CHAPTER V.
Was it the night darkness that, by its contrast with his bright dream of Zillah, awoke Hiram? However that may have been, he aroused himself with the purpose of making his vision as near as possible a waking reality. He would go to her. Her hand upon his brow always exorcised his evil spirits, and he knew a pillow for a restless head softer than that of his divan. He struck with his finger a disk of bronze that hung by the couch. A deep, but exceedingly soft and sweet, note floated through the apartment, and was instantly answered by the keeper of the royal wardrobe. This honest fellow's loyalty was limited by the conviction that the king should be the handsomest man in his realm, and he spared no pains to make him such. Though he was not officially barber to his majesty, he yet wrought upon the short curls on his master's head with the exquisite care that a jeweller's etcher might have bestowed upon the locks of a goddess he was transferring from his imagination to a golden plate or goblet. The king was, ordinarily, far from fastidious regarding his raiment, and had often flung off the royal gewgaws in which his attendants arrayed him for state display. The same indifference to appearance at times led him to the opposite extreme; as, on the day we are narrating, he had worn the dress with which he had presided at the council, also on the ship and amid the dirt of the foundries and workshops. But upon certain occasions he was not averse to the consideration of a goodly appearance, especially when he made his visits to Zillah. The male bird will display his plumage to the utmost, and pipe his sweetest notes, in the presence of the female. We may leave the explanation of this to the naturalist and the novelist; we here only record the fact that Hiram made no objection when his attendant brought from the wardrobe a close-fitting tunic of Sindonese silk, the raw material of which, brought from far-away India, had been woven without a flaw on the Tyrian looms, and embroidered by skilful and patient fingers with scarabs, lotus-blossoms, winged globes, and royal uræi, in a combination of lines and colors that fascinated the eye with its general effect as much as it bewildered by its details. About his neck he suffered three collars to be placed; the upper one closely fitting his throat, while the lower one hung far down upon his breast; all sparkling with tiny gems. He girded his loins with a scarf of radiant colors, in the knot of which shone a huge diamond, like a star in the belt of Orion. His sandals were fastened with ribbons made of threads of gold, and wound in cross-lines above his ankles, thus setting off as fine a calf as ever kept time to the music of the dance. Could Hiram have seen himself in the glass with his own eyes, instead of through the imagined eyes of his mistress, he would have blushed for his effeminate bravery, and preferred to don the tight leathern uniform of a common soldier. But, to make his victorious entrance into a maiden's heart, he really thought himself arrayed in heroic style.
The house of Ahimelek was near the eastern wall, in the highest part of the city. From the east side it looked directly down upon the two harbors, and across the narrow strait that divided the island from the mainland. From its western balconies the view lay over the city, and far out over the Great Sea. The proud old merchant delighted especially in this prospect, which on every hand reminded him of the sources of his wealth. Far away towards Cyprus he could sight the incoming vessels, and towards Lebanon detect the slow-moving specks that were his caravans.
The house was of cedar. Its beam-heads and cornices were carved with objects beautiful or grotesque, as pleased the fancy of the architect; for Ahimelek had no standard by which to estimate its excellence beyond its expense. Its projecting windows were closely screened, one with a latticework of bronze, another of porphyry, another of alabaster, and one with strips of agate closely cemented. The interior apartments were panelled in richest woods, and floored with elaborate mosaics, upon which were skins of lions, wolves, and leopards. Objects of curiosity which his captains had brought from all the known countries of the world—enormous tusks of elephants, nuggets of precious minerals, diamonds with their incrustation of stone, plumage of strange birds, vases of malachite and lapis-lazuli, the weapons of savages, and bejewelled swords once worn by kings: these filled tables and niches, and stood in the corners.
Ahimelek met the king as the latter alighted from his litter in the central court. It needed no previous suspicion on the part of Hiram to detect something inhospitable in the merchant's welcome. As they passed the entrance together Ahimelek stopped. He seemed to be on the point of speaking, yet no words came. Awkwardly he made way for the young man to precede him; and, as the lover sought the apartment of Zillah, her father stood looking after him with troubled countenance.
His formal and acknowledged betrothal to Zillah, according to Phœnician custom, gave to Hiram every privilege a husband has in his wife, except that of living with her. From the moment he had put the ring upon her finger, and had given to her father the legal document conveying certain property pledges, he became her virtual possessor and guardian.
At the entrance to the apartment of his betrothed, Hiram was met by Layah, Zillah's maid, a woman whose matronly manner contradicted the story of her youthful face. Layah had once been the handmaiden of Hiram's mother, and, but a little beyond him in years, had grown up as a sort of official playmate in the nursery. Upon his mother's death he had sent her as a gift to Zillah, who needed such a companion, since she had scarcely known a mother's protection, and, without brothers or sisters, was alone in the care of her father's house.
Layah's pride, when she ushered Hiram into the presence of her mistress, was warranted, for she truly thought there was no more beautiful woman in Tyre than the daughter of Ahimelek. And, indeed, Zillah's radiance this night was refracted in additional lustre through the toilet her maid had given her. A simple band of ribbon, with a single pearl studding it, bound her jet-black hair, but did not confine it. Her locks overflowed in clustering ringlets upon her forehead and temples, and fell in waves upon her white neck. Her features were small, but so clear-cut as to seem larger than in reality, and so animated were they with health and joy that the long, pendent ear-rings of crystal, which rested upon her shoulders, seemed to borrow from her face the light that flashed in them. Her upper garment came close to the throat, and was gathered into a sinus beneath the breast, by a girdle which was knotted in front. Her exposed arms were of such graceful shape that one scarcely noticed the wristlets and armlets with which her maid had insisted on decorating them. Her full-flowing skirt of silk was so artfully looped at the bottom as to reveal a foot and ankle, about which a serpent of silver coiled in loving embrace.
Zillah's first welcome of Hiram was followed by a playful frown. She held him at arm's-length, and curiously inspected his raiment.
"For shame, my Lord Hiram! I believe you have borrowed your cousin Rubaal's clothes—the same he came to woo me in the day before you and I were betrothed. You are more goodly-appearing with your sailor's cap and coarse chiton than in these fashions of Tyre. See! I have discarded my cap of pearls, and would not put on half the jewels Layah wanted me to, because I thought you would like me better as I am."
She dexterously loosed his triple collar, and flung it upon a divan; then plucked the great diamond from his scarf.
"Hold!" cried Hiram. "Do not throw that away. It may buy back our throne, if Egbalus steals it. Let me put it here, where Artaxerxes himself would not dare to pluck it."
He inserted the glowing jewel in the folds of the sinus of her dress.
"But why do you talk so much of Egbalus, dear Hiram?" she asked, as she drew him to her side upon the divan. "Egbalus is only a priest, not even a prince. And you have often said you did not believe in the priests. Why care for what you do not believe in?"
"I do believe in the priests," said he, "just as I believe in scorpions and other pests, because they are disagreeable facts. I suppose I ought to be above letting them annoy me, as the people in the country build booths on the roofs of their houses, and go to sleep there, knowing that the scorpions cannot crawl so high. But I cannot sleep if I so much as hear these priestly vermin scratch.
Do you remember, Zillah, the stories we used to invent as children with Layah's help? They were generally about a king who was driven from his throne, and went wandering over the world, and lost his queen somewhere, and could not find her. You used to call yourself the queen, and imagine all sorts of things you did without—without me; for I was always the king, was I not?"
"And I always found you, too; and now I am going to keep you, and not let you go wandering even in my dreams," replied the fair girl, throwing her arm fondly about the shoulder of Hiram, with her cheek against his. "Even Astarte does not have so good a hold on Tammuz, or, as the Greeks call him, Adonis, when she has found him come to life again, as I have on my Adonai—my lord."
Her lustrous eyes, as she gazed into his, seemed to drink love from his heart.
"Ah, but Astarte has to lose her Adonis first, and her maidens go mourning for him. So you might lose me. The Persian king has but to say a word, and I must leave my throne. The satrap of Syria—only a satrap—has more power than I, a king, and could depose me. These priests could poison the mind of Artaxerxes; or they could poison me. Do you not regret having promised to be my queen?"
The girl rose from the divan. She straightened her form to its full height. Her pose was majesty itself. Her black eyes flashed with indignant pride:
"Not even a king shall question either my love or my courage!"
Hiram, though startled, was not offended at this sudden transformation. He had been frequently treated to novel exhibitions of her character; but each one increased his admiration for her. She was to him a garden of graces. At every turn in their intimacy some new beauty was revealed, or some new sweetness exhaled from her life to gladden his. He did not, however, expect to find in his garden a stately palm-tree—a character so lofty and ruggedly strong. He now felt that she was more royal than he, and he could have thrown himself at her feet as a slave. But through all Zillah's severity of countenance there played a softer sentiment, that overtempted him to a different expression of loyalty, and he caught her to his arms, with the rapt exclamation: "A queen, indeed! My queen!"
She pushed him gently from her, and looked deeply into his eyes as if she would dry up the very fountain of his soul, as the sun-god dries the springs in summer, should he dare to question again the supremacy of her love. She then took his face between her hands, as she said:
"I shall be Hiram's queen if he reigns only in a round boat, a pauper pirate of the sea, or carries his crown on a camel flying across the deserts. But"—her voice trembled, steadied only when his hot kiss had acted as a tonic—"I would rather be simply Hiram's wife. Wife means more than queen, does it not?"
The superb woman again became a girl; the palm-tree became a spray of delicate vine that twined itself through and through Hiram's heart.
The long and silent embrace that followed was disturbed by loud talking in the apartment of Ahimelek, which was across the recess entering from the court, a sort of hallway that divided the business offices of the merchant from the portion of the house that was devoted to domestic use.
"Ah! I know that screech," said Hiram. "It belongs to the night-hawk Egbalus. He is always flitting about in the dark. Listen! What nest is he putting his beak into now?"
The priest was evidently threatening and entreating by turns. Ahimelek was as clearly on guard, like some fencer who knows the superior prowess of his antagonist. His tones of voice showed that he was now objecting, and now yielding point after point, only protecting his retreat. Whole sentences were at length caught by the listeners, as the excitement of the priest betrayed his caution:
"But, sire, you cannot prevent it. I have obtained the consent of every other member of the council but yourself. No man can withstand the will of Baal."
"Ah!" whispered Hiram to Zillah. "Your father, then, did not vote for the sacrifice. I half thought as much. He has always assented to my view that we are making too much of religion. If they would only leave me to select the victims, I would order the sacrifice myself, and roast a score or two of priests' spawn. I would make such a feast that Moloch would be sick from surfeit for a hundred years. But listen!"
Egbalus was now fairly hissing his words: "You dare not refuse. It is ruin to you and to your house. Hark you, Ahimelek! Your dealing with the Egyptian is known. You accepted a bribe of ten thousand darics to abandon the commerce of Cyprus and Memphis to the sailors of the Nile. This is death by the laws of Tyre. And think not that having a son for king will save a traitor. The evidence of it is written out. It is on this parchment. A horseman stands ready to carry the news to the Great King at Susa. It was treason against Persia. You know the end. Sign this order of the priests of Baal, and I will tear up this damning document. If not—"
The two listeners looked at each other with consternation. They knew that the priests had spun some web about the merchant. True or false, their accusation would ruin him. Hiram's first impulse was to enter the room, and slay the priest as he stood. A second thought showed the unwisdom of such a course. The plot must have other meshes, though Egbalus held the chief string. A rash deed on the king's part would precipitate an issue between the throne and the temple, with the advantage in favor of the latter, since their plotting had been of long continuance, and their purposes were well ripened.
"I shall advise your father to yield the point," said Hiram, rising. "A few miserable babies more or less for a sacrifice, what does it signify?"
He strode across the open space, and, unannounced, stood before the men. His sudden appearance transformed the debate into a tableau. Egbalus was standing rigidly erect, his hand clenched, and raised above his head; his whole soul seemingly condensed into one act of will, dominating the soul of Ahimelek; and that will was blazing from the priest's half-demoniacal eyes. Had he uttered no words, the very pantomime would have been enough to crush a weaker man's resolution. Ahimelek sat limp and pale with terror before the priest.
Without awaiting an explanation, Hiram determined to rescue the merchant from the straits into which his loyalty had apparently put him, and said:
"Enough of this quarrel! Ahimelek, you have your king's permission to assent. Let the priests have what sacrifice they will."
"Your majesty! Your majesty is mad!" jerked out Ahimelek, holding up his hands in agonizing remonstrance.
"It is enough! I have said it," responded the king.
Egbalus was surprised, and stared as one confounded. But only for a moment did he lose his self-possession. He was a consummate actor. He could direct his most fiery passion by cold discretion, as the moulder leads the molten metal into his patterns of sand. A look of holy serenity suddenly diffused his countenance:
"Baal, I thank thee! Thou hast owned thy servant! Said I not so—that the heart of the king would be so led by Baal that he himself would consent? Most noble king! Servant of the gods! Let me kiss the feet of him whom Baal receives as his son!"
He threw himself upon the floor before the king, who could scarcely restrain an impulse to trample the hypocritical wretch with his heels. It cost Hiram a mighty effort to obey his quick, intuitive discretion. He did not even glance at the prostrate priest, but, with a look of scorn and pity upon Ahimelek, he withdrew.
"Oh, for the power of a king!" he exclaimed, as he re-entered Zillah's apartment. "I swear by all the gods that for the last time have I yielded to the cruelty of these priests. To Sheol with the whole brood of them!"
Hiram sank upon the divan by the side of Zillah, exhausted by the sharp conflict of emotions through which he had passed. He rebuked himself for the display of passion.
"But for your sake, my fair one, and the sake of your father, I would have died rather than have done it. But my time will come, if there be any power of justice back of these villainous gods who demand such things."
"I see," said Zillah, putting her hand upon his brow, as if to exorcise some demon there—"I see that you, too, could be cruel, dear Hiram."
"Yes, cruel as any other human beast, until I can abolish cruelty. And I will abolish it—abolish it by the sword."
He sat a long time in silent thought, then rose suddenly, exclaiming:
"But these are no scenes for you, my darling."
"Why not for me, if for you?" rejoined Zillah. "I am not a butterfly, that must needs flit only in the sunshine. I would rather be like our heroic Queen Dido, for all her troubles, than be a mere statue come to life, like that which her brother, our King Pygmalion, made. Your cares shall be mine, or I am not worthy to sit under the purple canopy of your throne."
"Right royally spoken!" cried Hiram, in an outburst of admiration. "But, for all that, I shall save you from such scenes and such priests, for I shall decree that there shall be no gods—except that every man shall have his own Astarte, and she shall be worshipped thus—" He laid his ardent offering upon her lips.
CHAPTER VI.
An unusual throng filled the streets and the Great Square when the king returned from the house of Ahimelek to his own palace. Priests were everywhere. It seemed as if the ecclesiastical hives of half the cities of Phœnicia had swarmed along the coast, and lit again on the rock of Tyre. Some of these priests, with unkempt hair and mad eyes, were haranguing the crowd; others were engaged in excited debate among themselves. The palanquin of the king moved among the people as if it were the ark of some strange religion; for, while a few glanced at it with respect, many regarded it with rage, and scarcely restrained the impulse to lay violent hands upon it. Egbalus and his devotees had evidently done effective work, not only in disseminating their own venomous spirit, but in organizing their various guilds for action in emergency. The royal attendants noticed that a band of priests moved just ahead of them, and that another band came behind, as if the king's person were either honorably escorted or dangerously menaced. Still another company of priests moved hastily, yet in order, away from the palace gate as the king approached it.
Hiram was himself too much engrossed with his own thoughts fully to take in what was transpiring beyond the closely drawn curtains of his carriage. But, having passed within his own gate, he suddenly awoke to a sense of some unusual environment that was being spun about him. Entering his private apartment, he was possessed by that mysterious power of clairvoyance through which one is made conscious of a presence that is neither seen nor heard. He was impressed with the fact that the room already contained an occupant. The instinct of danger, reinforced by an acquired habit of vigilance, led him to place his back against the wall, and his hand upon his dagger hilt. Uncertain of the loyalty of even the private servants of his chamber, he determined to face the unknown menace alone. He dismissed all his attendants, and closed the door behind them as they made their exit. Prepared to strike at any living thing that had dared to invade his privacy, he stood a moment listening, and searching with his eyes every object which the thick screen of the hanging lamp left in the shadows.
"Who goes here?" was his challenge.
A whisper came from beyond the curtains that shielded one end of the divan:
"It is I, King Hiram."
"Why, Hanno! what means this? Are you mad? Is everybody mad?"
The low tones of his friend's voice bespoke continued caution. Hanno laid his hand upon the king's arm as he said, "Let us first make sure that we are alone. If I could steal admission here, others might."
He raised the shade from the flaming wick that floated in the oil. With drawn weapons the two men searched every nook where there was possibility of concealment. They were alone.
"You are in danger, my king. I anticipated no harm to you in the open streets, for the priests are interested in protecting you there; but I feared lest some of the devils might give you foul play here: so I crept in, no matter how. You know the plot? No? It was further along than I suspected when we parted this afternoon. You, Hiram! Oh, the treachery of it! the cowardice of it! You, my king!"
Hanno's voice was choked with uncontrollable rage. "You—you are to be the sacrifice to Baal!"
Hiram stood gazing stupidly into his friend's face. He heard his words. He understood them, and yet he could not take them in. The power of thought seemed paralyzed. Then, gradually, he came to realize the meaning of what he had heard. At first he thought only of the indignity offered his throne. Then, brave as he was, there came a tremor of dread, as the horrid rites of the sacrifice filled his imagination. That cruelty which he had refused to sanction, where the victim was the humblest babe among his people, was to come upon himself! He saw himself a bound and helpless victim. He felt the flames, but they chilled him to the heart's core. For the first time in his life he was afraid.
The two men sat down together upon the edge of the divan. For a long time neither spoke. Nor was it necessary. Rapidly the king put together in his memory many recent occurrences. His keen judgment saw their significance, and that they focused in the terrible fact which Hanno had announced.
"Blind! blind! blind I have been; but I see it now," groaned the stricken man. Then, starting from his horrible reverie, he strode across the apartment. Pausing under the full glare of the lamp, he held aloft his dagger:
"I swear before Baal that if he demands the sacrifice of the King of Tyre, the King of Tyre shall be both priest and victim! My own hand shall strike the blow; not theirs. And the altar shall be the dead body of Egbalus. He first shall fall. I shall seek him."
He moved towards the door. His friend stayed him.
"You cannot go out. The house is closely guarded," said Hanno. "Egbalus has filled the city with bands of Galli. They have been coming into Tyre from the country around for days."
"I will cut my way through a thousand of them to the dock, and take to the sea," cried the king, in the valor of his despair.
"It is too late," replied Hanno. "When I heard the decision of the priests this afternoon I tried to arrange for that; but your biremes have all been scuttled, and mine is stolen away. The very captains in the harbor have been bedevilled by the priests. Brave fellows though they are, like all sailors, they are superstitious, and believe that Baal has put a curse on every wave for any one who would attempt your rescue."
"Then, my dear Hanno, you too must go, and leave me to my fate. I will not have my life if it endangers yours. Go! Appear as my enemy! Save yourself! I will know that your heart is true, even if your hand should tie the cords and cast me into the flames. Go!"
"Never!" cried Hanno. "Did not you and I see the flames when forty thousand Sidonians burned their houses over their heads and perished together, rather than fall into the hands of the Persians?"
"Then let it be so, Hanno! And right here will we emulate them. See, this flame to this curtain, and this couch shall be our altar!"
As the king spoke, he reached the lamp from its hanging, and brought it close to the heavy draperies.
"Hold!" cried Hanno. "This is no time for madness, but for cool heads. The sacrifice cannot be for some days yet. Time breeds opportunities. Let us watch!"
"For what?" cried the king, burying his head in his hands.
Nearly an hour passed in silence, broken at length by Hanno:
"Egbalus has made a prediction that, so powerful is the will of Baal, the god will send the spirit of holy zeal into every heart in Tyre; that the very rays of the sun-god to-morrow will inspire all they fall upon with such acquiescence that every one would gladly take the place of the sacrifice. As I came in here, only a moment before you, a herald was running across the square, crying, 'The king consents! The king consents! Praised be Baal!' The lying devil of a priest has already perjured his soul with that counterfeit of the royal word."
"Ay, I did consent."
Hiram then related to Hanno the scene at the house of Ahimelek, where, under misapprehension of its full import, he had approved the sacrificial celebration.
"It is well, then," said Hanno. "Why not seem to verify the high priest's interpretation of your assent? Apparently yield. It will divert suspicion from any plan we might adopt."
The young men talked through the entire night, and in the early dawn Captain Hanno, disguised as a market vender, was let out the great gate with a good volley of curses from old Goliab, the porter.
CHAPTER VII.
The ensuing day was one of intense excitement in Tyre. At every open space, on the walls, in the Great Square, at street corners, and especially in the court of the temple, were priests haranguing the people. Bands of Galli, the priests of Astarte, having set an image of the goddess upon an ass, swarmed about it as it was drawn through the streets, beating drums, blowing horns, cutting themselves with knives, tearing out handfuls of their hair, and chanting—or rather howling—the sentences of their wildest liturgy. Caught by the strange infection, many private citizens openly renounced their secular vocations, and joined the priesthood of Astarte.
Initiation into this order, according to an ancient custom, was signalled by the candidate's breaking into a neighbor's house, where he penetrated to the women's apartment, demanded a suit of female apparel, and arrayed his nether members in this, leaving the shoulders bare. In this mongrel attire the neophyte joined some roving band of Galli. The dress was presumed to symbol a cruel rite by which the enthusiast had made his priesthood more acceptable to the goddess.
Among the young men who appeared to have been especially filled with the spirit of Astarte was Captain Hanno. He had stopped to listen to an excited exhorter. Some invisible spell drew him closer and closer to the speaker. His eyes became riveted upon the countenance of the priest, the contortions of whose facial muscles he imitated. The orator changed from speaking naturally to a singing rhythm, timing the variation of his tones by a swinging motion of his body. In this he was closely followed by the circle of priests about him. Captain Hanno wedged himself among them. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, swaying now sideways, now forward, now backward. With every motion the spell deepened. Louder and louder they shouted, until shouts became shrieks. One after another fell swooning to the ground. A priest grasped wildly at the blade of a sword his comrade was waving, half severing his hand; but he did not heed the pain. At a moment when physical exhaustion had produced a temporary lull in the confusion, the priests recognized Hanno as a new-comer among them. Instantly they cried:
"The stigma! Make the sacred stigma!"
They held towards him their knives. Hanno seized one of them, and dashed the point through the fleshy part of his shoulder. The screeching grew wilder as the priests saw this evidence of the power of their goddess. Surely Egbalus's prediction was being verified, since the man who, of all Tyre, next to the king, was noted for coolness and indifference to religion, had become a convert! Suddenly breaking through the throng, Hanno ran from street to street, followed by the priestly rabble. He shook the gates of several houses which would not open to him. Up the steep lanes he went, as if impelled by some fury. He dashed through the gate of the house of Ahimelek, which flew open at his touch. In a few moments he emerged. A woman's skirt, of richest texture, hung from his waist and covered the upper portion of his legs, which protruded bare and bleeding beneath. The blood still trickled from his shoulder and smeared the garment. The Galli gathered about him. He broke out into impassioned praise of Astarte, of Melkarth, of Moloch. In his ecstasy he shouted every phrase that described divinity in the street speech of Tyre. His celestial rage seemed inspired by the beams of Baal, which were changed to molten fire, and poured through his veins. His eloquence was prodigious. He clamored for more haste with the sacrifice. He declared himself willing to be the victim. Then, abandoning the wildness of gesticulation, he suddenly became rigid as a statue of porphyry, and his face as red with the blood-flush of excitement. He swayed an instant, then fell. The Galli caught him in their arms. They bore his stiffened form on their shoulders to the temple.
Even Egbalus was astounded at such a tribute to his priestly astuteness and power, and fairly croaked with delight as Hanno, returning to consciousness, prostrated himself at the high priest's feet. The addition to the priesthood of one who stood foremost among the Tyrians for social rank and for naval prowess was an event to be appreciated within the Temple of Baal.
CHAPTER VIII.
While these scenes were being witnessed in the streets of the city, King Hiram, left alone by the departure of his friend Hanno, enacted within his own soul a tragedy scarcely less terrible than that he feared. From his impending fate he saw no way of escape. Die he must. He queried with himself, what would it signify if he resented, even fought against, this monstrous cruelty? What if he died by his own hand, or by the blows of his captors? This would only throw over his memory a damning disgrace in the estimate of the superstitious people. His name would be hissed with imprecations, and become a by-word for impiety towards the gods, and for selfish, cowardly indifference to the welfare of his country. Though he were right in his views of religion, he would not be understood. Posterity, except in remote ages, perhaps, would attribute to him, and to his shrinking from the altar, all the misfortunes that might come upon Tyre. Should he risk this? Did consistency require it of him? Should he not submit to the inevitable with outward grace, if not with the grace of a submissive spirit?
Then he thought of Egbalus. He seemed to see the sharp, triumphing eyes of the high priest, gloating over this fulfilment of his prediction that the god would draw the king to voluntary obedience. He saw the hands of this plotter binding the people more slavishly to his will through his victory over the only man who had ever yet dared to dispute the priestly rule in Tyre.
"No! Let me die by my own hand first! Thou, hated priest, shalt never conquer through me!"
He felt the point of his dagger.
Then a gentler emotion swayed him; perhaps it was the natural reaction from the strain of excitement. He thought, "And may there not be gods in spite of my doubts? I am but one man against a multitude. God cannot be Moloch, for such a god is less noble than man. But surely there is some One who is the mystery of existence; and does He not demand sacrifices? The Jews have no idols, but have altars. The Greeks, even Herodotus, who has taught me to doubt, worshipped his gods with sacrifice. If the god is good, then surely we have offended him. If the god is not good, then he is capricious, passionate, vindictive, and we had best humor him. O Baal! or Jove! or Jehovah! accept my life, which I offer to thee! I fling it forth into the great darkness. If there be light anywhere, may I enter it! If there be no light, let the darkness blot me out of existence. I give myself to god, or to oblivion."
He buried his head in the cushions of the divan. The sleepless night and the unintermitting intensity of his mental struggle overcame even his marvellous powers of physical endurance. He fainted or fell into a dreamless sleep; he knew not which.
When he came to himself, he recognized by the nearly emptied globe of the water-clock that it was late in the afternoon. He was surprised that no one had called him. His servants had prepared no meals. How did they know that he did not need them? He glanced into the mirror of polished brass. How changed his features! He was pale and haggard as one of the Galli.
Startled by his own apparition, he passed from his sleeping-apartment into its anteroom. It seemed to be filled with the statues of men. Was he demented? They moved towards him. One by one they fell to the floor. Then the statue nearest to him raised its head and pronounced, in tones of deepest awe,
"O holy sacrifice! Seven times blessed! Chosen of men! Accepted of our Lord Baal!"
Then this one's head dropped to the floor. Each head was raised in turn, and repeated the same words.
All the statues then rose. One of them was clothed in a long black robe— Could he mistake that figure? It was Egbalus. Bowing low, the high priest spoke:
"The holy spell has been upon thee, O royal son of Tyre, son of Baal! As thou wast lying on thy couch I saw a wondrous thing. All the souls of the ancient kings of Tyre came again from their abodes in the world of the dead. Each was like a shooting-star. They came from the dark bosom of the night. They flashed across my vision and entered thy body. One by one these starry kings came, until the last, thine own father. In thee, O blessed Hiram! is all the royalty of Tyre. I saw, too, the great spirit of Baal, like a globe of light, brighter than the sun himself. Baal came and enclosed thee. The divine light penetrated thee, purified thee, until thy body was light itself; bright even as the brightness of Baal. This was thy consecration for the sacrifice. The flames cannot harm thee, since thou art become light itself. But one duty awaits thee. Come thou, O divine king, and consecrate with thy presence the temple, the holy place of Melkarth. Then shalt thou enter the life of which Baal is the fulness. Come!"
Hiram knew not whether this were a dream or a mocking reality. But it mattered little which, since he had determined to outwardly obey and, with Hanno, to watch.
"As thou wilt, O servant of our Lord Baal!" he replied: and, preceded by Egbalus and followed by the attendant priests, he passed from his palace.
The royal palanquin awaited him in the court. It had been covered with a white cloth canopy and curtains which completely enveloped it, and concealed his person from all eyes. The priests became his bearers. A line of them marched ahead, playing lugubrious notes on pipes of reed, above which rose the words of a chant. As the procession wound its way across the Great Square the multitudes prostrated themselves on either hand, murmuring prayers and benedictions upon the royal deliverer of Tyre. At the temple gate the popular reverence and awe were evinced by intense silence. Not a form swayed, not a foot was lifted, not a word was spoken. Only the slow-timed tramp of the bearers of the royal victim broke the stillness as the cortège passed between the massive gates, which slowly swung upon their hinges and closed again.
For three days King Hiram remained alone in the chief chamber, that which opened upon the corridor of the sacred lake. Priests incessantly patrolled back and forth, saying nothing except their prayers. They brought him food in golden dishes, and left it, removing the remnants in the same reverential manner in which they would have served at the altar.
As the silence of the day turned into the deeper silence of the night, and back again to silent day, the solitude became unendurable. Only royal pride prevented Hiram asking some question of his obsequious custodians. When would the sacrifice be accomplished? Was there no communication for him from Zillah? Could he bribe any of these bigots to confer with Captain Hanno? Now he was tempted to rush upon one of the priests, seize his sacrificial knife, plunge it into the man's heart, and then into his own. He was once in this latter mood, and on the very point of executing his purpose, when the priest who would have been his victim began to mumble his prayers.
"I will wait until the wretch has got through that. He will need all his prayers for his last breath," muttered the king.
The man beat upon his breast and tore his hair, as if in some sacred frenzy. He came nearer to Hiram's chamber entrance, and paused in his walking, with his back to the king.
"The gods favor me for once," thought Hiram. "Now to throttle him and to strike!"
The priest raised his voice in praying, so that Hiram caught the words "Take heart! Be watchful!" A sudden glance at the half-turned face revealed the familiar features of Hanno. All Hiram's self-possession was needed to restrain a cry of recognition. The next day the eccentric priest appeared again, and paused to pray at the same spot. He stretched out his hands towards the Maabed, and, as if addressing the deity enshrined in the midst of the water, prayed thus:
"O Baal Hiram, King of Tyre! keep thine eyes open for the mark of a circle, and follow it. O Baal Melkarth! O Astarte, Queen of Heaven! send prosperity!"
CHAPTER IX.
Upon the mainland, adjacent to the island, had stood for many centuries another city, which the people distinguished by the name of Old Tyre. A hundred and fifty years before, its glory had departed, when it fell conquered by the Babylonian Nebuchadnezzar. The dangers of its exposed position on the mainland, as compared with the safety of the island which the Great Sea guarded as a mighty moat, led the Phœnicians to neglect the rebuilding of the old city. Its broken walls, fifteen miles in circuit, were filled with the débris of once proud temples and stately palaces. A few buildings of straggling architecture had been hastily reconstructed with the blocks of stone that made the graceful lines of an ancient mart or fortress. Shanties stood upon the dismantled foundations, and scattered among the ruins were the black tents of traders. A new market-place had been opened close to the shore, where the many caravans that crossed the Lebanons from Damascus exchanged their rich loads for those brought over the sea.
One of the most prominent ruins in Old Tyre was that of an ancient temple of Baal. Superstitious reverence for the place had prevented its use as a quarry, the fate of so many other ruins. Huge blocks of stone, such as the Phœnician builders were famous for using in their gigantic temples, loaded the ground; and concealed beneath them were subterranean passage-ways, which the priests of old had used in going from one part of the sacred edifice to another, unseen by the worshippers. These were now the abode of jackals, whose domiciles were uninvaded except by the flitting of the bats and the gliding of serpents through the narrower crevices. On the plaza, which had been the court of the old temple, and which was largely unencumbered with débris, rose a dilapidated image of Baal-Moloch.
To Captain Hanno, in recognition of his accession to the priesthood, and as a stimulus to the flagging zeal of others in the class of citizens to which he belonged, was assigned the honorable duty of superintending the preparation for the sacrifice; and he well exemplified the adage, "There is no zealot so zealous as a new one." Under his orders masons relaid the walls of the fire-pit beneath the statue. A gang of sailors rigged chains for the moving of the brazen arms of the gigantic figure. Brass-workers burnished the breast of the god until it dazzled the beholder like a miniature sunset. Sidonian glass-makers furnished great globes, covered with vitreous glazing, for the eyes which glared from the bull's head that surmounted the human shoulders of the monster. Pipes from the fire-pit were to convey the smoke through the nostrils. Piles of wood were brought from the Lebanons, and casks of inflammable oil were placed in readiness near by. Various enclosures were set up for singers, drum-beaters, and trumpeters. Elevated platforms awaited the guilds of civil dignitaries. Lines were drawn within which the priests could congregate according to the different gods they served, and display in pious rivalry, but without confusion, the insignia of their varied worship. This spot was reserved for the devotees of Dagon, the fish-god; that for Adonis, the god of the seasons. Sadyk, the god of justice, was assigned here; and next to him his children, the Cabeiri, had their places. Prominent provision was made for the priests of Astarte, the moon-god, queen of heaven, and for those of Melkarth, god of the city; while the open space directly around the image was reserved for the officiants at the sacrifice.
The day for the solemnity opened with auspicious omen. The sun-god poured down his lustre unbroken by a cloud. Though yet early summer, the rays were intense and burning; suggestive of the wrath of Moloch, who drank up the springs of water, withered vegetation, and threatened the land with the horrors of a famine by drought, a calamity to be averted only by appeasing his thirst with the blood of nobler victims.
The entire shipping of the port was arrayed in festive colors. There were vessels not only of Tyre, but from the neighboring cities on the Phœnician coast—Sarepta and Sidon, Byblus and Berytus, Aratus and Joppa—vying with one another in the splendor of the devices by which they exalted their various local divinities, while they attested their common faith in the dread majesty of Baal-Moloch. Trading vessels from Egypt and Greece, and from the far western coasts of the Great Sea also, willingly hastened their coming or delayed their departure that, with reverent curiosity, they might witness the stupendous rites.
The plan for the solemn cortège of vessels that was to convey the victims for the sacrifice from Tyre to the place prepared on the mainland, included a procession around the entire island, starting from the Egyptian harbor, on the south, curving westward and northward through the open sea, thence eastward, passing the Sidonian harbor, and across the narrow space of water to the shore.
This line of movement symbolized the purpose of the whole ceremonial to secure a blessing upon everything that related to Tyre's prosperity—her homes, her arts, her commerce, as well as upon her temples and priests. Along this prescribed course the Phœnician ships were anchored side by side in double rows, between whose bows the sacred barges that conveyed the gifts for Baal should pass. Of these barges there were three.
The first was laden with miscellaneous offerings. There were piles of elegant garments, made of silk wrought on the looms of distant Persia, and the finest linen of Egypt, which had adorned the persons of princely men, or added fascination to the most beautiful women. With such offerings the aristocratic expressed their humiliation before the god, denuding themselves of their pride, even as they divested themselves of their expensive apparel. Put as each valuable piece was marked ostentatiously with the name of the donor, a sceptic might have thought that the sinful trait of vanity lay deeper than the soft raiment had touched. Jars of precious dyes were so placed that their dripping contents stained the sea in the wake of the barges, attesting the piety of the makers of such stuffs. Great sacks of ground spices were the offering of a ship-owner whose vessel had gone around Africa and entered the Gulf of Araby, where these precious treasures were procured. These were flung in handfuls to the gentle wind, and loaded the atmosphere with their aroma. There were also great mounds of fruit; birds of rarest plumage; blooded dogs from the kennels of sportsmen; a goat with dyed horns; a sheep with prodigious covering of wool; a splendid horse, the gift of Prince Rubaal; and a bull with white feet, the special offering of the High Priest Egbalus.
The second barge had a more precious freight—seven times seven mothers, each fondling for the last time her first-born son, a little babe that lay naked in her lap. Some of these women belonged to the lowest class, the abandoned sort, whose maternal impulses were hardly above the brutal instinct, and who were not averse to making a religious merit of the infanticide to which they had been sometimes tempted in order to escape the care of their offspring. Others among them were honest, but abjectly poor, and had been persuaded by the priests thus to give their children back to the All-giving Baal. A few made the sacrifice with bleeding hearts. These sat in utter misery, staring as if for relief towards the burning heavens, that gave no token of mercy. Around the group of innocents was ranged a cordon of enthusiasts, who sang in prayer to Baal, and again in wild refrain declared the god's reward to those who willingly gave up their children—riches untold, and new offspring according to desire in number, sex, and beauty; all painless gifts, in compensation for the pang of their gift to Heaven.
The third barge surpassed all in the splendor and costliness of its decoration. About its sides were ranged the statues and banners representing all the gods of Phœnicia. In the centre rose an altar-shaped throne. The royal chair was overlaid with beaten gold. Above it hung a canopy of purple silk, the same that Trypho had dyed for Hiram's gift to Zillah. The king sat on his throne as if he commanded the pageant. His face was white, his lips compressed, his eye steady: a king still, though seemingly done in marble. On his head he wore the ancient crown of Tyre. In his hand was a sword of bronze, its bluish blade exquisitely chased with the symbols of authority, and its golden hilt thickly studded with gems. At the prow of the barge stood Egbalus, arrayed in the most gorgeous vestments of his office, his hands outstretched in continual prayer.
The imposing cortège made its way slowly; the barges being propelled only by priests, whose sacred character was supposed to make amends for their lack of skill in handling the long oars that were affixed to the sides. The tall prows of the vessels that lined the course, as a guard of honor, were surmounted with figure-heads representing the gods; and, moved by the gentle undulation of the waves, these divinities seemed to bow in acknowledgment of the superior honor of Moloch.
CHAPTER X.
Thus the sacred regatta moved over the prescribed course to the mainland. Leaving the barges, the priests were marshalled into a vast procession. At the head moved the trumpeters, their instruments pitched to a wailing key, and giving forth long and monotonous notes. They were followed by others, carrying the various articles that were to be offered. Then came the living sacrifices. About the parents who were bringing their children to the god, the singing priests formed a circle, and drowned the weeping in the louder praise they shouted to Baal. The throne of the king was placed upon an open platform, and, with its royal occupant, was borne upon the shoulders of the most noted of the hierarchy; the neophyte Hanno being honored with a place by its side, and with a wand of authority as one of the directors of the ceremony.
During the passage from the landing-place to the presence of the idol, the people were allowed to look upon their vicarious sacrifice. All hatred and wrath had given way to the better emotions of reverence, gratitude, and affection. The crowd pressed as close to the line as the priestly attendants would permit, and there threw themselves upon the ground, kissing the spot their king's form had shadowed, and gathering up handfuls of the dust for sacred memorial. He was now their possession as they had never thought when they called him their king; for he was their substitute, upon whom were laid all their woes and fears; and soon he was to be their god, when, through the mystery of the fire-offering, he would pass into the sublimer mysteries of the glory of Baal.
A little way to the front of the idol had been erected a silken pavilion, covered with devices and mottoes of religious import, which were elaborately wrought with needle-work upon its floating walls of crimson. This was the Holy Place, into which the great atoner, leaving his throne, retired from the gaze of all, that in secrecy he might prepare himself for the final offering; that, as Egbalus had said, his soul might first pass into, and be absorbed by, the very being of deity, before his body should be given to the outward image of the Unknown. The high priest had declared that so thorough was the acquiescence of the king in his own immolation that, when he should come forth from the sacred pavilion and proceed to the flames, he would not be a mortal, but only the semblance of his former self; his glory shielded as a cloud shields the sun, lest the sight should blind the beholders.
As the curtains fell, secluding Hiram in the sacred pavilion, Egbalus kissed the spot where the victim's foot last touched the outer earth. Together with the attendant priests, he then retired from the proximity of the tent, leaving a broad space about it unoccupied by a human being, but penetrated by the gaze of thousands.
A long silence fell upon the multitude. A strange, oppressive awe of what might be transpiring within stifled the very breathing of the waiting throngs.
Then, suddenly, the blare of a hundred trumpets gave the signal for the presentation of the offerings. The inanimate gifts were first placed in huge piles upon the arms of the god, which, being lowered, dropped them into the flames beneath. Next, the living animals of small size were laid bound in his hands. The horse and bull were first slain, their blood poured over the arms of the idol, their hearts thrust into his open jaw, until, shrunken by the heat, they fell into the pit, and were consumed with the remaining flesh.
Then followed a stillness as of Sheol itself, broken only by the sobbing of the women who approached the image, each bearing her child in her arms. One, overcome by her contending emotions, fell fainting, but a priest instantly seized the child, and laid it upon the hot hands that shook it into the flames. Some staggered on with closed eyes, guided and goaded by the attendants. Some sang, in half-crazy ecstasy, the wild refrain of temple hymns, swaying their babes in time with the rhythm, and, without assistance, ascended the steps and presented their sacrifice. As babe after babe disappeared through the smoke, new waves of excitement poured over the crowd; hot waves of delirium, burning out humane instincts, and firing that rage of beasts which is latent in all men. The crowd yelled in frenzy. The priests, with their long knives, gashed their bodies, and, filling their mouths with their own flowing blood, spit it forth again in the direction of the god.
Then, as the last babe was offered, the grand expectation brought the multitude to silence. Egbalus approached the holy pavilion. He raised his hand. The note of a single trumpet, finer, sweeter, yet sadder than any other, floated over the throng. It was repeated, with louder sound and more prolonged. Again it rang forth with full blast, and was answered by one borne over the water from the Temple of Melkarth in the island city. Then the high priest stood with uplifted hands. It seemed many minutes to the people, whose excitement was scarcely endurable. Turning to where the folding curtain indicated the entrance to the pavilion, Egbalus cried with loud voice,
"Come forth, O thou accepted of Baal!"
He instantly prostrated himself on the ground. The priests in the front row of spectators fell prone upon their faces. In the crowd every neck was stretched and all eyes strained to catch the first glimpse of the sacrificial hero.
But the curtain of the pavilion did not move. Was not the victim's prayer yet completed? Was he so absorbed in communion with his god that he had become oblivious to what was outward? Or did he flinch now at the fatal instant? Perhaps the god had become his own priest and stricken him, or sweetly drawn his consecrated spirit from his body! Was he already dead?
Egbalus rose slowly from the ground, keeping his eyes upon the curtain to note its first flutter. Again he struck his most august attitude, and repeated the invocation:
"Come forth, thou accepted of Baal!"
He prostrated himself as before. But still there was no response.
The high priest rose again. He advanced, and touched the curtain, but, evidently overcome by a feeling that it were sacrilege, or perhaps by the dread of some mystery beyond his solution, or some ghostly power raised by his word, but not amenable to it, and that would not down at his bidding, he withdrew. He beckoned the dignitaries next in rank to himself, among them Hanno, and with them held a consultation. They were evidently as puzzled as he.
A third time the solemn invocation was pronounced, but with the same futile result. Egbalus then, with pretence of bold exercise of his office, but with manifest trepidation, laid his hand upon the curtain. Hesitatingly he drew it aside. For a moment he stared into the shadows. He advanced a step, then suddenly retreated. He looked about him as one bewildered and uncertain how to act. He motioned to the nearest priests. They came reverently, answering the perplexed face of the high priest with looks of equal curiosity and alarm. One by one they looked into the pavilion. Then they raised their hands as if Heaven alone could account for what they saw.
The Holy Place was empty!
"The god! the god has taken him!" said Egbalus, in half-dubious, half-credulous voice.
"The god has taken him!" shouted Hanno, and ran towards the crowd, wildly throwing his arms. "Let us die with him!"
He grasped for his priest's knife. It had fallen from his belt. He beat his breast, and fell in convulsions to the earth. Some of the people fainted with fright. Others covered their heads with their mantles, as if to shut out some stupendous apparition.
At this terrible moment a new portent occurred. The colossal image of Baal shook. Its metal folds creaked one upon another. The ground trembled as if from the convulsion of some subterranean spirit. The idol tottered, and fell half-way to the earth. The priests, wild with terror, ran shrieking into the crowd. Panic seized the multitude, who trod upon one another in their haste to get away from the dread proximity. Many were maimed as they fell among the great stones of the old ruin that covered the ground, and some were crushed beneath the trampling feet, or smothered under the accumulated mass of helpless humanity piled above them. Only when they had reached a distance did the fleeing men pause to look back. Egbalus alone remained near the pavilion. He seemed to have been transformed into a statue. At length he moved, not to follow the awe-stricken fugitives, but to enter the pavilion! Such halting steps did he take that one might have imagined him drawn by some invisible power which he was trying to resist.
"The god has taken the high priest also!" cried Hanno, who had recovered sufficient self-possession to raise his head and look; but, horror-stricken by the sight, he buried his face in the dust.
A venerable priest advanced from the cowering throng midway the open space, and raised his knife with a loud cry:
"I, too, would come to thee, O Baal!"
He plunged the gleaming blade into his own heart. Scores of knives flashed in the hands of the demented priests about him, as if they, also, were waiting the audible summons to follow.
Suddenly Egbalus reappeared. He beckoned those nearest. He called for Hanno, but the new enthusiasm had proved too much for the neophyte, untrained to such deep emotions, and he lay a heaving heap of unconscious devotion. Egbalus selected two attendants, and with them re-entered the Holy Place. Would the god have more? No; Baal was satisfied; for, see! the three priests emerge, not one of them blasted to a walking cinder, nor ascending in a flame of fire. They talked excitedly. Egbalus lifted his hand.
Suddenly the long blare of a trumpet announced the termination of the sacrifice. The crowds were not allowed to re-enter the enclosure, but betook themselves, some to Tyre or to their ships, some over the hills to the inland villages, others along the coast—on foot, in litters, on mules and camels and stately steeds—all scattering, to astound the world with their reports of the miracle.
The setting sun flashed its red rays upon the leaning figure of Baal, that seemed to bow in obeisance to the god of day. Only the priests remained to watch until Astarte, smiling in the crescent moon, wrote her benediction with the silvery beams she threw over the scene.
CHAPTER XI.
Had King Hiram vanished into the mystery of Baal? No. He had vanished under a mystery of Hanno.
When Hiram entered the sacred pavilion the place was exceedingly dark by reason of the heavy curtains that enclosed it, and the glare of the outer light that he had just left, for the instant, prevented his eyes from adapting themselves to their new environment. By degrees his power of vision was regained. He observed that the tapestried walls were wrought with the various symbols of worship; the sun of Baal, the moon of Astarte, the fish of Dagon, the star of Adonis, and the like. Beneath his feet lay a rug of silken shreds, pure white. He threw himself down upon this to collect his thoughts; to gather up his strength for the final act in this terrible tragedy. Surely Hanno's hopeful words had been merely to cheer him; they meant nothing, or his friend's plans for his rescue had miscarried. There was now no escape.
He prayed; to whom? He knew not; but still he prayed. For what? Not for himself; it was too late for that. He prayed for Hanno; that, in the desperation of his love, he might not attempt to make good his pledge of dying with his king; that he might be restrained from making a useless assault upon the priests, or from throwing himself into the flames. Then he prayed for her who was more to him than life—for Zillah. He gathered up his whole soul in a loving thought of her, and laid it—where? Upon the highest altar in the highest heavens, if there were any such place where pity for mortals existed. Then, as the sweet face of his beloved one filled his imagination, a tear fell—the first during all these days of agony; for the bodily humors seemed to have been dried by the hot fury of his grief. The tear fell upon his hand. He bowed to kiss it, because it fell for her. As he did so, his eye caught a spot of gleaming red in the white rug. Mechanically, without definite purpose in doing so, he traced the red line as it ran through the silken nap. It took shape. A wing!—and a circle! It was only a half-conscious thought—"The Winged Circle," such as was used as a religious device by the Persians, and was also carved on the stone architraves of some temples of Astarte. Then the full thought flashed upon him, "The mark of the circle!" Hanno's sign! Was it designed?
He raised the rug. A similar mark was rudely scratched upon a broad stone that lay just beneath it. He felt the edge of the stone. It moved. A tilting stone! He lifted it a little. A cool and dank air rushed out. This, surely, was a door into some passage! By a little exertion he was able to swing the stone upon its edge. Adjusting the rug over it in such a way that it would again cover the stone when restored to its horizontal position, he let himself carefully down through the opening. So strong was the draught of air that he scarcely needed to feel his way by touching the wall on either side, but guided himself very much as he had sometimes done when, on a dark night at sea, he helmed his ship by feeling the wind against his cheek.
He thought of this just for an instant, but it was long enough to think of Hanno too, as, in their last sail, they had steered the craft together. He could not restrain a subdued cry of gratitude.
"Noble fellow! Thy hand is on the other oar, as thou didst pledge. Thou art the only god that is left to me!"
For a little way he crawled over and around the débris that obstructed the labyrinth. Then he felt the space enlarging. A smooth pavement was beneath him. With extended hands he hurried forward. He heard the roar of fire, and knew that he was passing near to the pit beneath the image of Baal. A hot gleam shot through a crevice. It revealed a door of bronze covering an old entrance into the pit, through which anciently the priests had been accustomed to feed the flames. The door moved as he touched its hot surface. He opened it a little, that the light might illumine the passage. In the glare he saw several stout pieces of timber standing upright. These had been recently put in to brace the great idol, the foundation of which had given way on that side. Hiram took this in at a glance—he had time only for a glance, for the flames burst forth upon him and drove him away before he could close the door. The fire caught the timbers, and, a little later, consuming them, toppled the image above. But of this he knew nothing, as, taking advantage of the light, he plunged on through several hundred cubits of open way.
The passage he had followed ended in a small chamber into which struggled a ray of daylight. Here lay a coarse skull-cap of leather and a ragged chiton—a mere bag with holes at the bottom for the head and arms, the only garment worn by the poorest herdsmen. By the side of it was a club of heavy wood, knobbed with great spikes at one end—the ordinary weapon with which the herdsman defended himself and his flocks from prowling beasts. A little wallet contained dried dates and thin cakes of black bread; another was filled with small coins.
To divest himself of his princely clothing, don the chiton, and tie the bags about his waist beneath it, was the task of a moment. Then on he went, working his way like a mole between the great stones that, in confused ruin, would have blocked his progress, had he not been guided by his faith in the prevision of his friend Hanno.
Gradually the air became purer. It revived his strength and courage. Light came in through an opening which was screened heavily by a clump of bushes beyond it. These guarded the northern end of the passage from the inspection of any one without. Crawling through a crevice in the rock, he emerged cautiously, concealing himself amid the dense foliage. The bushes grew in a little cleared space about which were piles of stone, which had anciently walled a portion of the temple. He crawled like a lizard to the top of the stones and raised his head. He was far beyond the crowd, whose faces were all turned in the opposite direction, watching with absorbed attention for his reappearance from the sacred pavilion. Over the stillness he heard distinctly the shrill voice of Egbalus, as it cried, "Come forth, thou accepted of Baal!" His impulse for flight was checked by tragic curiosity. The contagion of the general excitement caught him and held him almost spellbound. Danger always had for him a fascination; at this moment he felt it reinforced by a sudden passion for revenge. Why not join the crowd, work his way through it, dash into the cleared space, smite the high priest to the earth, and hurl his hated carcass into the flames? What if the priests then cut him into ten thousand pieces? It would be worth dying for. Why not be a Theseus to his people, and slay the Minotaur in the person of its most devilish representative? His brain reeled with the thought.
A wild cry of the multitude recalled him to his more cautious judgment. The people surged back. The great image toppled. Ah! how grimly he guessed the reason!
The crowd turned in his direction. Was it in flight? or had he been pointed out, and were they cutting off his escape? He gripped his club to brain the first who should climb the stone heap behind which he had taken refuge. As some came near he noted their terror-stricken faces, and knew that they were not seeking him in this direction, but fleeing from him yonder where he was a superstitious embodiment of their fears. Then a fiendish humor came upon him. He took the dirty cap from his head, and, bowing towards the distant figure of Egbalus, said:
"I obey, O priest of Baal! Lo, I have come forth!"
He climbed down the farther side of the pile of ruins; paused a moment to rub handfuls of dirt over his hair and face, his clean-skinned legs and feet; then, swinging his herdsman's club, he ran away, outstripping the most cowardly fugitive from the dread scene.
He looked for no new mark of the circle, for the country was well known to him. Often had he dashed over these fields on his horse after the fox. Here, as a boy, he had practised the sling at the running jackals. Yonder lay the road to Sidon, over which, in princely company, he had gone to discharge some duty of state, or more frequently to join in aristocratic revelry with the young nabobs who lived in the favor of Prince Esmanazar. This road he dared not take.
To the east rose the mountains that walled so narrowly the plain to the sea. In them were hiding-places, but they would be speedily searched.
Beyond the first range, between the Lebanons, a broad valley was open to the north, but that was a highway of traffic. The caravans were passing up and down it. He could not trust himself there, for in every company would be some one whose eyes were sharpened by the hope of reward for his capture.
Galilee was not far away, populated by a mongrel people, composed of the relic of ancient Jewish stock and the colonists who had come from Babylon. To the south was Samaria, and beyond, the land of Judea, her tribes long ago carried away by Nebuchadnezzar, but now returning to fortify again the heights of Jerusalem.
Westward shone the Great Sea, glowing with prismatic colors under the brush of the setting sun. Once upon the sea, he might be safe. But the road that lined the coast would be crowded with those returning on foot or in chariots from Tyre to Sidon. If he could pass them, how could he procure a ship? His present garb would awaken suspicion, if he even talked with any of such a purpose.
Oh, for another mark of the circle! But there was none in the sand that burned his naked feet, and none in the sky, now fiery as with the wrath of the outwitted sun-god.
On he went, scarcely thinking whither, except that the sort of instinct which leads wild animals, when pursued, to double on their tracks, prompted him to turn, making a detour to the east to avoid the scattering crowds; then working his way south, for the first pursuit of him was sure to be north, in the direction of his escape.
South of Old Tyre ran for miles a ruined aqueduct terminating in a reservoir. All the conduits of the latter he knew well, having but recently spent a day in company with an engineer exploring it, with a view of utilizing it in increasing the water supply of Tyre. Here he could be safe until the night darkness threw about him its all-covering shield.