Istar of Babylon: A Phantasy

Sunlight streaming over his face, the sound of a quick exclamation, and a little ripple of laughter, brought the Greek to his senses next morning. Ramûa, bright-eyed and smiling, sat in the door-way, a heap of fresh and dewy flowers in her lap, a basket-tray beside her. She was fastening up little bouquets of roses, lilies, heliotrope, nasturtiums, iris, narcissi, and the beautiful lotus. Baba, as usual, was playing with Zor, who had just made another rent in her much-tattered garments; and Bazuzu lay upon his pallet, still asleep. Presumably Beltani was on the roof. Charmides hoped so. He had already come to prefer her at a distance. But at present the rather unusual arrangements of this household puzzled him; and he could not tell, from precedent, where any of its members would ordinarily be at this hour.

Charmides rose, not a little embarrassed at having been asleep in the presence of Ramûa and her sister. He became in time accustomed to the very free manners current among Babylonians of the lower class; but at present he was mightily relieved when Ramûa, with a tact hardly to be hoped for, jumped up from her place, and, calling to Baba to follow her, departed towards the roof with her fragrant burden. Charmides at once began his toilet, which he happily finished without interruption. Then, leaving Bazuzu still asleep, he sought his hosts in the upper air. Breakfast was ready, and it proved to be a gala meal. There was meat—goat's flesh from the yesterday's sacrifice. For on days that followed great religious festivals the flesh from the sacrificial hecatombs was sold at a minimum price to the poor, so that the greater part of Babylon had meat to eat. Besides this, there were milk and bread; and Charmides, in a sunny mood, felt that the king himself could have desired nothing more.

The meal was quickly over, and, a few minutes afterwards, Charmides could scarcely have told how, he found himself walking, lyre in hand, at Ramûa's side, along the bank of the canal, on the way to the temple of Istar. On her head Ramûa carried her basket of fresh flowers. The Greek watched her closely and with delight as she moved, lithe, straight, and graceful as a young tiger, her bare feet making delicate marks in the dust of the way, her hair, to-day unbound, swinging behind her in long, silken masses. And Charmides' beauty-loving eyes brought joy to his soul as he regarded her. Yet his walk was not wholly a light-hearted one. His mind was troubled with thinking, as other men thought, as he had not thought before, of a means of livelihood. Here he was, thrown utterly on his own resources. If he would live he must work—must gain enough to keep him, however simply, when his father's money was used up. This conviction was not an easy one to face. There was but one thing that he knew how to do well, and at all times liked to do, and that thing held forth small promise of earning him money. His poor lyre! In any province of Greece, or Lydia, there had been small cause for worry. Rhapsodists were of a class apart, and were reverenced by an art-loving people as on an equality with their priests. Zeus might be the greatest Olympian; but Apollo had a shrine in every heart. Babylonia, however, was not Greece; and what the Babylonian fancy for music might be, Charmides did not know. Thus when the long walk was ended, and Ramûa had taken her place on the platform steps below the temple of Istar, she looked up into his face to find the usually bright countenance as solemn as that of an ibis. Nor could any word or look of hers bring more than the shadow of a smile to his lips.

Charmides stood beside her for a few moments, looking across the thinly peopled square. Then his shoulders straightened. He gave a little outward manifestation of his mental state, looked at Ramûa with a farewell smile, and left her, walking swiftly away towards the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

Ramûa, confounded, cried after him impulsively: "You will return! You will return to me at noon?"

Charmides looked round, nodding reassuringly, but whether in response to her words or merely in answer to her voice, the maiden could not tell. She sat quite still where he had left her, her head drooping a little, utterly forgetful of her business, paying not the least attention to possible buyers. The sun poured its bright, scorching heat down upon the gray bricks. Water-sellers were to be heard crying their ever-welcome refreshment. Chariots, carts, and litters passed through the square. The city's voice rose murmurously through the heat, and one by one the usual beggars and venders made their appearance on the platform steps.

Through the hours Ramûa sat spiritless, watching those that passed up the temple steps, selling her flowers unsmilingly, half unwillingly, to those that offered to buy. At early noon she felt a first qualm of hunger, and looked up to find the sun at its zenith. With a start she came to herself. It was past her usual luncheon hour. All around her little meals of bread, sesame, and dates were being brought forth by the habitués of the steps. The cripple on Ramûa's left hand, thinking perhaps that she must go hungry to-day, proffered her half of his loaf with a compassionate, misshapen grin. Ramûa refused him with a forced smile, and, heavy-hearted, took out her food and showed it to him. There was enough for two in her package to-day; and she regarded it unhappily, still hesitating to eat, while the hope that Charmides might return died within her. Once again she looked over the deserted square, and then, resolutely turning her face to the temple, took one dry mouthful of bread. Charmides was gone for evermore. She should not see him again. Another bite: Charmides had been killed. A third: his body was floating, face downward, in the black, hurrying waters of the cruel Euphrates. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and there appeared a tear, that rolled uncontrollably down her pretty nose. She put her bread away—when before had she not been hungry at noon?—and then sat with her head bent, trying to conceal her grief from the sympathetic beggar.

Presently some one came up the steps and sat down close beside her. She felt the presence, but did not look round. Suddenly a big, ripe melon was placed before her, by a hand too white for Babylon. Ramûa started up, with a spasmodic breath, and her face glowed like the sun after a summer storm. Charmides, the morning trouble all gone from his face, was at her side. In one hand he held a number of ripe figs. The other had borne the melon. Ramûa retired at once within herself, too shy to do more than smile faintly and then try to hide her face, with its unconcealable joy. But such a welcome pleased the Greek more than anything else; for, as he was beginning to realize, his instincts regarding woman nature were quite unexpectedly reliable.

Luncheon was now eaten in earnest; and the cripple could not but be amazed at the change in Ramûa's appetite. With a little laugh she broke the melon on the steps, and proffered a large piece of it, together with his bread and dates, to the Greek. She herself ate slowly but willingly, answering the looks of the rhapsode, and even talking to him in the tongue that he could not understand.

There came a time, however, after the last fig was gone and the cup of water had been bought and drunk, when embarrassment fell between the two. Ramûa feared, dreaded, and then half hoped that Charmides would rise and go away again, this time to stay. She felt that she could make no effort to keep him at her side. She would have given half her life to be able to treat him with natural gayety; and yet, had she been able to do so, the essence of delight in all this would be gone. Charmides himself was suffering from the inability to talk to her. But after an unbearable period of awkward silence he strove to solve their difficulty. Leaning over from where he sat, and touching the girl's tunic, he said to her, by means of signs and looks, and a word or two:

"What is the name of this?"

Ramûa smiled with delight. "Kadesh" she replied; and in this way Charmides' course of study was begun. The first lesson lasted for an hour, and at the end of it the Greek knew not a few words that promised to stick in his memory. When he felt that he could retain no more, he stopped her, and sat conning his lesson on the steps in the sunshine, while she, tardily recalled to duty, took her flower-basket and went forth into the square to proffer her somewhat drooping bouquets to the passers-by. By the time she returned to her companion the sun was midway down the heavens, and Charmides, lyre in hand, stood, evidently waiting for her. By means of signs he made her understand that he must leave her till after sunset, when he would return again to the square to go home with her.

Ramûa did not ask his destination. Very probably he could not have made her understand it had she done so. She watched him pass down a narrow street that led to the southwest, out of the square of Istar, in the direction of the temple of Sin. It was to the holy house of the moon-god that Charmides went; for his single morning in Babylon had found him a means of livelihood.

Though he himself was unaware of the exact position that he held, he was attached to the temple as an oracle. That morning, as he had hummed himself through the square of Sin, one of the Zicarû, or monks in service at the temple, had chanced to hear his voice, and, perceiving that the singer was of foreign race, and being himself a highly educated man, as were all of his order, addressed the fair-haired one in the westernmost language that he knew—Phœnician. Charmides had come near to falling at his feet and worshipping in the delight of finding some one to speak to. But the Zicarî led him gravely into one of the inner rooms of the temple and there asked him sing and speak and play upon his instrument, and after a time made him an offer to join the temple service, unordered as he was, and to do exactly what he was told for about three hours in the day. The pay was high, and to Charmides it seemed that a miracle of fortune had befallen him. Such being the case, it was, perhaps, just as well that he did not understand the full significance of his duties. For an hour in the morning he was to stand inside of the heroic statue of the god, and to speak through the half-open mouth words whispered in his ear by an attendant priest. He was not told that his peculiar pronunciation of the Babylonian syllables and the melodious softness of his voice were invaluable adjuncts to the oracle of Sin; and that, furthermore, the fact that he understood not a word of what he said made him more desirable for the place than any member of the under-priesthood would have been. Besides this curious work, he was supposed to assist at sacrifices by playing on the flute or lyre; and by means of these light duties his livelihood became an assured thing, and his place in Babylon was secure. He asked no questions, either of himself or of the priest, his master. He accepted everything with childlike faith; and, verily, it seemed that, brush as he would against the world, the bloom of his pristine innocence would never be rubbed from Charmides' unstained soul.

So, having found a home and an occupation, within forty-eight hours after his arrival in the Great City, Charmides' life in Babylon began.

IV
BELSHAZZAR

The Greek felt a quiver, half of fear, half of delight; and, rising at once, and leaving Ramûa and his meal behind, followed the attendant, not into the temple, but behind it, towards the entrance court of Istar's dwelling. Here, upon a heap of rugs, beneath a canopy of Egyptian embroidery, the goddess reclined. Charmides, however, did not see her till after he had encountered the gaze of one who stood just inside the arch of the door in the wall. This was he who had followed Istar in his chariot home from the procession of the gods, he at whose remarkable appearance Charmides had so marvelled: Belshazzar, the king's son. Still was he godlike, imperial enough to look upon; but the Greek forgot his presence while Istar was again before him. When his gaze fell on her he started slightly, turned his eyes away for an instant, and looked again. Yes—it was true. Through the shimmering veil her form was clearly visible. She was not now only a cloud of dazzling, palpitating light. Immortal still, and radiant she was, but—Charmides let his thoughts break off quickly. Istar was commanding him, in Greek, to play to her. He lifted his lyre at once, and, under the spell of music, he forgot himself, half forgot her before whom he played, in contemplation of the ideal created by the harmonies. When, after half an hour, he was stopped and dismissed, he left the divine presence in a state of exaltation. Belshazzar was but a blur beside the door-way, and Ramûa, when he returned to her, seemed a trifle less beautiful than usual.

After this, every day, Charmides gave half of his noon hour to this new form of worship. It was Ramûa's pride as well as his. She never grudged the time; and, on his return to her side, never failed to ask of his success, nor to beam with delight when he confessed it. At each of these visits Charmides realized that Belshazzar was present; but the fact made little impression on him. He saw her whom he worshipped quicken to new life, to new radiance, at sound of his voice and the chords of his lyre; and, when he left the court, the storm in the eyes of the king's son went unnoticed. Yet the storm was there, daily increasing in fury; and there came a time when it passed control and burst forth in the very presence of her whom both men worshipped.

It was noon on the seventh of Abû (July), a day on which Babylon lay quivering under a fiercer sun than before. The city was exhausted with the recent end of the annual three-day feast of Tammuz; and Charmides himself was weary and a little faint when he entered Istar's presence. Belshazzar, with what seemed a scarce pardonable liberty, had thrown himself face downward on a rug near the portal of the court. At the first note of Charmides' song a slight twitching of the muscles in the prince's back betrayed his hearing of the song. But as the voice went on, as Charmides, even in his weariness, sang with a depth of feeling that he had never before exhibited, the other man lifted his head to look at Istar. Under the spell of the music that was a divine gift, she was becoming more and more the old-time unapproachable goddess. The rays of the aureole, which, half an hour before, had vibrated so slowly as scarcely to disturb the eye, were quickened to a new life. Blinding streams of light poured about her now. And Istar herself was quivering with a strength, with a delight, that was apart from earthly things. Charmides' voice showed its power, its beauty, its clear heights, its mellow depths, as never before. He had begun with a most delicate pianissimo, in tones of exquisite restraint and purity, the old myth of Alpheus and Arethuse—a thing that he had sung a hundred times before, yet never as now. The tones blended with the rippling harmonies of his lyre in a stream as pure and limpid as the current of the sacred river. The Greek syllables, music in themselves, fitted so perfectly to the melody, that Allaraine himself, afar off, listened with surprise and pleasure. Belshazzar alone, perceiving how Istar's divinity increased with each sweep of the instrument, trembled with anger. The song rose towards its climax. Istar had become oblivious to everything but the sound of that voice. Charmides, inspired, had lost himself in the heaven of his own making. Suddenly, from beside him, came a hoarse, choked cry, the sound of hurried running, and the lyre was struck furiously from his hands down to the brick pavement.

" Ὥς εἰπὼν Ἀλφέυς μὲν...!" The song stopped. Panting with broken emotion, Charmides faced about. His face was pale and his lips drawn with displeasure—with something more than that. Before him, shaking with jealous wrath, towered Belshazzar, his hand uplifted, his eyes flaming.

There was silence. Charmides waited immovably for the blow to fall. But Belshazzar did not strike him. Istar lay back, trembling. Under the influence of these human and gross emotions, the vibrations of light around her diminished so rapidly that one could see them melt away; and soon she was left almost without divine protection—a woman, in woman's garb. Finally, however, with no trace of weakness in her manner, she rose, confronting the two men. For a moment her gaze travelled from one to the other. Then, passing to Charmides, she halted by his side, touched his shoulder lightly with her hand, and pointed to the door-way.

"Go, thou disciple of Apollo. Fear not. I will send to thee a lyre that is not dishonored. To-morrow come to me again—as always."

Then, while the Greek still quivered with the thrill of her touch, she walked with him, two or three steps, towards the open arch.

In the mean time Belshazzar, broken now, waited before her place. When the light trailing of her garments passed near his feet again, he suddenly lifted his head and looked at her. They were face to face, and their eyes met. Istar's glance shone clear and baffling upon the man, yet before it Belshazzar would not lower his. He was making an almost inhuman effort, mental and physical, to overcome the perfect poise that proclaimed her more than human. But Belshazzar could not cope with a thing divine. His strength, to the last drop, was gone. She was superior to him. He knew it. Goddess she was—must be! He must acknowledge it—must submit. Slowly he lifted his arms and crossed them on his breast. Slowly his dark head was lowered. With bitter humiliation he gave the signal of defeat. Istar moved slightly.

"Give me the broken lyre," she said, softly.

Belshazzar sought it where it lay, bright and shattered on the pavement. He proffered it to her humbly, and saw her, receiving it, touch it to her breast. He shut his eyes that he might not see the hated thing made whole; but, looking up again, he saw the instrument still splintered, still unstrung. She had not, then, performed the miracle.

He had but a moment more with her. Presently she raised her hand, and, with the slightest of gestures, dismissed him from her presence. Belshazzar could not disobey the command. Blindly, weakly, without a glance behind, he moved towards the portal. Thus he did not see the goddess, as he left the court, suddenly reel, and an instant afterwards fall back upon the pile of rugs, covering her face with her hands, and exhibiting every sign of human distress. On the contrary, humiliated, hopeless, and disturbed by the temerity of his thoughts, yet as rebellious as before, the prince of Babylon crossed the platform and descended the steps where Charmides sat with Ramûa. The prince scarcely saw the Greek as he passed him; and Charmides only lifted his eyes in time to behold Belshazzar's back, and to watch him cross the square to the spot where his chariot waited. The driver, at his master's approach, leaped to his place, drawing up the heads of the powerful black animals. The prince entered the vehicle. Nebo-Ailû gave a quavering cry. The horses plunged forward, and the shining chariot clattered after them down the Â-Ibur-Sabû.

"To the house of Amraphel," said Belshazzar; and Nebo-Ailû inclined his head.

They passed swiftly down the great street to where, north of the square of the gods and the holy houses of Nebo and Nergal, stood the spacious palace of Amraphel, high-priest of Bel-Marduk, and chief of the priesthood of Babylon.

As the chariot of the prince royal drew up before the palace gate, two attendants always in waiting there ran out, their swords held horizontally above their heads, in presentation to one high in authority. Belshazzar remained like a statue where he stood, and Nebo-Ailû requested audience with the high-priest in such terms as the prince would have used towards an equal; for the priest of Bel-Marduk was not at the command of the king.

The slaves disappeared with their message, and Belshazzar waited, motionless, moving not so much as an eyelash, acknowledging no obeisance made him by a passer-by: for such was the etiquette of royalty at that day. After many minutes in this trying attitude, a little company of eunuchs emerged from the gateway. In their midst, shaded by a large, swinging parasol, and fanned on either side by black slaves, was Amraphel, an old man, white-bearded, bright-eyed, his stiff, white hair crowned with a red, conical cap, his flowing muslin skirts sweeping the pavement, and the goat-skin bound upon his left shoulder. Slowly he moved towards the chariot. Ten feet from the wheel he stopped. At the same instant Belshazzar turned his head. They gave to each other the brother salute—of the mind, the lips, and the heart. Then Amraphel, who was doing the prince an extraordinary honor, said:

"Will the lord prince, governor of the city, enter into my house?"

"Receive my thanks for thy favor. Nay, Amraphel, it is Nabu-Nahid, the king, my father, that asks if thou wilt be conducted by me to his presence. He has some communication to make to thee."

"I will command my chariot."

Belshazzar leaped from his place, while Nebo-Ailû descended more carefully and went to stand at the horses' heads. "Let my chariot be yours, Lord Amraphel," observed the prince, courteously.

The old priest bowed acknowledgment, and, having quickly whispered in the ear of his nearest slave: "My chariot at the gate of the new palace within an hour," stepped forward and mounted into the royal vehicle. Belshazzar followed him, and this time took the reins himself, leaving Nebo-Ailû to reach home on foot; for there were few chariots that afforded comfortable standing-room for more than two people.

Nebo-Ailû left the horses' heads just as Belshazzar's ringing cry sent them plunging up the Â-Ibur-Sabû. At no great distance north of the palace of the high-priest there ran off from the boulevard a narrow but well-paved road, that wound eastward and north to that part of the river that was lined with palaces—on the east shore Nebuchadrezzar's and Nabopolassar's, side by side, connected by the great bridge with those on the opposite bank—the hanging gardens, Nabu-Nahid's royal dwelling, and the vast hunting-park used by Belshazzar. The Street of Palaces skirted this park, passed the portals of the present royal palace, and branched off to the west end of the great bridge. Along this way to-day Belshazzar guided his steeds at break-neck pace; for in all Chaldea there was not such another horseman as he, when he chose to exercise his skill; and it must be confessed that there was nothing in the person of Amraphel that made Belshazzar desirous of prolonging their drive together. The priest showed neither nervousness nor displeasure at the pace set. Through all the jolting, the jarring, and the swift, dangerous curves, he maintained an expressionless, passive demeanor. It was only when, with a wide sweep, the vehicle rounded up and the quivering steeds came to a halt before Nabû-Nahid's gateway, that Amraphel, alighting first, remarked, ceremoniously:

"Thine are goodly horses, Prince Bel-shar-utsur. May Ramân guard them that you break not their breath some day with fast running."

"There are other horses to be bought for gold," was the brusque answer, as Belshazzar leaped from the chariot and signed to a slave to lead the frothing animals to their stables.

Prince and priest entered the palace together; but, once across the outer court-yard, Belshazzar left his companion to be announced before the king, while he himself retreated to his own apartments, where many hours' labor awaited him. Steward and chancellor sat in his council-chamber when he entered it, and he greeted them with the air of a man who was about to begin work. Yet work was impossible to-day to him. Treasury and grain reports, accounts of the crops within the walls, lists of taxes, military supplies, arrangements of reviews, matters of pension and promotion, deeds of sale, mortgages, matters of transport, all alike were impossible to be considered. That thing which was haunting him would not go; and, after half an hour of wearisome effort to concentrate his mind on what was before him, he suddenly pushed away all the clay tablets and rolls of papyrus, leaped to his feet, and, curtly dismissing the officials, himself left the room. Passing out of his many and rather forlorn apartments, he walked aimlessly out across the wide, central court-yard, around which the separate portions of the palace met, and went through a small gateway that led into the seraglio. The small court, off which opened various sets of rooms, was white with the glare of the afternoon sun. Three piles of scarlet rugs, an embroidery frame, and a broken peacock-feather fan, gave evidence of the feminine character of the inhabitants of the court; but there was no woman here at the present moment. Huddled in the shadow of the wall, his bronze back turned upon the world, lay a child of three or four years, fast asleep. Before each of the several door-ways stood a cotton-clad eunuch, palm-staff in hand, rigid and sleepy. These inclined decorously as Belshazzar swept across the court, and they watched him from under their eyelids as he halted near the great entrance, looking thoughtfully around. From some chamber far in the interior came the droning sound of a dulcimer and the crooning of a woman's voice. Other than this, the seraglio was still.

Belshazzar stood apathetically listening to the song. Should he seek out the singer? After a moment's indecision, and a step or two in the direction of a small door-way, he halted. He had had enough of singing for one day. Yet, till the day was cooler, time must be passed in some way. He might go to his father—his father and Amraphel, who were closeted together. His father and Amraphel—clay and a sculptor; soft metal and a hot fire; an arrow and the bow. Belshazzar caught at his idea, never looked again at the court-yard, but turned sharply on his heel and set off across the palace for his father's favorite lounging-room. He was met at its curtained door-way by Shâ-Nânâ-Shî, chief eunuch of the king's house, who regarded the advisability of an intrusion by the prince as a matter of doubtful wisdom.

"The priest of Bel is within, Lord Belshazzar."

"Who else?"

"Shûla—"

"The architect?"

"My lord speaks."

"Let me enter, then. Amraphel is dangerous, I say!"

Nânâ, his duty done, stood aside; and Belshazzar, unannounced, strode into his father's place of dreams.

His entrance brought with it sudden silence. The prince felt this before his hand had dropped the curtain. He looked from the effeminate figure of the king, reclining on a couch, to Amraphel, who stood stiffly on the other side of the room, and then back to little Shûla, with his scrolls of papyrus upon the floor before him, and his expression apprehensive of some unexpected disturbance. Belshazzar, in his one swift glance, read the drama, smiled inwardly, shrugged, and stepped over to Nabonidus' side.

"My coming is ill-timed, lord my father?" he asked, in a gently grieved tone, after the filial obeisance.

"No, Belshazzar, no," replied his father, with hasty courtesy. "I rejoice at your arrival. You may, perhaps, show us the way out of our discussion."

"And of what is it that you speak?"

"The great temple of Ishtar, in Erech, which I, at the behest and for the love of the gods my fathers, have lately restored. Shûla's drawings of the new building are here."

Little Shûla's face betrayed wary signs of enthusiasm. Shûla, alone with his master the king, was an inspiriting sight; for the one was no less ardent than the other on their particular hobby. But Shûla with Amraphel on the one hand, Belshazzar on the other, and Nabonidus in the background, was an unhappy object. The high-priest was like a wedge inserted between two teeth; himself unfeeling, impassive, unswerving, he possessed the unhappy faculty of causing everybody about him the most exquisite discomfort by the mere fact of his presence. From behind the drawings that had been presented to him by Shûla, Belshazzar looked about him. The constraint of the atmosphere was still a mystery.

"So," he said, presently, in a tone of slow good-humor, "your discussion is regarding the holy temple of Istar of Erech. And what of this temple?"

"My Lord Nabu-Nahid, why should this feeble matter in any way concern the prince thy son? Has he not perplexities enough in the ruling of the city—"

"Nay, Amraphel," cut in Belshazzar, hastily, "I am here because of my idleness. Here, if my father says me not nay, I will stay, and listen to your speech. What speak you of?" He turned again to his father, as the high-priest, with an angry frown, gave up the point.

"Yes, yes, Belshazzar, stay and tell Amraphel that the goddess Ishtar must not be removed from Babylon to dwell for evermore in her holy house at Erech."

Belshazzar's head swam; and he felt a pang as of a stab at his heart. The knowledge that Amraphel's hawk-eyes were reading him like a bare tablet, enabled him to straighten up, without having betrayed himself utterly.

"The Lady Istar removed from Babylon?" he repeated.

"Listen, Lord Belshazzar," observed Amraphel, smoothly. "The primeval seat of Belit Ishtar was, as you know, in the ancient city of Erech. It was from there, more than sixty thousand years ago,[8] after the death of Izdubar, that her worship was extended to all Chaldea. Now, on the site of her old and ruined temple, your father has caused to be erected the magnificent building of which the plans lie yonder. The king, out of the goodness of his heart, is about to decree a great religious festival in honor of the goddess and the opening of the temple. At present the rightful inhabitant of that temple is alive in Babylonia. How displeasing to her and to the gods her brothers would it be, if her temple should be opened without her!"

Amraphel finished in a tone of quiet authority that was peculiarly irritating. That his logic, however, was incontrovertible, was at once apparent to Belshazzar. Again, however, Nabonidus began with his plaintive, unreasoning: "No, no. Babylon shall be protected. Babylon must keep her goddess."

Amraphel shifted his weight and gave the faintest shrug of the shoulders. The sheep-like complaint must run its course. After it, a victory would be a simple matter. But Belshazzar's expression was not that of his father. Amraphel regarded it uneasily. The high-priest's one desire was to get Istar, goddess or demon, whichever she might be, out of Babylon, where her hold on the credulous and superstitious masses was something against which the priesthood could not contend. And this desirable end might easily have been arranged with Nabonidus alone. Belshazzar's entrance at this particular time was the most unfortunate thing that could have happened. Amraphel had some faint, hardly defined suspicion of Belshazzar's state of mind; and he was instinctively aware that to remove Istar from Belshazzar's seat of government, would be a task next to impossible. Belshazzar, after a few moments of thought, said, quietly:

"My father, Amraphel of Bel is right inasmuch as he saith that Belit Istar should go down into Erech to receive worship in her holy temple. Decree the festival in honor of her and of the great gods her brothers; and let her be in Erech for that time. But as the goddess of Chaldea suffered her first incarnation in Erech, and there dwelt during her first earth-life, so now, since she received the flesh in Babylon, let her also dwell here, returning hither again after the opening of her temple in the ancient city. Is it not reasonable that it should be so, O Amraphel?"

"Truly, truly, Belshazzar, thou art inspired of the gods!" cried Nabonidus, delightedly, from his couch.

Little Shûla ventured to smile; and Amraphel signalized a partial defeat by seating himself in an ivory chair, disdained by him a half-hour before. Belshazzar remained standing. He felt that his point was won. There were, indeed, more words on both sides, but nothing further was gained by the priest. The festival was planned for the following week; and it was decided that Istar, the king, the prince, and many of the priesthood, should descend the river in the state barges kept ready equipped and frequently used by the king and the official household. At Erech itself there would be processions, pageants, sacrifices, and merry-makings of every description. For three days should Istar be installed in her holy house, returning afterwards to Babylon as she had come. To this plan Amraphel was obliged to submit; for if the force of logic pitted against him was as strong as his own, and the strength of will were as great again, it was because Amraphel was laboring through hate, while Belshazzar worked in the thrall of an overweening, hopeless, unconquerable passion that meant more to him than his religion, and against which none could have contended. It was part of their times, probably, that in the midst of the dispute it should not once occur to any of the three that Istar herself could best decide the place of her future dwelling. Goddess though she might be, her gender was feminine; and that fact, in this oldest of Oriental lands, in a way half neutralized her godhead.

The discussion ended, Nabonidus waited fretfully to be alone; but the high-priest still lingered, and Belshazzar, as Amraphel very well knew, remained for the purpose of watching him and preventing any attempted influence with the king. It was not, indeed, till Nabu-Nahid dismissed Shûla, and, rising, announced that he was going to the apartments of his low-born queen, that Amraphel took an obligatory leave, and Belshazzar, in a very good humor, watched the high-priest drive from the portals of the palace in his own chariot.

By now the sun hung low in the heavens. The heat of the day was passed; and the prince, dismissing from his mind all further thoughts of work, commanded his chariot again. The victory of the afternoon had almost counterbalanced the hopeless affair of the earlier day; and it was in a careless and light-hearted mood that the prince royal started forth into the city, chatting as he went with Nebo-Ailû, and showing by this means that his business was unofficial.

Their way led once more into the Â-Ibur, down which they rattled past the treasury, the granaries, the house of Amraphel, the square of the gods, and finally across the bridge of the New Year. Here they turned off to drive along the street that ran by the south bank of the canal, till they drew up in front of the palace and extensive gardens that stood almost directly opposite the tenement of Ut. Here, at a bound, Belshazzar alighted, dismissed his chariot, and turned to the resplendent slave who hurried out to meet him.

"Tell Lord Ribâta that Bit-Shamash—nay, lead me rather into his presence without announcement. I can speak for myself."

The servant cringed obediently, and led the way through the empty court-yard into a long series of dimly lighted and sparsely furnished halls, elaborately decorated, but as cold and as lifeless as unused chambers always are. From these they presently emerged into a very livable apartment, where, in a big arm-chair, in front of a narrow table, bending over a heap of neatly inscribed tablets which he was examining with the aid of a magnifying-glass, sat the master of the house, Ribâta Bit-Shumukin, one of the most important and one of the youngest officials in the kingdom. His back was to the door-way, and he was much engrossed in his task. Therefore he had no inkling of the appearance of Belshazzar till it was announced by a burst of hilarious laughter, and the words: "Truly here is an example for thy prince!"

Bit-Shumukin started up and wheeled round. Belshazzar's laughter seemed to be catching, for Ribâta, at sight of his friend's face, joined in his merriment, and the two laughed together till the solemn secretaries and the slave-porter were constrained to think the heir-apparent either very drunk or very crazy.

"How art th—thou melancholy, O my Ribâta? Is it granaries or Elam that know thy labors at this hour of repose?" gasped Belshazzar, when their mirth had diminished somewhat.

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

"Never! Dismiss thy sweating secretaries and send them to their play. Then thou shalt once more show me Khamma, if thy jealousy hath indeed abated. Let her dance for us to the strains of the zither. Let us quaff wines of Khilbum and of Lebanon. Let us laugh, and make joy to flow about us like rain in Tabitû. Yea! Harken unto me, for I speak as a prophet; I speak as the mighty prophet of my father's father—what was his name? Bel—Bel—"

"Belti-shar-utsur!"

"Belti-shar-utsur! That! Without the ti it is mine own. Come away, Ribâta, from this den of toil."

Belshazzar's flow of nonsense ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the last phrase was spoken rather impatiently. Ribâta recognized the change and hastily obeyed his companion's suggestion, dismissing his secretaries, and slipping a familiar arm through that of Belshazzar, as they started away together towards the women's apartments. Here they entered a small, empty hall, at the upper end of which was a raised daïs covered with rugs and cushions, and overhung by a purple canopy. Belshazzar threw himself wearily down, while Ribâta sent for refreshment of cool wines and fruits, for slaves with fans and perfumes, and, finally, for Khamma, the fairest of his dancing-women.

While he was waiting for these various luxuries, Belshazzar lay back upon the soft resting-place with an air of intense weariness. His evanescent gayety had gone, and he was bent beneath a weight of unknown cares. Ribâta understood him in this state as well as in the other, for the two men were as brothers—Bit-Shumukin having lived all his life under the royal protection. Bit-Shamash and he had played together as children; together had reached the period of adolescence; had tasted the first delights of young manhood, entered upon a career of the wildest dissipation, and finally settled down to take up the duties of life, still in each other's company, still holding fast to a brotherhood of spirit that was perhaps the most beautiful thing in the life of each. Ribâta was in no way possessed of the remarkable personal beauty that had rendered Belshazzar famous—or, some said, infamous, through the land. Still, in his way, he was a handsome fellow, of good stature, cleanly built, with refined features, a merry eye, and the blackest possible hair and beard. His wealth was great and his taste highly cultivated; so that Belshazzar had only to admire whatever he might find in the house of his friend. This, a few weeks past, had been a fact somewhat unfortunate; for a new slave of Bit-Shumukin's purchase, Khamma by name, a dancing-girl of some beauty, had appeared before the prince, and for the moment caught his fancy. The girl herself, being called to him and receiving a word or two and a caress, suddenly fell on her knees before her master, and pleaded with childish tears and sobs to be sold to this man over whose wonderful eyes she was suddenly gone desperate. It had been an embarrassing situation. Belshazzar knew Ribâta to be, for the moment, enamoured of his purchase; and he escaped her adoring presence as adroitly as possible. Yet for days thereafter Khamma had chosen to weaken her eyes with incessant tears, her voice with moans and wails, and, worst of all, her owner's affection by her exhibition of dislike for him. The result was that Ribâta's passion cooled as rapidly as it had risen, and, a day or two before, he had actually offered her to Belshazzar, taking care to warn the prince that, save for her dancing, she was a perfectly useless piece of household furniture. Belshazzar was not too enthusiastic over her, but consented to see her again, and hence his visit to-day. But now, while they waited her coming, his mind was anywhere but upon her.

Side by side the two men lay back on their cushions. The perfumed air was stirred about them by the huge, slowly moving fans. At their feet stood a bronze pitcher of wine, and in their hands were chased silver cups. After a sleepy pause the prince, taking a long draught, introduced an unlooked-for topic.

"Beltishazzar, Ribâta, the prophet of Nebuchadrezzar—he was one of the captives of Judea, I have heard."

"Ay. He is a Jew."

"Is!"

"It is so. He lives, I know too well where. Thou, also, must have seen him many times. His dwelling is in the Jews' quarter, not far from the traders' square, and close to the house of Êgibi. In time, my lord prince, upon some council day, I shall speak to thee concerning the race of this Beltishazzar. For the last two years I have watched them, and I find them giving promise of danger to the state. Beltishazzar himself, he whom his people call Daniel, is no poor man; but he goes about with the slinking manner of a pauper, ill-kempt, unclean, dirtily dressed, and yet—mark it well, O prince—he is not seldom seen in the company of temple priests, with Amraphel himself sometimes, and with Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin."

Ribâta paused, noting with regret that he had brought a frown of trouble into the brow of Belshazzar, and that the prince was slipping away from the present scene of enjoyment to a realm of anxious thought. "Priests!" he muttered, half to himself. "Priests again! Priests forever! Priests! I tell thee, Ribâta," and his voice rose high with anger—"I tell thee that should Babylon ever fall it would be at the hand of a priest. Their power is mightier than that of the throne. Everywhere through the land they—"

He broke off suddenly, displeased with himself for having spoken in such a manner here. Two eunuchs were entering from the lower end of the room, and they seated themselves on either side of the door-way, with zithers on their knees. Behind them appeared a woman, or, more properly, a girl, lithe and slender, with pretty, vacant face and floating black hair twisted with golden ribbons. Her feet were sandalled in red and gold. Her dress was of flying, yellow gauze, with a girdle of crimson. Scarlet poppies were bound about her head, and a crimson scarf was in her hands. She halted in the door-way with an air of grave modesty, performed a humble obeisance before the two men, never lifting her eyes to the face of either; and then, as the zither-players began their music, she, Khamma, began the dance. Certainly she was a graceful creature, and, in her dreamy way, possessed of a perfect sense of rhythm. Belshazzar watched her with half-closed eyes. Ribâta's attitude was that of polite weariness. While the dance progressed, both men replenished their wine-cups, and occasionally addressed each other in an undertone. Khamma did not look at them. Nevertheless her whole body was cold with emotion, and as she continued the dance she trembled, and her very teeth chattered with terror and delight at the near presence of Belshazzar. Ordinarily she had remarkable powers of endurance, and often danced for half an hour at a time before Ribâta. But to-day was different. At the end of fifteen minutes she was in a state of utter exhaustion; and, as the eunuchs, noting her condition, mercifully began their closing harmonies, she advanced up the room to the foot of the daïs, and presently sank, half swooning, in the last prostration before her master.

Ribâta glanced at his friend. "Wilt thou have her?" he muttered, too softly for the girl to hear.

Belshazzar considered, and a different expression came over his face. "Nay," he said.

"What sayest thou!" cried Ribâta, in astonishment. "Since when dost thou refuse my gifts? Is she so unlovely?"

At this last phrase, which she had heard, Khamma looked up, straight into Belshazzar's eyes. Instantly a sharp sigh, like a groan, escaped her lips, and in spite of himself the prince softened.

"She is fair—enough. Let her be conveyed to my house. Thy gift could not be unwelcome, Ribâta, thou knowest it. Accept this, my brother, in place of her."

Belshazzar took from his shoulder a pin of beautifully wrought gold and fastened it upon his friend's sleeve. Ribâta's little displeasure was dispelled, and, after returning affectionate thanks, he signalled the eunuchs to come forward and lead the girl away. Before going she knelt before Belshazzar, and left upon his feet the hot imprint of her lips. This act affected the recipient in a curious way. His color suddenly fled. The storm-eyes opened wide, and flashed with a new fire. He drew a gasping breath, and then, while his face grew crimson, the veins in his neck and in his temples swelled out in bright, purplish blue. His muscles twitched with emotion. Ribâta, watching him with a smile of sympathy, looked to see his comrade rise and run after the dancer. But, to Bit-Shumukin's vast amazement, he perceived that, for the first time in all his life, Belshazzar was fighting fiercely with himself. The animal in him was a very lion in strength, but the opposing force was this time stronger. What this force was Ribâta had yet to learn. Belshazzar, tight-lipped, lay back again upon the cushions, his two fists hard-clenched. Ribâta bent over him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

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

Belshazzar looked into his face with an inscrutable smile. "It is Istar, Ribâta, Istar my goddess." Then, with a long-drawn cry, all the strange, warped, blasphemous emotion in him burst forth: "Istar! Istar! Istar! Beloved! Lift me up! Make me divine, or cause my mind to lose the thought of thee! Istar! The iron sears my soul!"

"Belshazzar!" exclaimed Ribâta, in horror. And then, in an undertone, he muttered: "By Nebo and Bel, our sins overtake us! He is going mad!"

V
THE JEW

Up to this time, for hundreds, perhaps thousands—nay, as the naïve Berossus has it, hundreds of thousands—of years, the Babylonians had worshipped, nominally, their gods and spirits: virtually, they had bowed before the priesthood and its orders. The priests themselves, knowing no gods, had, from all time, held in their hands unlimited power. For many centuries the king himself had been a patêsi of Anû—high-priest of the sky-god. Then, when the temporal ruler became a man apart, when the office was secular, and when Babylon had writhed under the lash of Nineveh, the people had always their religion. The high-priest and his seers became more than ever absolute; ruling king and slave by means of unreasoning superstition; while in the houses of the priesthood the gods were regarded as an amusing myth. But now—now—for two years past, all Babylonia, from Agâdé to the gulf, had been in a state of feverish religiosity, for the reason that there was a goddess in Babylon: a goddess—a living, baffling, radiant presence, whose origin none knew. Amraphel was baffled by her at every point; but, trained from his birth up to a creed of absolute materialism, he still refused to believe in her divinity, because he had lost the power to rise to a conception of divinity.

To-day, as his carriage rolled slowly across the great bridge to the east side of the city, the high-priest pondered again over this problem of problems, though now less than ever seemed there any way of solving it. Down the Mutâqutû, the second boulevard of Babylon, and from there to the great temple of Marduk, the largest building in the city, but second in size to that of Bel in Borsip, he went. By now the sacrifice and heave-offerings for the afternoon would be ended, but it was Amraphel's self-appointed task daily to inspect the temple, the shrine, and the priests' rooms, before he retired to the college of Zicarû for the evening meal and a talk with his under-priests.

The monster temple and the great square of Marduk were aglow with the sunset as Amraphel's chariot drew rein at the platform steps. The old man alighted with his customary assurance. He had not reached the platform itself when his eye was caught by a figure in front of him moving slowly towards the temple door. It was a lean and sorry figure, ill-clothed, and hardly clean: that of a man hook-nosed and hawk-eyed, who leaned wearily on his staff and muttered to himself as he went. Him Amraphel overtook and familiarly accosted.

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

The Jew turned on him with a sour smile. "Yea, I go for my haunch of the day's heave-offering. God pardons a poor man the acceptance of unsanctified food."

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

Daniel turned an ugly look upon the high-priest, who, having motives for policy, suddenly changed his tone and said, in a low voice:

"Come thou and talk with me. The heave-offering, or something better, shall be sent to thine abode. There is a near matter that waits discussion."

The Jew consented silently to the proposal and followed the high-priest into the temple, across its vast hall, and back into one of the small rooms used only by priests. The little place was empty, and Amraphel seated himself in it with an affectation of feebleness. His back was to the light, and he motioned his companion to a seat whereon the last gleams of dying sunlight would fall direct from the small window behind the priest. Daniel sat down, drew his garments together, laid his staff across his knees, and caused his face to fall into an expression of vacancy that betokened the utmost alertness of mind. Amraphel had, however, not the least intention of trying deceit with his companion. Rather, he was about to risk a very daring piece of frankness upon this ruler of captive Judea.

"Daniel," said the old man, speaking in Hebrew, "you have told me that your people worship one only God. In your holy scriptures is there any word of another—a goddess—that is divine?"

"No!" was the quick answer.

"Hast thou—" Amraphel bent towards him—"hast thou beheld, closely, her whom they call Istar?"

"Yea."

"Hast thou spoken with her?"

"Perhaps."

"Nay, be not cautious with me, Jew. I speak from my heart. I ask as one that knows nothing, what is the idea of thy mind concerning the woman that dwells in the holy temple of the goddess? Is she divine?"

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

"Yet you see in her a supernatural power?"

Amraphel asked the question with unmistakable anxiety; and Daniel, raising his eyes, glanced for an instant into those of the priest. It was the only answer that he gave, yet it was the one that Amraphel had most feared. So, then, Daniel himself did not know the secret of Istar's existence. It was well enough to call her an incarnation of evil. That, according to Amraphel's way of thinking, did not at all lessen her power. It was a rather discouraging silence that fell between the two; a silence that Daniel finally broke.

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

The high-priest hesitated for a bare second. Then he answered, openly: "I would have her driven from Babylon! Driven hence, because—because she menaces the state. Because she takes our power from us. Because with her the Elamite may find himself powerless against the city."

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

"Sh! Be silent! That name spells death. But consider what I have said. The people of the city worship their 'goddess' as they no longer worship the great gods of the silver sky. Should there come a time when Bel and Marduk commanded the surrender of the city to the Elamite, if Istar held not to us, if she raised her voice in behalf of the old dynasty, in behalf of the tyrant, then indeed our lives might well be forfeited. For when she commands, the people obey. And hark you, Daniel, I fear that Istar of Babylon will not have the blood of Belshazzar redden the streets of the Great City."

"Nay; for she loves the tyrant Belshazzar!"

"Ah! You say it!" Amraphel, in high excitement, half rose from his place. Here were his suspicions most unexpectedly confirmed.

Daniel, the imprudent words having escaped him, sank apathetically back in his place, giving the high-priest to understand by his attitude that nothing further was to be expected from him on that subject. And Amraphel had the tact to waive the point. He felt it to be too broad for discussion; for, in spite of himself, Istar roused in him unmistakable feelings of awe. But now there was at least a strong bond of sympathy between himself and Daniel. Amraphel realized that, and began at last upon the real object of his conversation—a description of the proposed festival at Erech, the three days that Istar was to spend in that holy house.

"And why," queried Daniel, quietly, "should she not remain in Erech, the seat of her ancient worship? Surely that were well for all Chaldea?"

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

Daniel looked at his companion with a twinkle in his eye. "If they were but married!" he muttered to himself, not quite daring to speak the words. But aloud he said, softly, with stress on every syllable: "Yet, Amraphel, if Istar of Babylon leaves the Great City, who is there to say that she shall enter it again?"

"None! As I am priest of Babylon, there is none that may say it! Yet—yet—I do not perhaps understand thy words."

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

"Yea, thou saidst. Say again, Jew, how shall Istar not return again into the Great City?"

Daniel would not speak; but Amraphel, perceiving that much lay behind the obstinacy, tried every means in his power to open the mind of his companion. Finally the high-priest, driven to bay, took the risk, and, bending over the Jew, said, softly: "There is no deed that could be called by the name of just execution that I would not see performed—for the sake of Babylon and that captive race of thine that longs for liberty again."

Thereupon Daniel, straightening, answered and said: "God is not flesh, but spirit. I, with mine eyes, have perceived that Istar of Babylon is of the flesh. Therefore, priest, she must be mortal, and subject, as all of us, to death. There be points of bronze and of iron which, piercing the body, free the soul. So Istar—"

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

"It should be—thus." Daniel paused for a moment, his keen face working with his thoughts as he arranged the plan. "Belit Istar, the king, and the priests, descending Euphrates in boats, will come to Erech on the evening of the second day. Let the woman, on that night, go to rest in the sacred precincts of the temple, but not then penetrate to the sacred shrine. On the morning of the third day from Babylon all the people shall be assembled in the great hall of the temple that they may behold their goddess ascend into the shrine. Let her enter there alone for purification and for communion with the great gods her brothers. And look you, Amraphel, if she come not forth alive from that place it shall be for a sign that she was not divine, but an evil thing, that had indulged in unholy mockery, and had angered the great goddess Istar that dwells on high in the silver sky."

Not till after he had spoken did the narrow eyes of the Jew meet those of his companion; and he found Amraphel regarding him with grave stolidity. Such things as this that they were planning were in no way unheard-of among the holy orders; for the goat-skin, had it taken its true color, would, long years ago, have been dyed crimson with the blood of those slain under cover of its power. To be sure, Daniel did not wear this badge of office, and he proffered worship only to the God of Judea. But his was a captive race; and just at present his position was gallingly unimportant. Therefore he believed that there were no means actually unjustifiable for him to use to free himself and his people from their nominal captivity. Amraphel's next question, however, brought up a new train of thought.

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

"Nay! Nay, verily!" Daniel spoke in haste. "Is it not written in the laws of Moses, 'Thou shalt not kill'? It must be a man of Babylon, not of Judea, that does this thing."

"Then shall some younger member of the priesthood be instructed to the deed: Vul-Ramân, of the temple of Nebo; Siatû-Sin, of the temple of Sin; Gûla-Zir, of Bel at Borsip—"

"Rather, Amraphel, than that one alone should be trusted to fulfil the difficult command, let there be three concealed within the shrine. So shall they gain courage, each from his fellow. Then there could be little danger of cowardice or of impiety."

"Truly, truly, that is well spoken. There shall be the three of them. Now, Istar hath not yet been told of the approaching journey. I, on the morrow, bear the word of it to her. It cannot be possible, Beltishazzar, that from any source she could hear anything of this plan? Surely there is no danger that the dagger will fail to pierce her flesh?"

Daniel grinned evilly. "Ho, Amraphel! Thou that believest in nothing! Is it divinity now that you attribute to the woman? And where is divinity? Where is a god? Where a goddess? Those words are foolish."

"Time runs away. I must depart," observed the high-priest, rising hastily. "I go for the evening meal to the house of Zicarû. There also will be Vul-Ramân, and probably the others. Will you come with me?"

Daniel assented eagerly. It was not his idea ever to refuse a meal which would cost him nothing. Moreover, he was well known to the members of most religious houses, in which he was more or less respected as representing the great colony of Jews in Babylon, whose co-operation in the coming revolution was a very necessary thing. However little, then, the ex-prophet might be personally liked, his presence commanded a respect that was born of fear; and this, for him, in whose secret heart was implanted an implacable hatred for the race that held him and his people in so-called bondage, was enough.

The house of Zicarû was a kind of monastic institution in which unordained members of the priesthood received an education, and where all the various under-priests and attendants of the various temples might lodge and eat. One of these houses was supported by nearly every temple of Babylon, and the luxurious rooms of the house of the temple of Marduk were the resort of high-priests and elders from every temple in the city. As institutions of learning, the monasteries were celebrated; and there were schools attached to them for the instruction of the laity in such courses of study as were not taught in the market-place. Astronomy, algebra, geometry, astrology, augury, and many languages—old Accadian, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Sanscrit could be learned there from the most efficient instructors in Chaldea. Without doubt the priesthood of Babylon was a highly intellectual order, and the people whom they ruled were ruled intelligently.

As Amraphel and the Jew reached their destination, daylight sank, at a breath, out of the sky. They found the world within at supper. The high-priest was greeted by a general rising, and the chief place at the head of the table was vacated for him by Vul-Ramân, of the house of Yakin, priest of Nebo and Nergal, next in rank to Amraphel. Vul-Ramân was a far younger man than his immediate superior, and his face was pleasantly expressive and unusually animated for a Babylonian, who, of all peoples, were the most impassive.

Amraphel took the place at the head of the table with accustomed dignity, while Daniel found a seat farther down, among the elders, and his yellow face lighted with pleasure as he smelled the savory odor of roasted meats taken from the day's sacrifices. No table in the city, barring the king's own, was furnished so lavishly or so richly as this; for the rarest offerings made each day to Father Marduk were sent to this larder at sunset. That which was not eaten was afterwards given away to the poor, who nightly clustered about the gates of the house, giving thanks to the gods for their generosity.

Amraphel was a small eater, and never eager for food. To-night his beef remained before him untasted. His bread was unbroken, and the barley paste grew stiff and cold as he sat drinking cup after cup of the wine of Lebanon, talking with those around him, using eyes and brain keenly as he watched the right moment at which to speak. Vul-Ramân and Siatû-Sin were side by side upon his left; while, as fortune arranged it, Gûla-Zir was next but one upon his right, having come in from Borsippa for the night.

Amraphel knew that every man at that table was at his command, unquestioningly, day or night. None would dare dispute his word; none dare even to ask his motive for a deed. Nevertheless he carefully bided his time, waiting till the moment when that that he had to propose might seem not only possible to do, but, in the interest of their creed, the most desirable of all deeds. The time arrived. Vul-Ramân had happily made reference to a somewhat similar affair of many months before, the results of which had been beyond question beneficial—from the priestly point of view. Amraphel took the last words out of the other's mouth, turned them to unique account, and in less than five minutes had laid bare to his companions the skeleton of his design. It was done so deftly, so lucidly, and withal so delicately, that Vul-Ramân could not but regard his superior with envious admiration. The whole arrangement of the murder was planned by suggestion. Not once was an imperative used. Yet the man of simplest mind could not have failed to see what was to be done, how, and by whom. Amraphel concluded more boldly with a phantasy of the deed:

"I can see the great and holy temple, and the many hundreds that stand within, waiting the coming of Belit Istar. I see the steps ascending to the holy shrine all carpeted with stiff gold. At last I behold her coming radiantly into the dusky temple-room. Her tresses float lightly behind her; her tresses, like spun silk, hang as a veil about her shoulders. Falsely now she moves between the rows of kneeling men and women. Falsely she glides up the holy steps, and, profaning all holiness, draws aside the curtain of the sanctuary and enters alone into the little room. The curtain falls again, concealing her from the watching eyes. Silently and swiftly do the faithful of the great gods steal behind, seizing her about the throat, with firm hands stifling her cries of terror. Before her stands her judge. The instrument of his justice is in his hand. Well he wields it. Three times it strikes swiftly to the heart of the woman. The silent body is left in the shrine. Only the false soul wails its way into the dismal land of Ninkigal. The judges, high in favor with the gods, depart even as they came, by the statue-door in the back of the shrine. In high heaven the true Istar sings for joy. Crowns and much wealth she gives to those that have served her. And now, down the golden carpet that covers the steps leading up to the high place, flows a long thread of crawling crimson, which, with its brightness, shall speak to the people of the mortality of her whom falsely they worshipped. Belit Istar shall be discovered to them as a woman."

These artistic and well-chosen words of the high-priest were greeted by all those around him with mental applause. The three men detailed for the work eagerly accepted their task, and were enviously regarded by their companions; for would not the true Istar, doubtless in the person of Amraphel himself, reward them with "crowns and much gold"? Ah! In the days of the great gods how might a prince have envied his priest!

At the end of the meal, details of the forthcoming murder were discussed by Amraphel and the three priests in a room apart. After everything was properly understood Amraphel quietly left the house, and, once more mounting his chariot, made his way homeward through the long, dark streets. His mind was at peace. The defeat at Belshazzar's hands of the early afternoon, had merely necessitated another battle, in which, this time, victory to the other side was an assured thing. There would be little fighting about it. The disposition of forces was the simplest in the world. There remained only two things to do. A vast celebration must be decreed, through Nabu-Nahid, for all Babylonia; and, more delicate task, Istar herself must be persuaded into taking an interested part in the festival. This last thing could best be done by himself. And in order to prepare himself as adequately as possible for the coming interview with the goddess in her own temple, Amraphel betook himself at this early hour to his couch, and shortly after lying down, mind and body alike being at rest, the aged and reverent man sank serenely to sleep.

Unique as was Istar's outer life, splendid as were her surroundings, awful and holy the places in which her time was passed, yet to an ordinary person her existence would have been intolerable. Her absolute isolation was something that those who regarded her from the outside never considered. To them she was above all ordinary things. She was part of many a pageant, a dazzling vision to be looked upon, stared at, frequently prayed to in various affected ways, but in the end treated as something inhuman, some one far from real life, the real world, real feelings of joy and of sorrow. Gradually she had grown accustomed to her vast solitude. Her loneliness was uncomplaining; but her days were interminably, cruelly long. This was one reason why, when Lord Amraphel asked audience of her on the morning after the breaking of Charmides' lyre, she joyfully granted the request.

Istar lay upon a pile of rugs in the prettiest interior court of her dwelling behind the temple, listening to the distant droning of a flageolet that came from a narrow street behind the temple platform. The rays of her aureole had been very faint; but, as Amraphel was announced to her, her veil of light quickened into new life, and the vibrations pulsated rapidly, as if to protect her from close contact with some dangerous force. The high-priest was ushered into the divine presence preceded by four eunuchs and followed by two black pages. Three times he prostrated himself before her, with every mark of humility and reverence. After the third obeisance Istar commanded a chair to be brought for the old man, and bade him be seated in her presence. Amraphel, however, with a sudden, inexplicable qualm, refused the honor.

"Belit Istar," he began, after a prolonged silence which Istar had not thought of breaking, "for two years now, ever since the miracle of the incarnation, you have dwelt secluded in the Great City. Here all men have worshipped you in awe and in love. But now, from that city in which your first earth-life was lived, where, in the early dawn of Chaldean history, you and your bright Tammuz and the mighty Izdubar dwelt together, your people cry aloud to you again. By the benevolent generosity of Nabu-Nahid, their king, the men of Erech have raised a new and mighty temple in your honor, have called it by your name, and they pray, through my mouth, that you will go down into Erech and will with your divine presence consecrate the far-famed holy house in which henceforth, in all honor and glory, you will dwell. This, to-day, is my mission to you, Lady of Heaven. May my words find favor in your ears!"

While he spoke to her Istar had watched the man with troubled eyes. Something in his way of speaking moved her to distrust and to unhappiness. When he had finished the trouble lay in her heart, and she rebelled inwardly against him. But when she spoke, it was but to ask, quietly: