"The people of Erech pray me to go down among them. When would they have me come, and how?"

"Eight days hence they wish to consecrate to you their new temple. You, the king, the king's son, the priests, your own attendants, and many lords and slaves of the royal houses, will journey in barges down the great river. It will be two days before Erech can be reached; but entertainment will be provided by the way for you and for the king and the king's son. Musicians, dancers, and singers shall show their skill before you. Canopies will shade you from the fierce fires of Shamash. Cool wines and fruits and grains, with the flesh of cows, will be provided for your sustenance. Through the journey, Lady of Heaven, you shall know no want."

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

"Not on the first night. At sunset of the second day's journey the sacred city will rise up before you; and all night there will be feasting and rejoicing. You will be housed as fittingly as mortal men can make your lodging, in the long rooms behind the temple. Far more spacious are they than these. Here, in communion with the gods your brothers, the night will quickly pass away; and when the morning dawns, and many people fill the temple, then you shall enter among them, and shall pass up the steps of the sacred shrine and shall enter into the high place, where purifying water will be placed in the deep. When this water is blessed at your hands it will be carried down among those in the temple and sprinkled over them, and thereby great miracles will be performed. Then, when you sit in the mercy-seat and receive the holy prayers of the people, giving them leave to address you and worship your holy name, all lower Babylonia will fall upon its knees before you, will proffer sacrifice, and hold in highest honor you that are come to dwell among them. Yea, and the city of Erech shall be forever holy among cities. O goddess, may my words find favor in your ears!"

Istar listened to these words as to the others, quietly, but with a distrust that she would have been unable to explain. When the high-priest ceased to speak she let the silence remain unbroken for some minutes. Finally, rising up before him, she replied, more dogmatically than she had ever spoken to any one:

"I, O Amraphel, will go down into Erech, and there will I consecrate, as much as in my power it lies, this newly erected temple. I will listen there to the prayers of the people, and will answer them if I may. Yea, for three days I will take up my abode in the city of Erech. But longer than that I will not tarry. Babylon is the seat of my dwelling; and in Babylon I will fulfil my time. Moreover, let not the festival be ordered till two more Sabbatû be passed. Then shall the barges at the great bridge be made ready, and the king, and the king's son, and the priests, and lords, and slaves may assemble there on the twentieth day of this month of Ab. Lo, I have spoken."

Amraphel made no protest. Once again he prostrated himself before her, in token of obedience to her will. Then, for a moment, he made an effort to scan her face. But the light flowed round about it so that he could perceive nothing. Presently there came over him a sudden rush of dread lest she should read the thoughts in his heart. Yet as his hands touched the hem of her garment she did not shrink from him; and, as he turned to leave her, she looked upon him with kindly eyes. He left her presence with perplexity and doubt in his mind; though how it had entered in he could not have told. Was Istar human? Could she be divine? As the old man drove rapidly away down the Â-Ibur-Sabû, it seemed to him that the firm, material beliefs of fifty years were swept from his mind, and he was left again as a child before whom the world and its inscrutable mysteries are opening for the first time.

When the high-priest was gone, Istar rose from the rugs upon which she had sunk back for the moment, and began to move slowly up and down the sunlit court. As she went the rays of her aureole grew dim, till the embroidery of her purple robe could be distinguished, and her hair glistened only under the beams of the sun. And Istar's thoughts, like her steps, were slow. She would neither define nor analyze them. Only, being as ever alone, she murmured them aloud to herself; and it was as well, perhaps, that no one was at hand to hear her, as she said, softly:

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

VI
ISTAR OF ERECH

Istar was in her place before the royal party arrived: Nabu-Nahid in one chariot, Belshazzar with Ribâta in another, and behind them a long line of lords, councillors, judges, and members of their households. As the prince stepped from his vehicle to the embankment, Istar caught sight of him. At the same instant his eyes, moving hurriedly over the scene as if in search of something, encountered hers. A quiver passed through each of them, and which was most affected it would be difficult to say.

In the general mêlée of embarkation that followed, Belshazzar and his party managed to obtain the barge to the right of that on which Istar lay. Nabonidus and his officials were on the left; and after them formed the lines of other boats, three abreast. When every one was safely in his appointed place, and the fastenings had been cut, Istar's boatmen raised a long, quavering cry, that resolved into the first notes of a song. In this the men of every boat joined; and by the time the first phrase was at an end, the long, thick-bladed oars were moving regularly through the water, and the brilliant pageant was moving down the ancient stream.

To Istar the hours of this, her first day's journey, were long dreams of pleasure. She had known nothing of the course of this river after it left the confining banks of the city, through which it flowed darkly, rapidly, unbeautifully. Now the freedom of its winding course, the native life, and the richness of verdure along its banks, the mighty palm-forests, the long stretches of grain-fields, the picturesque irrigators at which men were continually at work, the droves of cattle and water-buffalo on the banks, the troops of cranes, pelicans, and flamingos in the water itself, the very warmth, the singing of the hurrying river, and the mournful answers of the boatmen, brought to her such a novel sense of joy and content as she had never before known. If men loved life as she did for this moment—then she had already discovered the secret of the Great Master. It was freedom—freedom to roam at will through the fair world, with no tie to bind one to any spot—the whole world one's home, one's delight.

This day, with all its varied beauty, ended at last—melted away through the short, purple twilight into a starry night. The songs of the rowers died. The river was very still. Those in the boats dropped away to sleep, one by one. Only Istar lay through the velvet hours open-eyed, trying to fathom the depths of this delight of hers—the delight that in some way had not all to do with the day and the scenery. She seemed now to have entered into life. Till to-day she had been so protected, so hedged about with ceremonial and form, so hindered by her supposed divinity, that now, in this first flush of her freedom, there rose again from her heart that deep cry for mortality that should bring her true knowledge as to the falseness or truth of the new-found joy. She had hoped for Allaraine to come to her that night; but the hours wore away, and when false dawn foreshadowed the morning he had failed her for the first time since her incarnation. There was a little sadness over this; but it was forgotten, presently, in the general stir of waking, of eating, and of greeting the exquisite first moments of the day.

Just as the barges started at full speed again after the long night of drifting, there came an incident that changed the aspect of the second day from dreamy content to uneasy, troublous delight. One of Istar's fan-slaves, whose duty it was to waft before her one of the long-handled, peacock-feather fans, had disappeared in the night, no one knew whither or why. Nothing was said to Istar about it. Some one had taken the slave's place. Her fans were waving as usual. It was an hour before some slight awkwardness in the manipulation of the implement caused her to glance up at the wielder of it. Instantly a sharp cry escaped her lips. It was Belshazzar who was playing the slave. Instantly she bade him cease the work and return to his barge. This, stubbornly enough, he refused to do; and the matter was finally ended by a eunuch taking his place, while he lay down at the prow of Istar's boat, with his face turned towards the goddess, who reclined uneasily on her cushions, seeking to avoid his glance, but returning to it again and yet again, perhaps not wholly against her will.

As Amraphel had foretold, the city of Erech appeared to them like a shadow through the twilight of the second day, rising, many-towered, from the east bank of the river. Darkness had come on before a landing was made. Great bonfires had been lighted all along the banks of the river; and thousands of people stood thronged together in their flaring light, waiting to welcome their goddess and their king. Lusû-ana-Nuri, the governor of the city, with his lords and judges, stood at the landing-stage. Istar, supported on the one side by Vul-Ramân, on the other by Siatû-Sin, waited till the prostrations of the governor were at an end, and then mounted the magnificent car prepared for her, on which she was drawn slowly between endless lines of kneeling and awe-struck citizens to her new abode, the vast temple of Istar of Erech, rebuilt by Nabonidus on the site of that ancient one that her prototype was said to have inhabited thousands of years before.

On the temple platform, back of the great ziggurat, was the third building—the dwelling-house of the living goddess; a palace of a hundred rooms, pricelessly furnished and decorated. Hither, alone in her car, Istar was driven. It had been arranged that the king and all of his accompanying suite, together with Prince Belshazzar, should proceed with the governor to his palace, where a huge feast had been prepared. The goddess herself, it had been thought, would prefer to pass this night in communion with her heavenly brothers, in preparation for the ceremony of the morrow. At the entrance of her new abode she was received by a large company of eunuch priests, and of female Ukhatû and Kharimatû, together with veiled nuns, prophetesses, and dancing-women. By these she was surrounded, and reverently conveyed to an inner room, where was spread a savory repast. Of this she partook in solitude, to the mournful sounds of flutes, lyres, and cymbals playing a slow, rhythmical dance, to which two maidens postured before her. It was a lonely and a dreary meal—one such as she had been long accustomed to, but which these two short days on the river, where there had been many people, and laughter and gay singing, had rendered more distasteful than ever before. Having eaten a little, Istar requested that she be conveyed to her sleeping-room and there left alone; for the strange faces and awed behavior of those about her rendered her more forlorn than she would have been in entire solitude.

The sleeping-chamber was a long, narrow hall—the usual shape of Babylonian and Assyrian rooms. At one end of it, on a raised daïs, was a couch of ivory and beaten silver, piled high with rugs and cushions of the most costly materials. The walls and the narrow door-way were hung with rich embroideries of a deep, purplish-blue color. The tiled floor was strewn with rugs and skins, and the whole room was dimly lighted with swinging-lamps of wrought bronze. Chairs of ebony, teak-wood, and ivory, with tables of the same materials, were placed about the apartment. High in the wall at the lower end was a little, square window through which might be seen a single brilliant star.

Istar looked around her with pleasure. Two attendants remained at her side till a eunuch slave had brought in a silver tray containing a jar of rare wine with a golden drinking-cup. This he placed on a table near the couch. Then all three of them, obedient to her command, departed, after a series of the tiresome prostrations that were a continual weariness to her.

And now, at last, she was quite alone again—alone with the night, with the great silence, with the dimly burning lamps, and with the awe-inspiring hush that had settled over her. She seated herself upon a low chair and folded her hands upon her knees. The presence of God was distinguishable in the room. All thought of the day that had just passed was gone from Istar now. She felt a sense of the vastness of time, and of the immateriality of all things. She seemed to be alone in a great void, a void filled by the incomprehensible power of the universal master. Her own thoughts frightened her. Her breath came more slowly. For a little time it seemed to her that to-night she was to return into her former state. Whether she welcomed the end with joy or with sorrow she could not have told. But the end was not yet come. How long it was before she was restored to herself by the appearance of the rosy cloud of Allaraine she did not know. The strains of music from his lyre came faintly to her ears, as from an immense distance. The mist and its well-known nucleus were there with her. Yet now, and for the second time, that nucleus did not take on its proper shape; was not formulated. Allaraine was striving vainly to come to her. Considering the great spirituality of her mood, this was doubly strange. Istar looked into the cloud with eyes that spoke her fear. The music itself melted—slowly died away. The cloud grew paler and more mistlike. Quietly Istar rose, and, with mental insistence, held out her arms. There was one last burst of chords—chords that fell as from a great height in organ-tones as dim and beautiful as the evening wind. The single phrase struck home to her heart; it was a phrase of sorrow, of warning, of preparation for coming evil; a phrase that spoke, as a voice speaks, of suffering. Then, once again, there was silence; a silence as oppressive as heat. The window was clear again, and through it the star could be seen. The odor of sandal-wood was strong in the room.

Istar lay back in her broad chair. The memory of her old life grew faint. Babylon lay leagues to the north, and she was no longer part of it. The history of the ancient and sacred city in which this, her temple-dwelling, stood, the shadowy legends that clung about its crumbling and honored walls, presented themselves vividly to her mental vision. She seemed now to be a part of the spirit of that other Istar, the Love-goddess, who, in her great incarnation, had loved and married the warm and exquisite Spring, the Tammuz of present-day festivals, who had appeared in human form then, when the world was younger and more fair. And she knew also with what vehemence that Istar had loved the great hero, the slayer of lions, the man of wisdom and strength, Izdubar, who had sought her out for aid in battle when the power of his good genius, Êa-Bani, failed him. And that Istar of old had not failed. As she thought of the two, and how Istar the Love-goddess had become the woman of war, the lady of Arbela, the mind of this other of divine race was filled indiscriminately with the soft murmurings of spring and the martial clang of arms. Happy, indeed, had been that Istar of old; for she had loved, and had protected whom she loved, fearing none, obeying no power higher than herself. But now—if the people of the city were seeking such another as she had been, they must wail at last in their disappointment. Neither Tammuz nor Izdubar—neither beauty nor strength—had come to her to love her; nor could she have given all that her predecessor knew so well how to give. Love! What was it? Vague imaginings flitted through the Narahmouna's mind. She paused, in thinking, to hearken to the silence. A city of sleep lay about her on every hand. Stirred any creature there through the night? Her head drooped upon her knee. She listened to the throbbing of the stillness. Yea, some one besides herself was awake with the darkness. She could distinguish soft footsteps near her door. Some slave, no doubt, was going to a vigil in the temple. Silence again. The steps had not died away, but seemed suddenly to stop near by her very portal. Istar listened again, but still did not lift her head. She knew that the curtain overhanging the door-way was being pushed aside. There was some one else in the room with her. She felt the presence, and her heart ceased to beat. Yet it was not fear that sent the blood to her heart. Only when the some one was very near, when the fold of a flowing mantle touched her shoulder, did she finally lift her bowed head and look. At the same instant, before she could rise up, half in terror, half in joy, the man sank abjectly at her feet. A white, fearful, half-daring face was lifted up to her. A pair of haunted storm-eyes caught and held her look. A moving, nerveless hand clutched the hem of her garment.

Istar hardly breathed. It was all too vague, too dreamlike, too impossible, for her to realize what had happened. She was without fear, yet she shook like an aspen. She let her eyes answer that other look. Then, from the gaze, something was born within her. Something choked her. She gasped for breath. Finally, with a sudden cry of terror, she covered her face with her hands and rose unsteadily to her feet.

Belshazzar did not stir; neither did he take his eyes from her as she moved across the room. His heart was pounding furiously against his side, and his head swam with the power of the emotion that had driven him in this way to her presence. A wonderful thing passed before his eyes. That veil of light, that had held the goddess safe in its protective depths since her incarnation, was almost gone. It had been rent and torn from her by the force of the change within her; and now it hung around her form in thin, glittering shreds that melted away like hoar-frost in the sunlight. At last he saw unconcealed what that had so long unbearably tantalized him: that which, hitherto, had only revealed itself to him by accident, a line, a single curve accentuated by a gesture, at a time. Now, all at once, it was before him quite visible—the delicate, fragile form of a perfect woman, clad in clinging draperies of purple embroidered in silver, sandalled in silver, the head uncrowned, the waves of silken, black hair falling unbound behind her.

She had stood at the far end of the room, statue-like, for a long time, before he came back to himself, before he realized how he lay. Then, in some way, he got to his feet and went to her; carefully by instinct; repressing himself at every step. She knew that he came, yet did not seem to shrink. Before he reached her side, however, he broke the silence between them, saying, huskily:

"Istar—do you bid me go?"

She did not at once reply, though he did not know whether or not she meditated over her answer. While she still paused, the eyes of the prince dilated with anxiety. Finally came the reply in a whisper so low that it was a miracle he heard it: "Not Istar of Arbela; Istar of Erech, I. Go—if thou wilt—"

In another instant Belshazzar was upon her, had taken her into his heroic arms, was drowning her cries of amazement in the passionate torrent of his emotion; and for a little she was still, while wonder took full possession of her. Then there came from her lips one cry that would not be silenced—a cry that rang through the room and passed out of the window, winging its way upward to high heaven: a cry of momentary anguish, of something forever lost, of something also gained. It was no more the voice of the Being Divine. It was that of a woman.

Hearing it, involuntarily, Belshazzar drew back from her, smitten with a kind of terror at what he must have done. She was there, wide-eyed and shivering, before him. The last shred of her aureole was gone. She sobbed. Her eyes had become blindly bright, and presently overflowed. In that first moment of humanity she wept. It was her destiny. Something more she did also. In her weakness, in her great solitude, she did what women will. All alone in a strange world, unsheltered, unprotected, amazed and confused by the great tumult raging within her, she turned to him who stood before her, the embodiment of human strength and beauty, and to him she held out her arms.

Belshazzar went to her, not fiercely now, but reverently, almost as much amazed as she herself at this more than fulfilment of the dream that he had so long and so blasphemously cherished. Holding her again close in his arms, his senses reeled under the human warmth of her body. Bending his dark head over hers he whispered to her, in such a tone as he had never used before, those words that make the world immortal:

"Istar! Oh, my beloved! I love thee!"

One of her arms crept fearfully round his neck, and the tears from her eyes fell upon his cheeks, and he understood that she answered him. Knowing not what else was left for her, she clung to him the more closely as he lifted her slender body and carried her up to the daïs at the far end of the room. And so through the night, while the lamps burned low, and the white star sank from sight, for those two, through the wisdom of God, time ceased, and their souls were mingled with eternity. And over them, though neither of them saw, in answer to the mortal cry of their one-time sister, archetype on archetype descended from the height to watch over the place where Istar had become a woman.

Night, the enchanted night, the twenty-second of the burning midsummer month, hung heavily through the great spaces of the temple of Istar. Silence, far-reaching and luminous, spread within from the open portals, past the altar and the deep and the sacred recording-stone, to the foot of the first of the steps that led up to the curtained door of the sanctuary, within which the sanctification of the temple was to take place in the morning. The east was still black when the first dim figures, forerunners of the vast crowds that by sunrise would fill the temple to overflowing, passed the bronze gates and took their places at the foot of the sanctuary steps.

White dawn entered, mistlike, through the portals of the high house, and the myriad temple lights that had pierced the night with their tiny points of flame grew very dim; and when at last the sun sent his first scarlet and golden messengers up the eastern sky to announce his coming, these lights came to resemble mere reflections of the burnished brass and beaten gold that covered the temple walls. By now there was an immense throng inside, and moment by moment it was augmented; for all Erech, and all the country-side for miles around, was making its way to this place. Finally the long-awaited Shamash leaped into the sky, holding before him his shield of glory, sending a great shaft of light into this dwelling-place of his sister Istar. A murmur of prayers for the morning rose up through the lofty spaces of the temple-roof, and the silence that followed these was intense with expectation; for now, at any moment, their goddess might come to them.

Within the sanctuary everything had long since been prepared. During the night several priestesses of Istar had kept a vigil there, offering up continuous prayers before the stone pedestal on which, in any other temple, the statue of the goddess would have stood. Water, over which one hundred charms and incantations had been said, filled the purifying basin. The place was sweet with the odor of spices, and its air hung hazy with incense. Beside the broad basin, upon a table plated with gold, stood a flask of perfumed oil, treasured for many years for use upon some such holy occasion as this. The little, windowless room was lighted by a swinging-lamp of exquisite workmanship, kept burning night and day in the perpetual gloom. In this place the consecrated hierodules had held their prayerful watch through the long night of the passion; and at dawn they left it empty, to await the coming of its divine occupant. Five minutes after the departure of the veiled women, however, the sanctuary was invaded by three persons who bore no resemblance to gods. Vul-Ramân and his two companions, their priests' dresses covered with long cloaks of sombre hue, glided in through the concealed door behind the pedestal. The three of them were pale and rather anxious-eyed as they took up the positions suggested by Amraphel. Vul-Ramân, only, carried a weapon: the same thin-bladed, delicate knife that he had used on more than one occasion similar to this. Twice he ran his finger carefully along the edge of the blade, and the last time his skin was neatly slit by the metal. Satisfied with the trial, he slipped the little instrument under his cloak again, and then the long, nervous vigil of the murderers began.

By the time the sun was half an hour high, the crowd outside the temple had become restless, and the close-packed rows of men and women were as impatient as they dared to be. No one of any importance had yet made an appearance. Surely the king, the prince, the governor, and their attendant lords should be here by this time. Would Istar come if they still delayed? Would that she might! And then, the mention of Istar again bringing up the most absorbing of all topics, every man and his neighbor fell to talking of how he had seen her on the previous evening on her way from the river to her temple; and on every hand were heard descriptions of her wonderful and unearthly presence. That baffling radiance that flowed about her was the veil of Sin, her father. It proclaimed her divinity as nothing else could have proclaimed it. Heretofore there had been not a little scepticism over the exaggerated reports brought down from Babylon during the two past years; but there was no scepticism in Erech to-day. Goddess she assuredly was; and as a goddess she should dwell in the heavenly house they had built for her, on ground consecrated to her many thousands of years ago.

At last, from the street leading up to the temple, came a blare of trumpets and a clangor of cymbals, and a shiver of excitement overran the people when they realized the approach of the king and his royal train. Four ushers with lily-topped wands forced a passage through the crowd, and finally entered the temple itself, where the making of an aisle was no easy task.

Amid tumultuous shouts the lordly company left their chariots, and passed in processional line, between the people, clear to the foot of the sanctuary steps. Gentle-faced Nabonidus, arm-in-arm with the governor of the city, came first; and the throng made reverent way for them. Belshazzar, pale-faced and utterly overwrought, physically exhausted, mentally apprehensive, followed his father, walking alone. The people looked after him curiously as he passed, and many were the whispers to the effect that the prince-royal was a wild and dissolute fellow. After these three notables came the lords, judges, and councillors, Ribâta among them, more puzzled than he would have acknowledged at his friend's too apparent state of mind. This entire company found places immediately at the foot of the sanctuary steps. Nabonidus and his son faced each other, standing the one on the left, the other on the right hand of the spot where Istar must pause ere she went up into the high place. Both king and prince were in priest's dress—white muslin, goat-skin, and golden girdles, with anklets and bracelets of gold, and feather tiaras set in wrought gold. Seeing this garb, a few among the people chanced to remember the three Babylonish priests that had come down the river with the king. But there was no one that knew where they might be, and none cared enough to press an inquiry.

Now, certainly, Istar was late. The people were tired and impatient, and there were not a few who, having waited here since dawn, complained bitterly of the divine tardiness. But there was only one person in that throng that suffered both physically and mentally with suspense. This was he who, one hour before, had left Istar's side; he who now stood, ghastly pale, heavy-eyed, and nerveless with anxiety, at the sanctuary steps. Could she come here this morning? Would she come? And how would the ordeal affect her? It seemed almost impossible that she could go through with it, overwrought as she was. Yet what would be the result with the people did she fail them?

Ah! What was that? The minor cadences of the chant of priestesses were to be heard outside the temple. She was coming then. She was here!

At the door of the temple stood a large company of yellow-robed women, half of them veiled, half of them with their faces bare. In their midst, as yet invisible to the people, was Istar. Still, they recognized her presence, and there was a sudden, vast rustling, as all that immense throng, with one impulse, sank to their knees there in the sacred hall. After a momentary pause on the threshold the ranks of the women parted, and Istar came forth alone.

Clothed like the sun she was, in tissue upon tissue of woven gold, that shimmered with a thousand rays. Her hair was crowned with gold, incrusted with deep-hued beryls, and from the back of the diadem floated a gold-wrought veil, beneath which lay her lustrous hair, a dark, silken mass. Dazzled at first by her shimmering garments, it was not till the second moment that the ten thousand eyes sought her face. Then—it seemed to Belshazzar that he could feel the change in the multitude. Goddess?—That?—That pale-faced, wide-eyed woman? Nay! And yet—she was beautiful. She was so beautiful in her unveiled pallor that she might well have been looked on as something more than human. There was no radiant aureole of divinity around her now. Perhaps that had been a twilight dream. And, the first shock of disappointment over, most of the people would have worshipped her still. Men's eyes followed her with inexpressible wonderment as, inch by inch, she moved up the aisle. What agony that passage was to her even Belshazzar could not know. She was barely conscious as she neared the steps; for it was the first time that she had ever really walked.

To Istar's eyes the temple was dim. The murmur of whispers reached her as from a great distance. She realized vaguely what she was expected to do, while her eyes were riveted on one thing, and her soul was striving to leave her body that it might reach the sooner that which she loved. In the first instant of her mortality Belshazzar's image had been stamped indelibly upon her heart and in her brain. And now that he himself was there before her, she felt only that she must get to him. She cared to go no further.

The long distance was traversed at last. She stood at the foot of the sanctuary steps, Belshazzar close upon her right hand, the king upon her left, all the mass of people behind her. She must go up, she must mount up into the space that for a moment seemed to stretch out before her like the spaces of heaven—vast, limitless, infinite. She placed her foot upon the first step, hesitated for an instant, shivered with cold, then, with a mighty effort, lifted herself up and stopped. Perhaps it was well that at this moment neither Vul-Ramân above nor the crowd below could see her face. It bore an expression of fear, of horror, such as cannot be pictured by human imagination. Still she ascended one more step, and none could have realized the heroism that carried her there. Could she go on? Must she? Suddenly a great cry burst from her. Her face became livid. Her teeth chattered, and her hands worked nervelessly. She was forbidden to progress. There, towering above her in menacing wrath, was a throng of shadowy things, of huge wings, of heavenly forms, just discernible to her eyes, invisible to all others. The archetypes of heaven were before her, barring her way, crying her fall to her, driving her back from the high place to which no mortal might attain. One gesture she made—lifted both arms to them in pitiable pleading. Then, with a fainter cry, she reeled and fell, backward and down, and, while the mighty vision faded from her mortal eyes, Belshazzar caught her lifeless body in his arms. As he did so there came an uproar from every side of the temple: vague, indeterminate, angry murmurs, presently silent before one trumpet-voice, bolder than the rest, that voiced the feeling of the men of Erech. This cry was taken up and repeated, and cried again, till the temple-roof quivered with it, and the stoutest of hearts quailed before its wrath:

"This is a woman! A woman! It is a woman!"

Belshazzar, with lion mien, and storm-eyes blazing with fury, faced them all with his burden in his arms; and, angry and disgusted as they were at the great deceit, not a hand was lifted against this prince of their blood who espoused the cause of the false woman, the pretender. As he bore her from them out of the temple, there was none to notice the parting of the sanctuary curtains; none to perceive the pale, peering face of Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin, whose glittering knife was cold with desire for human blood. The priest stared fearfully upon the general tumult; for of all that company he was now the only one that believed in the divinity of Istar of Babylon. For how but by divinity had she that morning escaped her death?

VII
LORD RIBÂTA'S GARDEN

By the middle of July Charmides began to know Babylon, its ways and byways, very thoroughly. At first he had lost himself almost every time that he ventured from Ramûa's side; but, by much wandering to find his way back again, he learned the streets and their crooked twistings as not all of the old inhabitants knew them. He was likewise in a fair way to overcome his greatest and most uncomfortable difficulty—the language. His necessarily constant intercourse with those that knew no word of any tongue but their own, very shortly familiarized him with the commonest phrases of every-day life. Beyond this, his greatest help came from the temple in which he worked. During the long hours that he spent behind the high place, listening to the plaints and confessions of devout ones, and while he chanted the replies put into his mouth by the attendant priest, he had, perforce, to occupy his mind in some way; and the way most obvious was by trying to comprehend what he was saying, and what the people before him were talking about. With the assistance of the words that he had acquired, and his very slight natural aptitude, supplemented by an ardent desire to learn, he made quite astonishing progress. By the end of July it would have disturbed the priest not a little to know the thoughts that were in Charmides' head as, little by little, the gigantic system of deceit unfolded itself before him. But Charmides was discreet. Never by word or look did he betray the least knowledge of the Babylonish tongue, but performed his required duties regularly, and appeared satisfied with the position, while becoming gradually more and more disgusted with the realities of this new religion.

Some days before it was generally known in the city, Charmides learned from the temple-priests about Istar's journey to Erech. That her departure was to be for good was generally understood among the priesthood, though of the intended murder not a single member of the lower orders dreamed. The Greek, however, was sorrowful enough over her going; and it was the desire of his heart to be one of the musicians of the voyage. Of this, however, there was no hope; for Charmides had become too valuable an adjunct of the temple of Sin to be spared even for a week to the service of Sin's daughter. He, however, with Ramûa and Baba, went down to the water-front by the great bridge, and looked, for what the Greek in his heart thought to be the last time, on the form of her for whom he had come to Babylon. For the next few days he was very unhappy. It seemed to him that he had in some way been untrue to his vow. Babylon was his Babylon no more; and were it not for Ramûa, he would have set out instantly for Erech. But Ramûa had become even more necessary to his happiness than the great Istar. To leave her would mean undying regret. Either way, apparently, his existence would be incomplete, and what to do to remedy it was a cause of speculation that was happily ended by Istar's return to Babylon. She came unheralded, in a covered barge, and went back to her temple in a close-fastened litter, surrounded by a troop of Belshazzar's cavalry. To all the strange tales and sinister rumors circulated through the city about this unexpected return, Charmides turned a deaf ear. She, his goddess, was again in her abode. It was enough.

During this time the affairs of the Greek's non-professional life had become very absorbing. When his peace of mind was restored by the home-coming of Istar, he discovered that he was utterly and hopelessly in love with Ramûa. That Ramûa returned some part of his affection he sometimes, for a wild moment or so, permitted himself to hope; more often doubted so entirely that his misery seemed to be complete. She could not care for him, of course. Yet, barring the two or three hours a day that he spent in the temple, the two of them were never apart while the sun was above the horizon; and no one ever heard Ramûa object to the arrangement, or appear to be wearied by it. Eyes, ears, mind, and soul of each were all for the other, though as yet neither could believe that the other cared. And neither of them, in their joyous selfishness, perceived the little creature who stood apart from them both, watching in silence that which was bringing heart-break into her eyes. Poor Baba! Many a time by day, and more often still by night, Zor's silken coat was wet with her mistress' tears. Beltani had caught more than one stifled sob coming from the hard pallet in the dark hours; but Ramûa, wide awake, perhaps, yet dreaming of sunshine and bright hair, never heard at all, or else put it down to that most unpoetic of all sounds—a snore.

One evening, some time after Istar's return from Erech, when Charmides had become more proficient in the Chaldean tongue, and when he also felt quite at home with Beltani and the two girls, he asked a question of which the effect on the family was something entirely unlooked for. It was simply as to how Ramûa obtained her daily supply of fresh flowers.

A silence, complete and strained, followed his words. Ramûa flushed. Baba hid her face on Zor's back; and even Beltani looked uncomfortable. Charmides, puzzled, and wholly ignorant of any reason for the silence, instantly feared some embarrassing mistake in his language, and quickly repeated the question in different words, wishing to remedy any possible impropriety that might have crept into his former speech. Ramûa now looked at him imploringly; but Baba, turning to her mother, said, in a low voice:

"Let us tell him. Then Bazuzu will no longer have to wait till so late. Now he loses his sleep."

Beltani considered for a moment or two.

"Let us trust him. He will be silent," said Baba again.

"No! No, indeed!" cried Ramûa, unhappily.

Baba regarded her sister with the slightest hint of scorn. "Will you always deceive him?" she said, bitterly.

Then Charmides, not a little disturbed by these unpleasantly suggestive words, looked at Ramûa to find her lips quivering and her eyes ominously bright.

"Tell me of this thing! Let me hear, that I may know all!" he demanded, stumbling more than usual, in his new-born anxiety.

Then Beltani, perceiving that matters were being made to look worse than they actually were, took the affair into her own hands, and proceeded to answer at great length, with the assistance of many gestures and much tautology, Charmides' unfortunate question.

The tenement of Ut, in which Beltani and her family dwelt, was, as of course Charmides knew, separated from the palace and the extensive gardens of Lord Ribâta Bit-Shumukin only by the canal of the New Year, and by two or three hundred feet of waste ground on the other side of the stream. And in these gardens behind the palatial residence, bloomed, all the year round, flowers of every kind known to Babylonia and the West, in such countless numbers that a hundred blossoms taken daily from the wilderness of fragrance, could never be missed. Moreover, neither my Lord Ribâta nor any member of his household, ever, so far as Beltani knew, appeared in these grounds. Therefore, if, every night, black Bazuzu went, unseen and unheard, into the gardens, and very carefully selected enough flowers for Ramûa's basket next morning, could either the gods or Ribâta be very angry? Nay, indeed, had not my lord himself on more than one occasion actually purchased a rose of his own from the flower-girl on the steps of the temple of Istar? And was not this a sign from heaven that the great gods winked at the whole proceeding? Ramûa might weep if she would. She had countenanced the arrangement for two years, and it was not exactly honest to be smitten now with repentance.

Beltani finished her explanation a little defiantly and looked up, not without apprehension, to find Charmides' face filled with relief, and as cheerful as possible. Ramûa refused to look at him, though he was smiling at her broadly; and it was only when he said, "Let us together go and seek thy flowers for to-night," that she flashed at him a look of happy acquiescence.

Charmides' eyes grew brighter yet. Evidently that fateful garden was going to prove a little paradise for him. He had a quick and delicious vision of himself and of her shut far away from everything sordid and unbeautiful, wandering together through fragrant, flowery paths in the moonlight, whispering words meant only for the stars and for themselves. Moreover, this was a dream that might be repeated many times; for, while Ramûa must sell flowers for her livelihood, and Bazuzu deserved a night of unbroken rest, it—

Here this pleasing reverie came to a halting finish. Charmides suddenly felt that Baba's mournful, owl-like eyes were reading his thoughts as he would have read a Greek tablet. Beltani, too, was by no means blind; and she, at any rate, had not the slightest intention of permitting Ramûa and the hare-brained Greek to go alone together into Ribâta's garden. The good woman's mind was of a purely Babylonish turn, and the ideas attendant on a fine sense of honor had never occurred to her. Charmides, therefore, was not of high enough birth, nor possessed of sufficient wealth, to admit of any dangerous philandering. This fact Beltani made known to him in terms as terse and to the point as only she was capable of using. It was nothing that Charmides should clench his fists and grow purple with rage at the insult; or that Ramûa was ready to dissolve in tears of shame. To these things the good housewife closed her eyes pleasantly. What did they signify? She was mistress of the situation, and, as such, the feelings of others had no effect on her.

The sunset hour was over at last, and the small household descended from the roof and entered their rooms, where the regular incantation was made and the prayers to Marduk and to Sin were said. Then Beltani and her daughters passed into the inner room, and Charmides was left alone for the night with Bazuzu.

In spite of his ill-humor, the Greek could not lay him down for the night without his address to his patron, Father Apollo. Bazuzu watched him as he knelt, his face turned towards the west, and saw his fretful expression gradually soften to one of reverence and love as the melodious words left his lips. Charmides did not guess how often and how closely Bazuzu followed his devotions, nor realize that, in the heart of the deformed black man, a very deep affection for himself had been growing throughout the summer. His prayers finished, he gave Bazuzu good-night and a smile, as he lay back upon his pallet. But sleep was not very ready to his eyes. Now that the explanation had been made, now that Ramûa's tearful face was no longer pleading with him, the matter of the flowers took on rather a different aspect in his mind. In the year 539 B.C. the Greek notions of justice were strict and well defined, and the laws were enforced far more stringently than in later times. The word theft was a synonym for dishonor. And Charmides was thoroughly imbued with the traditions of his race. Therefore, now that he had begun to consider the affair impartially, it had not a pleasant look. Twist it as he would, he could not but see that Ribâta was being wronged, and that—much worse!—the maiden who was dearer to him than anything else in the world, had been for two years an open party to this wrong. To be sure, Beltani was the originator of the scheme, and Beltani was the girl's mother. Implicit obedience to one's parents was also another law of Greek social life. Was Ramûa, after all, so much to blame? Then, as Charmides thought of his own mother, her honor, her goodness, her sympathy, there came to him the wish that he might be to Ramûa all that and more than his own mother had been to him. He determined that Ribâta should some day be made aware of this whole matter, and should be repaid for his loss by Charmides himself, who would have the right to do so when Ramûa was his wife.

This thought came to him together with the first touch of drowsiness; and so comforting was the idea, and so heavy were his eyelids, that, five minutes later, the Greek was dead to the world. Thus he did not know when Bazuzu, basket in hand, slipped quietly away into the night. It was much earlier than the slave had been accustomed to depart; but, now that Charmides knew the household secret, Beltani's slave might as of old choose his hour of departure on the unlawful errand.

It was very dark to-night as he crept down the alley to the bank of the canal. The moon had passed the full, and its red rim had just peered over the horizon, as the slave, having crossed the little bridge over the stream and traversed the intervening distance between it and the garden, stood before the high hedge and the concealed opening in the wall through which he was accustomed to enter Ribâta's domain.

Bazuzu could have come to this place blindfolded and have entered with perfect accuracy. Now, for the thousandth time, he crawled in on his hands and knees, drew the basket after him, straightened up, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, hurried over to the long bed of flaming red lilies, now in their prime, and, in consequence, Ramûa's chief stock in trade till the paler flowers of early autumn should come into bloom. Here, with by no means ungentle fingers, the black man began to pluck the shapely flowers, selecting them with such care that no one, casually overlooking the bed, could have perceived how many had been taken. Bazuzu was in no hurry. Perhaps, once here, he enjoyed being in the garden. Any one might, indeed, have enjoyed it, for the place was rarely beautiful. The newly risen moon, showing now above the shadowy, distant towers of the various temples, flooded the dreamy recesses of tropical verdure with a soft, bluish light that drew forth perfumes from every blossom, and caused the new-fallen dew in the flower-cups to glisten like opals. Occasionally Bazuzu paused in his work, and lifted up his head to look about him in the luxuriant stillness. Dimly he realized that even sleep rested and refreshed him no more than this. He did not now regret that Ramûa and Charmides had not been allowed to come here together. To what raptures of love their souls would have been drawn by the beauty of this scene, the black man did not know. In the midst of his small, untutored ecstasy, he passed from the lilies to a clump of rose-trees that overhung a pond where lotus-blossoms floated. It was here, while bending over the perfect specimens of the fair flower of Persia, that his quick ear caught the sound of steps—footsteps—coming measuredly towards him.

Bazuzu's heart gave a throb of terror as he looked up the path leading to the palace. Yes, it was true. Two figures—men—were approaching. Clasping the basket close to his breast, Bazuzu knelt and drew himself as far back as possible in the shadow of the rose thicket. He was no more than hidden when the men passed him, so closely that the rich mantle of one of them dragged over the slave's hand. Down to the hedge and then back by the same beaten path, always slowly, always earnestly conversing together, moved the twain; and as they passed him again, Bazuzu had recovered himself sufficiently to recognize both. One was Ribâta himself, lord of the house, whom Bazuzu knew, as a matter of course, to be Beltani's landlord. The other was a figure familiar to every one in Babylon: Bel-Shar-Uzzur, governor of the city and heir-apparent to the throne. It was he who talked most. Bazuzu watched him interestedly, for it was no small thing to sit listening to the conversation of royal princes. Hitherto, when he had chanced to see the prince, or when he had heard others tell of seeing him, Belshazzar had worn an air of over-confident and joyous pride, of haughtiness, even, for which he was none too well loved by his people. Perhaps now it was only the whiteness of the moonlight that changed him so; but to-night there was neither pride nor joy in that imperious face. A great pallor was on him and his look was troubled. From the fragments of speech that he caught, the slave could not determine what difficulty Belshazzar might be in. He spoke often of temples and of priests, and there was some one whom he never called by name, but spoke of as "she," or sometimes, extravagantly, as "Belit"—"goddess."

In his interest in the scene before him, Bazuzu gradually forgot the danger of his position. A dozen times the two lords had brushed him as they passed, but never chanced to see the shadowy figure huddled at their very feet. Presently, however, in his eagerness to catch the end of a sentence, Bazuzu crept an inch or two forward, and did not draw back when the two turned towards him once more from the end of the path. They drew near, and Belshazzar's eyes were fixed on the ground. Ribâta was speaking, when, three feet from the thicket, Belshazzar suddenly seized his comrade's arm and stopped short.

"Dost thou, fearing danger, keep about thee concealed guards, Bit-Shumukin?" he cried, roughly.

"What sayest thou, Belshazzar?"

For answer, the prince strode forward, stooped, seized Bazuzu by the collar, and dragged him to his feet.

There was a silence. The slave, cold with fear, stood open-mouthed, his eyes wildly rolling, the basket still clasped tightly in his arms. Ribâta, who had grown white with astonishment and anger, stood staring at him. Belshazzar, lips compressed and brows drawn together, moved aside.

"Are you of my house, knave? And for whom art thou here? Speak! Answer me!" And Ribâta stamped upon the ground.

Bazuzu, remembering, even in his terror, the helplessness of Ramûa, answered, shiveringly: "Yea, of thy house, O lord!"

"He lies, Bit-Shumukin," interrupted the prince, sharply. "His collar is of leather. Those of thy house—"

"Yes, yes!" cried Ribâta, still more angrily. "Speak the truth, thou villain, or—there is death in my garden. Who art thou?"

With thickening tongue and reluctant heart, Bazuzu made reply: "I am the slave of the Lady Beltani."

"And who is the Lady Beltani?"

"She dwells across the canal, in the tenement Ut of my lord."

"Ho! Lady Beltani! A dweller in Ut! And why, then, art thou here and not in thy lady's own spacious gardens?"

Bazuzu helplessly held out his flower-basket.

Ribâta seized it by the handle, and examined it and its contents. "These flowers—they go to beautify, no doubt, the person of the Lady Beltani?"

"My lord, they are sold by the Lady Ramûa, her daughter, who sitteth daily on the steps of the platform at the temple of Istar, that she may obtain bread-money for her mother. My lord knoweth well that the dwellers in the tenement of Ut know not gold."

"Ah! Ramûa, the flower-seller, is thy mistress' daughter?" demanded Belshazzar, stepping forward a little.

Bazuzu inclined his head.

"Then, Bit-Shumukin, unless the knave lies again, the gods favor thee well. Have her brought to thee, the Lady Ramûa. She is as fair a maid as any in Babylon; and as she has sold thy flowers—let her now pay for them."

Ribâta turned to his friend with interest in his face. "Do you laugh at me, Bit-Shamash, or is this thing so?"

"It is so, Ribâta. Send only for the maid, and see if Bel is not kindly disposed to thee."

"Send for her here? Now? Nay—the knave no doubt lies."

"By my father's throne, I think he does not! The maiden Ramûa is known to me. Have I not passed her daily for months, sitting on the temple steps? Have I not oftentimes worn a handful of flowers bought from her for a se, to win a smile from her maiden lips? Br-r! Ribâta! Thou hast the blood of Oannes[9] in thy veins. Send for her to be brought before thee. She will teach thee the beauty of Sin's bright beams better than I. Buy her, Ribâta, and keep her for thine own. 'Tis those that cannot be bought that make men miserable. Send for this maiden, I tell thee. Brother, I go home."

Finishing this rather cynical advice, Belshazzar turned on his heel and started for the palace. Bit-Shumukin, catching him by the arm, tried all his eloquence to make his friend remain. The prince was obdurate, in his light, self-willed way, and finally concluded the argument by saying:

"Now I will send a slave to thee from the court-yard, who shall go with this man to bring the lady to thee from her dwelling. Quarrel not with thy fate, O son of ingratitude! May Marduk bless the meeting!"

And thereupon Belshazzar departed and went his way, leaving Ribâta alone with the still trembling slave. By this time Bazuzu was utterly wretched, bitterly angry with himself for speaking Ramûa's name, vaguely hating Belshazzar for his mockery, thoroughly apprehensive of the power of the man who stood at his elbow tentatively regarding him. Fortunately, Belshazzar lost no time in carrying out his own suggestion, and presently a slave of Ribâta's household appeared, coming rapidly down the path from the mansion. Reaching the spot where his master stood, he inclined himself profoundly, and waited his lord's will. After a little hesitation Bit-Shumukin, seeing nothing else to be done, said, in a tone of quiet command:

"Thou, Baniya, must go, in company with this slave here, to the tenement of Ut, across the canal, and bring to me, from her abode, the Lady Ramûa—her, and none other. See that none but you attends or follows her hither. In this place I shall wait for your return. Behold, I have spoken. Hasten to obey."

The slave inclined himself again, and then, driving Bazuzu peremptorily before him, left the garden by a gate that was always fastened on the inside. Once without, the two started together across the bare field leading to the foot-bridge that crossed the canal. Baniya knew the way as well as Bazuzu himself, for the tenement of Ut was one of Ribâta's largest buildings, and any one familiar with the poor quarter of the New Year was sure to know where this house was. Therefore there was no hope of Bazuzu's leading the man astray. There was but one thing that he could do now for Ramûa, and this he tried.

In spite of his ungainliness, which amounted to actual deformity, Bazuzu was a powerful, and, in a way, an agile man. He had come victorious out of more than one brawl, and physical pain meant very little to him. Now, as the two of them came to the edge of the bridge, the black man fell a step behind his companion, and after a second or two darted quickly upon Baniya, seized him about the body, and lifted him high in the air with the intention of flinging him into the canal and then taking to his heels in an opposite direction. But Bazuzu had reckoned on Baniya's losing his head at the crucial instant; and this Baniya did not do. The moment that he was seized, the sinewy little slave twisted one arm from the other's grasp, drew something from his girdle, and struck twice at Bazuzu's brawny shoulder. The black slave uttered a quick cry and dropped his burden. His right arm fell helpless at his side, and the two red streams that had gushed forth from different points in his shoulder, met on the upper arm and flowed in a thick flood down to his hand.

"Let the slave of the Lady Ramûa guide me quickly to her," observed Baniya, with a grin at the distant moon.

And Bazuzu, thoroughly cowed, made no answer, but started in advance of his companion across the bridge.

The door to the general room of Beltani's ménage was open, as Bazuzu had left it an hour before. Across the threshold lay Zor, quietly asleep. From within came the faint, regular sound of Charmides' breathing. Everything was perfectly still. As Bazuzu started to enter the first room, however, Baniya pulled him back, and, once more drawing his knife, breathed softly:

"I will enter that room first, slave, and my knife is in my hand. Thou shalt rouse the Lady Ramûa from her sleep and bring her to me alone. But if any man or any other living thing in this house wakes, know that thou shalt not escape death at my hands. Now heed me!"

Bazuzu signified his acquiescence by a nod, and presently Baniya was left alone beside Charmides' pallet, while the black man crept on his hands and knees into the other room. Ramûa's bed was near the door. Beltani lay in the far corner, Baba on the other side of the room. Beside Ramûa Bazuzu stopped and knelt down. All three women were asleep. Beltani's light snores brought reassurance to the slave's heart, though the task of waking one of the sleepers in this room without rousing either of the other two seemed, on the face of it, impossible. Nevertheless, Bazuzu must try for his life. Therefore, with the most delicate of touches he laid a finger on Ramûa's forehead. She quivered a little. Her eyes flew open. Then, seeing the strange shadow beside her, she asked, softly:

"What is it? Thou, my Baba?"

Bazuzu, speaking between his teeth in a tone scarcely audible, answered: "It is I, Bazuzu, Lady Ramûa. Rise thou without noise and creep into the outer room. There we may more safely speak."

Forthwith he set the example by starting upon his hands and knees back into the other room, where Baniya waited and the Greek slept.

Ramûa, instinctively dreading her mother, and fearing also the unguessed errand of Bazuzu, implicitly obeyed the words of the slave and made her way skilfully, without the faintest sound, out of her dark sleeping-place into the moonlit living-room. Seeing her, Baniya stepped swiftly forth, causing an exclamation to rise to her lips. Bazuzu stood one side, his head bowed, till Ribâta's slave had insolently examined her, from the pretty head with its loosened hair, down the ragged tunic to her delicately arched feet. Then a slight smile broke over the face of my lord's servant, and he bowed as he whispered:

"Will the Lady Ramûa deign to follow me?"

Ramûa, who had been regarding the man in mute amazement, now turned quickly round and looked to Bazuzu for some explanation of this astonishing request. Bazuzu, weary, suffering from his wounds, and utterly despairing over Ramûa's impending fate, lowered his head still further.

"Lord Ribâta waits," he muttered.

"Ribâta!" In her terror, Ramûa scarcely whispered the words. She looked wildly from Bazuzu, who had lost all hope, to Baniya, uneasy with impatience. Then, slowly, she turned her eyes to the spot where Charmides lay. He slept. The Greek slept tranquilly on while she passed through this great peril! It was the sight of him there, sunk in oblivion, that suddenly decided Ramûa. That he could sleep through this time was an omen that he was not for her. A sudden anger against him rose up in her breast. With her heart full to bursting of tears, of terror, of misery, she started forward into the moonlight, following the footsteps of the swiftly moving slave.

In the mean time my lord, kept up later than he had expected to-night, was trying to amuse himself with the beauties of his unfrequented garden. While he wandered up and down the deserted paths, he could not but muse on the rather curious and entertaining incident of the night. Ribâta was not by nature an ungenerous man; and now, as he looked about him on the extreme beauty of his surroundings, it seemed rather well than otherwise that some one should have had so much benefit from his unheeded flowers. Certainly the plants seemed to have suffered no harm at Bazuzu's hands. Instead, the gardeners had, in all probability, been saved a daily hour or so of labor of the same kind. Then Ribâta pondered for a little on the code of laws that might put a slave to death for just such a deed—something that did no harm to any one, and on the other hand helped a poor family to live. Certainly, for a judge of the royal court, Ribâta was not narrow; neither was he harsh. Presently, as he continued his walk, he came upon the basket still containing a handful of red lilies, lying, as he himself had finally dropped it, beside the rose thicket. Ribâta picked it up, and, as he moved on again, began, half absently, to pluck flowers—such flowers as Bazuzu had never dared take—and to put them into the light receptacle. My lord confessed to himself that his work was not artistically done. Great clumps of jasmine from their carefully trained vines, thick bunches of heliotrope, heavy lotus-blossoms with their rubber-like stalks, golden roses and waxen camellias, the rarest of his garden's lustrous treasures, he pulled and dragged about with his unpractised hands, and threw in a fragrant, tangled heap into Ramûa's basket.

It was soon filled to overflowing, and then Ribâta went back to the gate through which Baniya must return. Near this was an arbor overgrown with sweet, white flowers, and here he seated himself to wait. He was not impatient. The beauty of this unvisited part of his own domain had made a strong impression on him, and he leaned back comfortably to gaze out upon the moonlight and to dream unwonted dreams. Around and above him the heavy jasmine exhaled its overpowering sweetness into the limpid moonlight. Near him row upon row of brilliant lilies lay like scarlet butterflies asleep. Presently, from a distant thicket, a nightingale began to pour forth its full-throated song; and then, as Ribâta in a quiet ecstasy raised his head to listen, the gate opened, and Ramûa, bare-footed, with flowing hair, came into the garden.

She could not, from where she stopped, see Ribâta; and he, wishing to know her first, did not immediately rise. Baniya, however, broke in upon him by running forward, performing his obeisance, and demanding to know if he had done well. My lord peremptorily dismissed him, and then, rising reluctantly, went to the maiden.

"Ramûa is made welcome to Ribâta's dwelling-place," he said, quietly, looking at but not offering to touch her.

Ramûa's reply was to cover her face with her hair, and to fold both hands across her breast, in token of the deepest woe.

Somewhat against his will, Ribâta changed his tactics. Assuming a tone of severity that did not in the least accord with his mood, he said: "And it was you, then, that despatched your slave into my garden, that he might steal my blossoms for your gain?"

The girl fell upon her knees and touched her forehead to the earth. "Alas, my lord! Alas, it is true! My lord, be merciful to me! May my lord grant a little time and he shall be repaid—shall be repaid for all. I will repay him. By day and by night shall my hands labor. I will earn a maneh of silver wherewith to buy new plants for his garden, if he will let me now depart from him. May the great gods put mercy into the heart of my lord!"

Ribâta looked down at her with a smile that she could not see. An honest maid, apparently, yet too pretty to give back to toil and poverty. The solitude, the song of the nightingale, and the intoxicating odors of the jasmine, had put Ribâta into a sentimental mood. He lifted Ramûa in his arms, carried her inside the arbor, and placed her tenderly upon the seat that he had occupied. Then, while she vainly struggled to free herself from his touch, he continued his scrutiny of her face and form.

Ramûa was choking with terror at her position. It seemed to her now that, rather than have come hither, she should have killed herself. Yet Charmides had slept through her trial! Charmides! Doubtless he was sleeping yet. And, unreasonable as it was, that thought angered her anew. Ah! When he did finally awake he would find his world changed for him.

These bitter thoughts, that occupied her mind even as she strove to hold off from the man at her side, were broken in upon by Ribâta, who plaintively addressed her:

"Lady Ramûa, I have no need for manehs of silver. They are mine in plenty. At the thought that you labored for my sake my heart would be cut with each hour of your work. Nay, maiden, rather than that, I offer you or your mother as many golden manehs as you desire if you, fair one, will become a flower of my garden that shall bloom near me forever. This that is around you now, and my palace yonder, and slaves and silks and perfumes, sandal-wood and frankincense, wines of Helbon and spices from the East, soft couches and embroidered garments, shall be all your own. Come, then, Ramûa! Let us out of the sweet night into my house! And to-morrow shall thy mother be made glad with wealth. Say that thou wilt follow me, my beautiful one!"

Now this offer was a very fair and more than generous one—for the day. There was no insult in it. So much Ramûa knew. And she knew also that it was something that Beltani would have heard with unbounded delight. It was a chance that any girl of her station might regard as a gift from the silver sky. For this reason Ramûa could show neither scorn nor anger. She had no refuge but tears. Weep, however, she certainly did, and to much purpose; for, before the deluge, Ribâta was perfectly helpless. He was also not a little amazed, for he knew no man who had ever been refused such an offer. It was not a little mortifying to his vanity; and as he thought the matter over while still she wept, his temper began to rise. Poor man! He was unaware that he was pitted against a youth with a halo of shining hair, eyes like the summer sky, the physique of a Tammuz, and a voice like the notes of an ivory flute. Even he would scarcely have expected to compete with these things, added, as they were, to the hope, faint though it might be, of an honest marriage with such masculine beauty. But in his ignorance the good man began to regard his rebellious prize with no little impatience.

"Well, maid," he observed at length, "are these silly tears all thine answer? Hast thou no other word? If so, thou shalt be carried in!"

Then Ramûa, terrified in earnest, repeated, tremulously: "My lord! Have pity! I will work! I will repay the debt! Only, in the name of the great Sin, be merciful!"

"Now is this girl surely a fool!" muttered Bit-Shumukin to himself. "Listen thou, Ramûa! I will take no money from thee."

"Then let my lord take my life," she answered, wearily.

"Gladly!" was the eager reply.

Misunderstanding her entirely, he would have seized her in his arms again, but that the girl, shuddering a little, drew the knife from his belt and pressed it into his hand.

"Ramûa is ready!" she gasped, faintly.

Ribâta uttered an exclamation. "Child! Would I kill thee, thinkest thou?"

She looked up at him stupidly. "Thou hast said it."

Now Ribâta was amazed. Fool she might be, indeed, but she was no coward. He had not thought any woman possessed of such ready courage. Stepping back a little, while she still sat there before him, drooping and silent, he considered the situation. He was not brutal at heart, Bit-Shumukin; and he was too experienced to lose his head through that mad intoxication known only to youth in its first freedom. Besides this, no woman in all Babylon could have said that he had not been perfectly fair with her. This present matter being, in his wide knowledge, unique, demanded a unique finale. Presently he took up the basket with its rare and fragrant burden, and put it into Ramûa's passive hand.