matter of his admission to her dwelling had been arranged by

Ribâta the week before, through hirelings whom he had kept in the temple

precincts for some months past. Unnoticed by any one, then, the prince

arrived at the bronze door of the building behind the temple. It was

instantly opened, wide enough to permit of his passing through; and

inside stood a veiled woman, who, after a silent acknowledgment of his

rank, led the way through the succession of courts and passages to a

closely curtained door-way.

"Belit Istar is within," she whispered. Then on the instant she turned

and glided swiftly away.

For the moment Belshazzar stood trembling upon the threshold. His dread

was evenly matched with his fever. The throbbing of his heart sent the

blood pounding through all his arteries. His hands grew cold and

useless. The effect on him of the mere thought of beholding this woman

again was something that he did not pretend to understand. Women,

ordinarily, were little enough to him. But _this_ woman--she who was

hidden from him by the single fold of an embroidered curtain--this woman

made his earth and his heaven, his soul, his brain, his body, and his

blood. Go to her it seemed he could not, for very desire. Once his hand

moved forth to lift the curtain, but it fell again to his side. His head

whirled. Long as it was since he had seen Istar, yet the picture of her

as she had lain unconscious in his arms on the morning of the fall at

Erech, came again before him to the smallest detail--perfect, finished,

immutable. He felt her weight, he beheld the living pallor of her flesh,

he saw the heavy-fringed eyelids close over the eyes that lighted his

world. She would live so in his mind forever. Now--he was about to turn

away, to leave her alone in peace.

So far there had been no sound in the room beyond. But just as he was

about to depart there came to his ears some words spoken in her

voice--her low, exquisite voice, now so weary and so much weaker than it

had been of old. The words reached him distinctly; and instantly they

caught his attention. The spell of his reluctance was broken, and all

the fire of his eagerness blazed up at the first syllable spoken by her.

Quickly he lifted the curtain and stepped out of the sun-flooded court

over the threshold of the dimly lighted room. Istar was on her knees

before him, her back turned to the door, her head bowed, her long, black

veil trailing on the floor around her. Her voice was lifted in prayer,

the first words of which had caught his attention, and held him

spellbound by means of the sweet, forlorn monotony of her tone, the ring

of yearning, of pathos, of utter hopelessness indescribably felt through

all the rhythmical cadences, till Belshazzar bent his head in helpless

pity over her incomprehensible plight.

Thus, in the unmusical Babylonish syllables, ran her psalm:

"_God of all gods, of men and of ages, of time and of tears: Creator of

rivers, Divider of seas, accept of the homage I proffer at noon._

"_The winds Thou hast hushed for my peace have obeyed Thee. The sun's

golden glory of mid-day is Thine._

"_Father of lowliness, High-priest of sorrow, mighty and powerful; Lover

of children, in mercy merciless, piteous in justice; raise me from

flesh, above wrong, to communion with spirits of heaven._

"_My body before Thee is bended. My face is uplifted in prayer that is

pure._

"_Love all unholy by night I admitted. Yea, I have loved love for Sin's

sake, rejoicing in earth-begot passion. Godhead I lost; and desire for

goodness departed. Now in the hour of trial, homeward I come to my

Father at noon; no more in fear to approach Him, believing His mercy

omniscient. Home come I, washed in my tears._

"_Lord of the noon, my Begetter, absolve me!_

"_Lord of the sun, of the well-flowing river, receive me that offer Thee

praise._

"_Lord of the world and of children and angels, bequeath me forgiveness

of sin._

"_Lord of all lords, from Thy home grant me peace everlasting. O Amanû,

Thou on High._"

"Amanû," came the soft echo of a masculine voice from behind her.

With a gasp that resembled a sob, Istar faced about, still on her knees.

In turning, she drew the heavy veil that had hung around her close over

her face, so that, to any one but him who looked at her, she would have

been unrecognizable. Belshazzar, indeed, confronted by the black mask,

felt his speech suddenly suppressed within him. His cloak had fallen to

his feet, and he stood revealed in all the splendor of his strength and

royal beauty. But before her he was powerless to act. He left the

situation helplessly to her.

Istar herself, for the moment, was stunned. In that first minute that

she looked upon him again, the world around her grew gray and

indistinct. Her cold body trembled. In her dry throat a sob struggled to

come forth. But in her heart--ah, who would have believed it!--was

rising a great, overweening joy. God had heard her! God sent the answer

to her prayer--such an answer as she had not dreamed of. Yet she knew

that the Comforter was come. In this thought Istar loosened the veil

again and took it from her head, so that her face, white, thin,

great-eyed, mournful, and still divinely perfect, was revealed to him.

"Istar!" he cried, half in sudden woe at her too apparent illness, half

still in passionate admiration. He had seen her before with the silver

aureole gone, but now her very face, in its shining purity, was of

refined silver. "Istar!" He spoke the word tenderly, and went a little

nearer to her.

She had fixed her eyes upon his, and the painfully strained look in her

face showed him that she strove to read his mind: his purpose in coming

to her. As he approached nearer still she rose suddenly to her feet, for

one instant held the protecting veil close around her figure, and then,

still without taking her fear-stricken eyes from his face, let it drop,

and stood there revealed before him, clothed from head to heel in a

scant, straight tunic of white wool.

For an instant Belshazzar saw her stupidly. His eyes travelled over her

and suddenly he saw, and his self-control broke down. With a great,

hoarse cry of pity and of love, he rushed to her and caught her close in

both of his strong, protecting arms.

"Istar! Istar! Thou untrusting one! My beloved! Thou hast suffered alone

and told me nothing! Where was thy faith? Hast thou for an hour doubted

my love? Know you not how, in my heart, I have mourned thee, have

yearned for thee, day by day? Yea, the anger of Bel alone has kept us

apart one from the other. The very gods are jealous that I should have

thee, thou lotus-flower of the world! Speak to me, O my beloved!"

"Belshazzar! Belshazzar!" she whispered, once, twice, thrice. Then,

seeming to gain courage from the syllables of his name, she went on,

half fearfully still: "I have hardly loved thee until now. God hath

heard me, I think. But, oh! the long, rainy months! The endless days!

The eternal nights! How have I prayed to die in them, prayed with my

heart and with my lips to die."

He caught her the more convulsively in his arms. "And now?" he asked.

"Ah, now! Now is my strength restored within me! I have new courage. I

shall bear my trial now. Thou needst not fear. Suffering will be sweet,

for I no longer dread the anger of Bel--of the one God."

"Istar, are we not now as God? Together shall we not defy all? The

eleven great gods, and--high Istar herself?"

Istar of Babylon looked dazedly into his eyes. "Do you not believe on

me?" she asked, faintly.

"I believe in thy love. That is all my belief."

"But the divinity that was mine?"

He caught her a little closer. "Istar, art thou not a woman?" he asked,

gently, but inexorably.

There was a silence. Istar was making her last struggle against fate. At

the defeat her head fell heavily forward upon his breast. "Yea, I am a

woman," she muttered, faintly.

Belshazzar's lips were pressed upon her forehead. Then suddenly he

lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the couch that stood at

one end of the room. On this he laid her, and covered her over with one

of the heavy, silken shawls used for that purpose. Then he stood off and

inspected her, to see that she was comfortable.

"Lie thou there," he said, "till I return within the hour with a litter

borne by my household slaves. In thy trial I will be beside thee; thou

shalt be in my house, protected by my name, lodged as my princess. But

one hour more, and then, for all time, we shall be together!"

He spoke with perfect confidence, and, having finished his explanation,

would have departed had not Istar risen quickly from her couch and moved

towards him again.

"Gratitude be to my lord!" she said, with a faint smile. "Yet I may not

leave this temple till the hour comes. There will be a day when Bel

shall cast me forth alone into the city. But, of myself, I may not leave

the house to which the All-Father intrusted me. Nor shall mine eyes

again behold thee here. Go forth in peace, Belshazzar. My great love is

thine; and before many days I think that I must come to thee. But we

must patiently abide apart until the time. Now must thou leave me.

Farewell!"

"Istar! What is this folly that you speak! You are mine--mine to care

for, to cherish. Your suffering is also mine. I go now, but to return

again for you. Or shall I despatch one of your eunuchs to the palace

with my message? Yea, that will I do, and remain at your side till the

litter comes."

The impatient tone was such as he might have used to one of his wives,

to Khamma, to any woman who by law belonged to him. Istar heard him, but

felt no anger at the words. Her manner showed only dispassionate

self-possession.

"Belshazzar, I have spoken. Shall I say the words again? Go thou forth

in peace. When my hour comes I will turn to thee. But we must wait that

hour, for it is the will of the great Bel."

The prince royal was taken aback. This was not a woman's way, yet

neither was it after the manner of men. He tried her again, this time

more gently, with reason, with persuasion, finally with undisguised

entreaty. She did not change. The dependent Istar, Istar the

supplicator, the woman, was gone. In her place was come the oracle of

the mercy-seat. Belshazzar dared not be angered by her unchanging

assurance. In the end he acknowledged himself defeated. He could only

kneel and implore that the hour of her home-coming be soon. Then, having

held her for one moment more in his arms, he left her, wrapping the

mantle closely about him as he stepped forth again into the hot sunshine

of his new and mysterious world.

As for Istar, with the answering of her prayer she entered the land of

heart's peace. God in high heaven had not forgotten her. Belshazzar, on

earth below, waited her coming. She could feel that the day of her

suffering was close at hand, and she was fortifying herself to endure

it. Thus ten days--ten days of the fair spring--passed by. Istar's

black-veiled form was seen morning and evening on the temple platform,

and she sat in the temple regularly at the mercy-hour, but did not

ascend the ziggurat. During this time she knew but ten uneasy moments.

These were when, once each day, always, as it were, by chance, she

encountered the lean and bent figure of Daniel the Jew, who lurked,

morning and evening, about this spot. His thin, vulture-like face, with

its scrawny, gray-streaked beard, and his small, beady, piercing eyes,

haunted Istar's thoughts, and remained with her as an omen of evil; and

she shrank from him even less for herself than for some unreasonable ill

that he seemed to promise to Belshazzar, her earth-lover. Daniel never

addressed her, never failed profoundly to salute her, never remained

longer than a bare second within her sight. And she strove to put him

from her mind, and to give all of her days and nights to careful

preparation for the approaching hours of her trial.

* * * * *

On the morning of April 21st her attendants found her lying in a swoon

on her bed. She was quickly revived, and awoke to the world with a look

of such happiness in her face that her women wondered silently, and went

back to their duties rejoicing. Istar attended the morning sacrifice--a

thing that she had not done for three months past. She drank a cupful of

milk, watched the goat's flesh roasted on the altar, heard the prayers

for the morning, and extended the mercy-hour far into the afternoon. The

sun hung just above the horizon when she re-entered the court-yard of

her dwelling and called for her evening meal. With unquestioning

surprise it was brought her, and she ate of it. Then, in the mellow

evening, she said her farewell to the consecrated home where she had

dwelt so long.

As Istar left her dwelling and walked slowly towards the foot of the

ziggurat, she saw that the whole city lay in a flood of gold. Her steps

were slow and fraught with pain. As she halted at the foot of the high

tower to look upward, wondering how she should reach its top, a voice

from another sphere spoke to her and bade her hasten her steps. It was

almost seven months ago that her feet had last touched this pavement.

Then she had not been physically weak, but mentally--! She sighed as she

remembered her terror of herself and of all her surroundings. At last,

with a deep breath, she began her ascent. Up, up, and up, step by step,

while the glorified light of day's death swam before her vision and the

evening wind fanned her cheeks, while the sweet scent of the flowers

that covered the desert was borne to her by the breeze, she went, a

prayer in her heart, a resolute determination to endure bravely holding

her thoughts. Up and up she mounted, till at last the empty summit of

the tower was gained, and she stood again at the door of the room that

had seen her incarnation.

Here, on the height, Istar stopped to look out over Babylon. It

stretched around and below her like a mirage, like the vision of a

holier city, wrapped all in clouds of blinding fire. A little to the

east, near enough so that the white designs on the shining turquoise

ground-work were fairly distinct, rose, from the tufty green of the

surrounding park, the new palace built by Nabonidus, in which Belshazzar

lived. Along the east side of this building ran the bright Euphrates,

passing here the most imposing point in all its mighty course. Opposite

the new palace, on the other bank, were the two huge structures once

inhabited by Nabopollassar and his son, that greatest of Babylonish

rulers. Across from Nebuchadrezzar's former home, connected with

it by the great bridge, itself a triumph of engineering, was the

palace-crowned mound of the great one's Median queen, called by

subsequent generations "the hanging gardens." This alone of all the

unused royal dwellings was kept in repair by the present ruler. And now,

at the time of the day's highest glory, Istar's eyes eagerly sought its

fresh verdure, the tier on tier of leafy foliage that hid such

fragrances and such blossoms as she rarely saw. And while she gazed upon

the monument of a king's devotion, the lonely woman found it in her

heart to wish that she might have been that queen whose sorrows and

whose earthly joys were now so comfortably ended, whose mortality had

come to dust, whose soul enjoyed its just rewards.

Istar's eyes moved on down the river to the lower part of the city,

which consisted of acre upon acre of low, brick buildings, hardly

relieved by a single tower or raised roof, stretching in gray monotony

off to where Imgur-Bel suddenly reared its gigantic height skyward. Over

this wall and the top of its still loftier brother, Nimitti-Bel, Istar,

high as she stood, could not see. Her brick-weary eyes yearned for some

glimpse of the quiet palm-groves that lined the river-bank beyond

Babylon. Indeed, their fragrant freshness was borne up to her by the

evening wind. Closing her eyes, she saw them as, nine months before, she

had watched them from her barge on the way to Erech. And thus, while she

contemplated many things, the sunset light began to fade, the shadows

mingled together over the gray roofs and bright towers of the city.

Twilight deepened; and the moon was not yet risen. So at last Istar

turned from the far-stretching scene and lifted up the curtain of her

long-unused shrine.

She was greeted by darkness. Evidently it was many weeks since any one

had entered the little room. A fine, white dust lay sifted over the

rugs, the table, the golden chair, the couch where Charmides last had

lain. Istar looked round with a sob in her heart--a sob of pitiable

weakness and pain. It was impossible now for her to summon any

attendant. Neither had she strength to descend the ziggurat again.

Leaving the curtain pulled wide open, that she might feel some

communication with the world beyond, she went to the couch, removed the

top rug with all its dust, then let fall her veil, and offered up one

last prayer for pity and for strength before she lay down resignedly in

the night.

Twilight slowly passed across the earth and trailed away into the

beyond. Thereupon came terror of the dark, together with the first stabs

of sharp pain. She had one swift, torturing moment, and a low cry at the

strangeness of it escaped her. Then calmness returned. She was prepared,

she thought, for the rest. One moment, two, three, passed, in strained

expectation. The darkness hung around her like a covering, but the

suffering did not return. Her lips moved continually, but her brain

refused to work. It seemed to her that the night must be passing. Soon,

perhaps, she might sleep. Her eyes were closed; her mind was slipping

away into freedom, when--she started up again. It was once more upon

her, this dreaded thing; and now she knew that there was no escape. When

it had passed this time she waited, stiff and strong, hands clenched,

breath coming and going rapidly, for the return.

It came once again, and yet again, more and more swiftly, more and more

terribly. She made no sound now. Her eyes stared straight into the

blackness with the gaze of one that does not see. Here was something

that, with all her months of preparation, she was not prepared for. No

imagination could have painted this; and her loneliness but added to her

terror. From the night a thousand malignant eyes seemed fixed upon her

with the look of Daniel the Jew. Yet presently she discovered that these

eyes were stars--fair, silver stars that shone, far away, through the

open door-way. A little later the night grew luminous, and the hideous

darkness was softened and smoothed away. Pale, yellow rays shot up the

sky, dimming the stars' white radiance, banishing their gaze. It was the

moon, the blessed moon, Istar's father, who, entering the heavens, put

her tormentors to flight. The woman's thoughts were growing incoherent.

She was a little delirious. Her body was racked and torn and bruised.

The agony, too great to be realized and endured, drove her into numb

unconsciousness--an unconsciousness that was hideous with subconscious

understanding. The one thought to which she clung through all the hours

of anguish was of the morning--the merciless daylight, when the

searching sun, the discerning, prying sun, must come upon her here, must

see, must know--must disclose all to the wondering world.

The fair moonlight sickened her now. Her eyes swam and her head reeled

with its bluish light. She prayed for clouds--and rain. Rain! Water! The

thought reached her suddenly, out of the aching void. If there were only

some one--one only creature, to put water to her dying lips! She burned,

she parched, she scorched with thirst. Ah, if some one were at hand! She

tried to think of a name to call. And presently one recurred to her. She

did not stop to think over it. The syllables hung ready on her

lips--were said in a voice so faint and weak that one standing in the

door-way could not have heard them. It was a liquid word, one easy to

hear, and the only one that her mind, in its strange plight, retained.

"Allaraine!" she whispered.

A breath of cool air poured into the little room, and borne upon it was

a rosy beam that gradually suffused the bed in a delicate radiance. With

the first shedding of this light, Istar's pain suddenly ceased. Her

spirit was uplifted with the mighty relief. Her fast-shut eyes opened

again. Above and about her was open space. The roof of the shrine was

gone, and its walls also. All around there floated a vast concourse of

dimly outlined forms--millions of archetypes, borne on their outspread

wings. A chord of distant music rang down the shaft of light, and Istar

knew from whom it came. Gravely the goddess greeted her companions; yet

none returned the greeting, or seemed to recognize her presence. She

tried to go to them, but the bed remained beneath her. She was still a

prisoner. After some moments of waiting in the midst of this familiar

scene, the rainbow path into her room palpitated with fresh, living

light. The bells rang louder in her ears. One form had separated itself

from the confused mass, and became distinct to her eyes. Allaraine

dropped out of the high space, and was presently standing at her

bedside. The room closed in again. The pink light disappeared. Once more

the moonlight stole upon her. The night was sweet with the perfume of

the lotus, and Istar wept with delight. She was there alone with

Allaraine, her brother of the skies.

Through the long hours he ministered to her, holding the cup of water to

her lips, plaiting up the heavy masses of hair that swept the floor at

her side. And when the last agony came upon her, his voice held her fast

to the thread of her strange existence. Finally, at the night's end, it

was he who put into her arms the living one whom she had brought into

the world.

Bending over them both, the god blessed the child and kissed the

mother's brows before he went his way out into space, leaving behind him

a trail of song that was sweeter than the perfume of the jasmine. There,

from the spot into which he flew, the day broke, and the moon fainted on

the western horizon. Istar's heart throbbed with a great, new peace and

a human love. Life was no longer strange to her. The bringing of it

forth brought her understanding of its richness. And, as the child on

her breast lay sleeping, so at last her own eyes closed, until, while

the light brightened and the great city woke again, the soul of Istar

was at peace.

At sunrise a flood of yellow beams poured into the little room,

illuminating everything in it, throwing a halo over the motionless

figures of the mother and child on their well-ordered couch. Suddenly

the smooth light was broken by a shadow that darkened the door-way. A

man stood there on the threshold, peering into the room. His bright,

black eyes travelled swiftly over the scene, resting last on the bed. He

gave then a sudden, swift start. Glancing quickly behind him to make

sure that he was alone, he took a single noiseless step inside, and,

inch by inch, moved to the couch, bending over it till the end of his

grizzled beard all but touched the cheek of Istar.

As if the glance of the intruder could be felt through the unconsciousness

of sleep, Istar stirred restlessly. The infant on her breast

gave forth a faint cry and opened its deep eyes upon the morning

world. Thereat the Jew, in timely fright, turned and scurried hastily

from the room, escaping Istar's glance by no more than three seconds.

And as Istar, deeply disturbed, looked out upon the world, she suddenly

caught her little one close to her in her protecting arms, murmuring

gently:

"O God! O God! I give Thee praise! Spare me this inestimable gift! Leave

me for my joy this little life of mine--and take all that Thou hast

given else, great Father!"

XI

FROM THE HOUSE OF HEAVEN

When Daniel was far beyond the range of Istar's vision he did not lessen

the rapidity of his gait. Rather, he increased it, till the last five

yards of his descent of the ziggurat were done in a quick run; and the

few people already abroad in the square of Istar looked up in amazement

to see the unkempt figure of the slinking Jew advancing at an eager trot

across the open space and into the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

Beltishazzar, however, had at that time little thought for the opinions

of the people whom he passed. The one thing that he desired above

all others, the thing that had assumed a place paramount to his

disinterested historical desires--the downfall of Babylon and the

freeing of his race--had come to pass. Moreover, the accomplishment of

it was, apparently, by the will of God alone. Surely no man earnestly

wishful of attaining to a certain end ever arrived at it by simpler or

more thorough process. It was a miracle. It required no explanation, no

twisting of facts, no blustering denunciations. Who would ask stronger

proof of the mortality of this impostor than the sight of her child, and

her own weakness? Reverence for the mother-love, for its beauty, for

heart's peace, did not occur to the prophet. He felt that Istar's great

sin, her tremendous fraud, her immense daring, were things that a

statesman might secretly marvel at, possibly admire, in a way. But

naturally these feelings would never be expressed.

In such a course wound Daniel's triumphant thoughts as he hurried with

them down the wide street towards the palace of the high-priest of Bel.

It was unusually early in the day for an interview with Amraphel; and of

this the Jew had scarcely stopped to think when he halted before the

outer gate of the ecclesiastical dwelling. The night-guards had not yet

made way for the more gorgeously attired eunuchs of the day; but the Jew

was too familiar a figure to all Amraphel's household to be denied

admittance by any of his servants. There was some little doubt expressed

as to their lord's having risen. But the doubts were couched in reverent

terms, and shortly the lean and ill-kempt Jew was ushered through the

vast, empty courts and halls, to the little dining-room of the

high-priest's private suite.

Only two slaves, servitors, were in this room when the visitor entered

it; and these were busy preparing for the arrival of the master. The

wrought ivory and ebony couch had already been drawn up before the table

on which various fruits were laid out. And shortly after Daniel made his

appearance; a place was added to the table and an arm-chair drawn to it,

evidently for him. He would have seated himself, when there came

a sound of steps in the passage-way, and Amraphel, white-robed and

whiter-bearded, came in, followed by two cringing slaves bearing the

long-handled feather fans in use even at this early season. Beltishazzar

read the priestly mood at sight. It bore small relation to that benign

and fatherly manner assumed for the morning sacrifice, and coming on

naturally of an evening, after the long day of adulation and worship.

Daniel almost prostrated himself on the old man's entrance, and got in

return a slight acknowledgment of his presence, and the words:

"Is your visit early, Jew, or the last of your night?"

"The last.--May it please you, lord of Bel, to see me alone. My news is

not such as should grow cold. Over it, all Babylon will laugh for joy."

Amraphel looked at this companion of many schemes a little sourly as he

sank back on his couch, and took up an orange from its dish of gold.

"What is the nature of this laughing news that you should impart it by

stealth?"

Suddenly Daniel lost his patience--a thing not usual with him. "My lord

receives it thus"--he snapped his fingers--"and behold, I take it to

Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin, who, hearing it, will not scoff." And the Jew

actually made as if to get up from his chair.

"Stop!" cried the high-priest, sharply. "There is no cause for anger.

Sit you, and we will speak of it."

Daniel shrugged his indifference, but slipped into his chair again,

without, however, offering to touch food.

My lord looked round upon his slaves, indicating each of them with a

little glance, and designating those that fanned him with a gesture.

"Depart and leave us," he said, shortly.

His command was obeyed with decided alacrity, and when the bare feet had

patted their noiseless way far down the adjoining corridor, Daniel

straightened up in his chair with a little rustle and said, in a low

tone: "My news, Amraphel, is, shortly, this: Istar of Babylon, whom we

have feared, is a woman--a woman, weak, powerless, full of sin."

Daniel paused, and Amraphel looked at him with a little curl of the lip.

"Is that all?" he said, after a pause. "Is that all? Art thou drunk,

Jew?"

Daniel did not lose his temper now. He smiled, contemplatively, and went

on: "Nay, I am not drunk, lord high-priest, neither is that all my

news--yet, in a way, it is all told. If all Babylon knew too well that

Istar were a woman--and weak--and sinful? _Hein?_ Would it not be

enough?"

"If the _people_ knew--the people--yea, it might be."

Thereupon Daniel told without more ado all that he had seen, and how

Istar lay at this moment in her sanctuary with the infant in her arms.

Then, indeed, Amraphel was touched to the quick. Verily, here was news!

Here was such news as caused the most unemotional man in the Great City

to start up from his couch and pace the floor with hurried and uneven

steps, his eyes alight, his pale face tinged with red excitement, his

hands busily twisting his robe. It was some moments before he spoke,

but, once begun, Daniel sat silent and amazed.

"Ah, Beltishazzar, wisely mayst thou rejoice now. Babylon--Babylon, the

city of Nabopolassar, my father, shall at last stand free before me!

Listen, listen, all ye people! Istar of Babylon is fallen. She is fallen

who reigned as a goddess--over me. Mark me, Jew, time was when Istar of

Babylon was divine. The glory of the unknown God flowed around her. Her

lips spoke truth. In her heart was hidden all knowledge. The life that

she lived was unapproachable by mortal man. And while she remained thus,

I dared not try my full power in the city.

"But now--now! Ah, Beltishazzar, now the fear is gone! The goddess has

tasted the bitterness of human love and is become mortal. Her sin has

found her out. To-day, even to-day, she shall be driven from that temple

that her presence defiles. Her downfall shall be cried aloud to them

that have worshipped her. Her disgrace shall be proclaimed throughout

the kingdom. Let her invoke what aid she may, human or divine! I defy

her now to deny me omnipotence in Babylon.

"And thou, Daniel--thou that broughtest this word--have no fear that thy

people shall lack favor in my sight, and in the sight of the mighty lord

of Elam. Let us henceforth work together for that end which, in the name

of our gods and of the God of Judah, shall be accomplished within the

year!"

He paused in his speech and in his walk, and his head fell upon

his breast. He descended quickly, did Amraphel, from heroics to

practicality; and this, perhaps, was one reason of his great success in

life. Daniel eyed him in silence till the echoes of the tirade had died

away and there had been time for thought. Then he said, shortly:

"You will drive her from the temple, Amraphel? How?"

"By Nebo, with an ox-goad, that is used for cattle!"

Daniel shrugged incredulously. "And whither drive you her?"

"She may go, if she will, to her proper abode--the temple of false

Istar, near the gate of the setting sun."

Daniel drew a sharp breath. "Father Abraham!" he muttered, himself

amazed at Amraphel's pitiless joy in triumph. Then, a moment later, he

added: "It is a just ending. Well, my lord, I take my departure now."

"Thy departure! By Marduk, thou shalt come with me to the temple! Thou

must be at my side when I enter her shrine."

Daniel cringed quickly, and proffered a swift excuse. Keen he might be;

bold in his way; master of diplomacy, of deceit, and cunning; but

discreet, cautious, nay, cowardly, when it came to his personal safety,

he was always. It was true that Istar was no more and no less than a

weak and unfortunate woman; but enough of divinity still clung to the

thought of her to keep the Jew far from any desire to stand before the

people as her accuser. Amraphel might be angry, might persuade or

command. In the present matter Beltishazzar was immovable. Amraphel

recognized it presently, and saw that nothing was to be done but to

summon Vul-Ramân, with all possible speed, from the neighboring temple,

and to command a chariot to be prepared at once and brought into the

outer court of the palace.

These things were quickly done; and Daniel had been gone for many

minutes by the time Vul-Ramân answered the peremptory summons and stood

before his superior. The priest of Nebo was in a temper, and greeted

Amraphel in an undisguisedly irritable tone.

"My lord, it is the hour for sacrifice. My place was at the altar. By

your message hath Nebo lost his morning savor, and the temple the flesh

of three goats. What is needed of me here?"

"And has the freeing of Babylon cost the price of three goats, O

Bit-Yakin? Pray thou for strength to endure the loss!"

Vul-Ramân looked at him in displeasure. "Are thy words oracles?" he

said, sourly.

"Within the hour their light will illume thy understanding. Now thou art

to drive with me up to the temple of Istar. They bring my cloak."

Vul-Ramân looked on with sudden interest as two slaves entered the room

where he stood. One of them carried a long, woollen garment of Tyrian

weave, heavily embroidered in golden threads in a pattern containing the

various symbols of the different gods. It was a mantle worn only upon

the greatest occasions. This being fastened upon Amraphel's shoulders

with well-wrought pins of gold, the second slave crowned the high-priest

with his golden-feathered tiara, sandalled him with sandals embroidered

in the same rich metal, and finally put into his hand something that

caused Vul-Ramân to exclaim:

"What, in the name of Nergal's holiness, do you with the bullock's goad,

Amraphel!"

"Come you with me, Vul-Ramân. Our way lies to the north, to the temple

of Istar. From it I shall drive forth the false woman that dwells there

receiving worship. For--"

"Amraphel!" Vul-Ramân stopped short. "Art thou raving? What canst thou

do against Istar? Because by her mercy we are spared punishment for our

last sin against her, darest thou again attempt her downfall? Attempt it

by such means as this? If thy mind has not left thy body, then thine

arrogance leads thee to death!"

The high-priest waited till the other had finished his protest. Then he

said, calmly: "Istar of Babylon is a woman with child. Her divinity is

gone. I go to drive her from the heavenly house."

In silence the two men proceeded to the court-yard, where, surrounded by

a group of slaves, stood the golden chariot with its white horses and

flashing harness. The driver stood holding the reins in his hands. On

the arrival of the two priests there was a general obeisance. Amraphel

entered the vehicle first. Vul-Ramân, not without a perceptible

hesitation, followed him. The master raised his hand, the driver shouted

to his steeds, and the powerful animals, with one spring, shot forward,

drawing the whirring chariot after them through the bronze gate way, out

into the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

"The temple of Istar!" said Amraphel.

The flashing wheels turned to the north, and in brave silence they

proceeded towards the square at the end of the broad street. Not a word

was spoken during the drive. The two priests, one on either side of the

driver, stood like statues--Vul-Ramân with a face as white as a summer

cloud, Amraphel in immovable calm. The right hand of the high-priest

rested on the rim of the chariot in front of him. His left, the one with

which he clasped the short, black goad, with its two cruel leathern

thongs, hung at his side. As they went along, the people in the street

stopped to stare in curiosity as to the wherefore of Amraphel's state

magnificence, and Vul-Ramân's appearance so far from his temple at the

hour of morning sacrifice. When finally they entered the square of

Istar, it was wholly deserted; for service was going on in the temple,

and a respectable throng was assembled to witness the weekly slaughter

of doves and the broiling of their flesh over the cone-fire on the

altar.

"Istar will be there at the sacrifice, doubtless," whispered Vul-Ramân,

hurriedly, as they alighted together at the steps of the platform.

"Let us seek her," was all the reply he got. Amraphel exhibited not a

trace of uneasiness, and yet, to a certain extent, the fear of the

priest of Nebo had its effect on him. Mentally he cursed the prudent

cowardice of Daniel, who, having arranged this situation, had left him

to run the chance of disgrace and defeat alone.

As they came to the door of the temple the two priests found themselves

confronting the throng of men and women who were just emerging into

daylight. The sacrifice was over. But as Amraphel, in all his

magnificence halted before them in the door-way, the people also came to

a stand-still, lowered their heads, and waited silently to learn if

there was a reason for his coming. For some seconds, however, Amraphel

stood passive. He perceived the officiating priestess coming towards him

from the altar, and he waited for her to reach his side. Then she, and

Bit-Yakin, and finally the high-priest, performed the ceremonious

greetings of the religious code; and only after these were over did

Amraphel say:

"We seek the lady--Istar of Babylon. Is she in the temple, O servant of

the great goddess?"

"The spirit of the goddess hath attended on the sacrifice. So spake the

omens, most high lord," was the disturbed reply.

"Belit Istar, then, is not here?"

"Nay, Lord Amraphel. She is in her shrine at the top of the ziggurat, to

which she retired at sunset yesterday."

"We will ascend into her presence."

The priestess started. "Nay--nay! Let my lord remain here below. The

goddess is alone with her brothers. She commands that none shall ascend

to her to-day."

"Begone, woman!" shouted Amraphel, suddenly breaking out into a very

well-arranged burst of anger. "Begone, thou deceived and deceiving

servant of a false goddess! Hear ye, ye people!" And he turned to the

astonished multitude. "Hear ye who, for many months--nay, years--have

worshipped at an altar of evil! Istar of Babylon, whom, unknowing, ye

have called Belit, spouse of the great Bel, is no goddess. As the great

gods have revealed to me by night, she is but a woman, sacrilegiously

dwelling in the house of heaven, accepting the homage of the multitude,

delivering oracles from the mercy-seat, receiving offerings and the

sacrifice day by day throughout the months, deceiving you and them that

dwell with you. Now I come to expose her and to deliver her up to you to

do with as ye will. Come ye forth and assemble about the foot of the

ziggurat while I ascend, that ye may behold her when she comes forth

from the holy shrine of the outraged goddess that dwells afar from us in

the silver sky."

Amraphel made this speech with such an air of mingled sorrow and

outraged dignity that Vul-Ramân, for all his amazement, could not but

applaud it. The crowd showed less indignation than bewilderment and

curiosity. But as the old man turned from them to cross the platform,

the people followed him like sheep, leaving only the wailing hierodules

behind them in the temple.