{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42393/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42393","id":"gutenberg_42393","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42393","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Semiramis, Queen, consort of Shamshi-Adad V, King of Assyria, active 9th century B.C. -- Fiction"],"text":"Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 42393-h.htm or 42393-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/42393/pg42393-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/42393/42393-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      https://archive.org/details/sarchedonlegendo00whytrich\n\n\n\n\n\nSARCHEDON\n\nA Legend of the Great Queen\n\nby\n\nG. J. Whyte-Melville\n\nAuthor of \"Roy's Wife,\" \"Black but Comely,\" \"Market Harborough,\"\netc.\n\nIllustrated by S. E. Waller\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon\nWard, Lock & Co., Limited\nNew York and Melbourne\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                          TO\n                  THE RIGHT HONOURABLE\n                 AUSTIN LAYARD, D.C.L.,\n           HER MAJESTY'S MINISTER AT MADRID,\n                          THE\n      FOLLOWING ROMANCE IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,\n                    AS A TRIBUTE OF\n          ADMIRATION TO THE GREAT DISCOVERER,\n         WHOSE SKILL, COURAGE AND RESEARCH HAVE\n            EXCAVATED FROM THE DESERT SANDS\n    THE ARTS, ARMS, AND RECORDS OF A MIGHTY NATION;\n            WHOSE LEARNING AND PERSEVERANCE\n         HAVE RESTORED AN IMPORTANT LINK IN THE\n                   WORLD'S HISTORY,\n       LONG SEVERED IN THE OBLIVION OF THE PAST.\n\n                               ONSLOW GARDENS,\n    _June, 1871_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"THE STARTLED HORSEMAN DREW REIN.\"]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nThe Seven Stars.\n\n     \"They watch him who wakes--They watch him who sleeps--him who\n     speaks--him who is silent--the guilty, the blameless: there is none\n     on earth who is not watched.\"--_Bhuddhagosa Proverbs._\n\n        I. The King of Beasts                         9\n\n       II. Merodach                                  16\n\n      III. Semiramis                                 24\n\n       IV. The Temple of his God                     33\n\n        V. The Stars in their Courses                40\n\n       VI. A Dreamer of Dreams                       47\n\n      VII. The King of Nations                       55\n\n     VIII. The Lust of the Eye                       63\n\n       IX. The Pride of Life                         71\n\n        X. A Banquet of Wine                         79\n\n       XI. Like to Like                              87\n\n      XII. The Gods of the Heathen                   94\n\n     XIII. Mother and Son                           102\n\n      XIV. Strong as Death                          110\n\n       XV. The Queen's Petition                     118\n\n      XVI. Cruel as the Grave                       125\n\n     XVII. The Divining Cup                         133\n\n    XVIII. A Lying Spirit                           141\n\n      XIX. The Feast of Baal                        148\n\n       XX. Gone to the Stars                        154\n\n\nAshtaroth, Queen of Heaven.\n\n     \"From love comes grief, from love comes fear; he who is free from\n     love knows neither grief nor fear.\"--_Bhuddhagosa Proverbs._\n\n      XXI. Who is my Brother                        162\n\n     XXII. The House of Bondage                     170\n\n    XXIII. Pharaoh on the Throne                    177\n\n     XXIV. The Captive in the Dungeon               187\n\n      XXV. The Wisdom of the Egyptians              193\n\n     XXVI. Deliverance                              199\n\n    XXVII. In the Desert                            206\n\n   XXVIII. A Ride for Life                          216\n\n     XXIX. The City of Refuge                       221\n\n      XXX. Loth                                     229\n\n     XXXI. Willing                                  235\n\n    XXXII. Bread and Salt                           243\n\n   XXXIII. Parted                                   250\n\n    XXXIV. Forlorn                                  257\n\n     XXXV. The Lion's Cub                           263\n\n    XXXVI. The Power of the Dog                     270\n\n   XXXVII. The Wings of a Dove                      276\n\n  XXXVIII. Bond and Free                            284\n\n    XXXIX. In the Gate                              292\n\n       XL. Unveiled                                 298\n\n\nNisroch the Avenger.\n\n     \"Your sin follows steadily behind, as the cart-wheel follows the\n     draught-bullock.\"--_Bhuddhagosa Proverbs._\n\n      XLI. A Serpent on a Rock                      304\n\n     XLII. Before the Altar                         311\n\n    XLIII. The Snare of the Fowler                  317\n\n     XLIV. The Veiled Queen                         325\n\n      XLV. Aryas the Beautiful                      332\n\n     XLVI. A Wind from the South                    339\n\n    XLVII. The Fenced City                          345\n\n   XLVIII. Sons of the Sword                        355\n\n     XLIX. Faithful unto Death                      361\n\n        L. A Fool in his Folly                      365\n\n       LI. Bow and Spear                            372\n\n      LII. Lost and Won                             379\n\n     LIII. Sharing the Spoil                        385\n\n      LIV. Counting the Cost                        392\n\n       LV. The Voice of the Charmer                 398\n\n      LVI. Requited                                 405\n\n     LVII. Betrayed                                 411\n\n    LVIII. Who is on my Side                        417\n\n      LIX. Forgiven                                 424\n\n       LX. Lost in the Dark                         430\n\n\n\n\nSARCHEDON\n\n\n\n\nThe Seven Stars\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE KING OF BEASTS\n\n\nDying in the desert--stretched, limp and helpless, in the darkening\nwaste--poured out like water on the tawny sand--two specks poised high\nabove him in the deeper orange of the upper sky--a wide-winged vulture\nhovering and wheeling between the stricken lion and the setting sun.\n\nDying in the desert--grim, dignified, unyielding, like a monarch slain\nin battle. So formidable in the morning--the herdsman's terror, the\narcher's dread, the savage wrestler in whose grasp horse and rider went\ndown crushed, mangled, over-matched, like sucking fawn and unweaned\nchild--fierce, tameless, unconquered--a noble adversary for the noblest\nchampions of the plain--but ere the last red streak of evening faded on\nthe dusky level of their wilderness, a thing for the foul night-bird to\ntear and buffet--for the wild ass, wincing and snorting, half in terror,\nhalf in scorn, to spurn and trample with her hoof.\n\nPitiful in its hopelessness, the wistful pleading of eyes gradually\nwaning to the apathy of death; pitiful the long flickering tongue,\nlicking with something of a dog's homely patience that fatal gash of\nwhich the pain grew every moment more endurable, only because it was a\ndeath-wound; and pitiful too the utter prostration of those massive\nlimbs, with knotted muscles and corded sinews--of that long, lean,\ntapering body--the very emblem of agile strength--which, striving in\nagony to rear but half its height, sank down again in dust, writhing,\npowerless, like an earthworm beneath the spade.\n\nNo yell, no moan--only a short quick breathing, a convulsive shiver, and\nthe occasional effort to rise, that time by time soaked and stained his\nlair with darker jets of blood.\n\nSo those specks on the upper sky widened into two huge soaring vultures,\nwhile the wing of a third brushed lightly against the fallen lion's\nmane, as the foul bird ventured nearer its coming banquet, croaking\nhideous invitations to others and yet others, that emerged, as if by\nmagic, from the solemn cloudless heaven.\n\nFar back into the desert, varied here and there by clammy clotted spots,\nlay a single track of footprints, closer together, less sharp, round,\nand clearly-defined, as they dragged towards the end. Many a weary\nfurlong had he travelled, the king of beasts, on his journey here to\ndie; and yet he never was to reach the patch of arid reeds that instinct\nbade him seek for a last shelter--the scanty covert where-with nature\nprompted him to shield his death agony from the remorseless bird of\nprey.\n\nIt is a royal sport to-day. It was a royal sport, no doubt, thousands of\nyears ago, to rouse the kingly lion from his haunt of reeds, or rock, or\ncool dank quivering morass, in those wide plains that stretch between\nthe Tigris and the Euphrates, the Mesopotamia of the ancients, the\nNaharaina of its present migratory tribes. A royal sport, when followed\nby a queen and all her glittering train, defiling from the lofty porches\nof Babylon the Great, the tramp of horse and ring of bridle, with steady\nfootfall of Assyrian warriors--curled, bearded, erect, and\nformidable--with ponderous tread of stately elephants, gorgeous in\ntrappings of scarlet, pearls, and gold, with stealthy gait of meek-eyed\ncamels, plodding patient under their burdens in the rear. Scouring into\nthe waste before that jewelled troop, herds of wild asses bruised and\nbroke the shoots of wormwood beneath their flying hoofs, till the hot\nair was laden with an aromatic smell; the ostrich spread her scant and\ntufted wings to scud before the wind, tall, swift, ungainly, in a cloud\nof yellow dust; the fleet gazelle, with beating heart, and head tucked\nback, sprang forward like an arrow from the bow, never to pause nor\nstint in her terror-stricken flight, till man and horse, game and\nhunter, pursuer and pursued, were left hopelessly behind, far down\nbeyond the unbroken level of the horizon. Was not her speed of foot the\nstrength and safety and glory of her being? Nor could the desert falcon\nstrike her save unawares, nor the cruel Eastern greyhound overtake her\nsave when she had lately drunk her fill from the spring.\n\nBut the monarch of the desert, the grim and lordly lion, sought no\nrefuge in flight, accepted no compromise of retreat. Driven from his\ncovert, he might move slowly and sullenly away; but it was to turn in\nsavage wrath on the eager horseman who approached too near, on the\ndaring archer who ventured to bend his bow within point-blank distance\nof so formidable an enemy. Nevertheless, even the fiercest of their kind\nmust yield before man, the conqueror of beasts; before woman, the\nconqueror of man: and on the shaft which drank his life-blood, and\ntransfixed the lion from side to side, was graven the royal tiara of a\nmonarch's mate, were cut those wedge-shaped letters that indicated the\nname of Semiramis the Great Queen.\n\nFainter and fainter drooped the mighty frame of the dying beast; one by\none large red drops plashed heavily on the sand beneath him, as the\nfirst bright stars of a Chaldean sky blazed from the clear depths of\nheaven. The perishable was fast fading below. Was that indeed eternal\nwhich shone so pure and pitiless above?\n\nGreat Babylon lay spread out, massive, mysterious, and indistinct, in\nthe shades of coming night. Here and there, huge piles of building\nloomed vast and shadowy against the sky, far below these, amidst the\ntents, houses, palaces, and gardens within the town, glittered and\nflashed a world of lamps and torches, scattered bright and countless as\nthe stars in that other world above; while rearing its head, like some\nghostly giant, high over shaft and column, fortress, palace, and\nobelisk, rose a lofty tower that seemed to demand of heaven its secrets,\nand bade defiance to the sky.\n\nHere, on the summit of this tower stood a human figure, gazing fixedly\non the planets already visible, scanning the heavens with rapt\nattention; calm, serious, abstracted, wrestling, as it were, with all\nits mental forces, for the triumph of intellect, the mastery of thought.\n\nIt was Assarac, priest of Baal, reading the stars, as a student reads a\nbook writ in some symbolical language of which he holds the key.\n\nAssarac the priest, the man for whom in that voluptuous climate, amidst\nthat gorgeous people, delighted in splendour, in pleasure, in luxury, in\nwarfare, glory, arts, arms, and magnificence, the world could furnish\nbut one attraction--the insatiable craving of ambition--to lull which he\nmust rule supreme; therefore he trained himself, night and day, with the\nweapons of victory, seeking diligently that knowledge which constitutes\npower.\n\nThe act of worship is amongst all creation indigenous and peculiar to\nman. As he alone stands erect and raises his front without effort\ntowards heaven, so he bends the knee in reasoning adoration, neither\ncowering down with his head in the dust, nor grovelling on his belly,\nlike other creatures, in abject fear; but wanton, unstable, and\nextravagant even in his noblest aspirations, this viceroy of earth has\nbeen ever prone to waver in his allegiance, eager to amplify his worship\nof the one true God into a thousand false religions, more or less\nbeautiful, poetical, and absurd. Amongst these, none could be less\nunworthy than that earliest form of superstition which attributed to the\ncelestial bodies certain properties of power and knowledge, such as\ncould affect the present no less than they predicted the future. Man's\nintellect felt elevated and purified by scientific communion with the\nbook of Fate as written on the luminous pages of the sky, while his soul\nseemed scarce debased by an adoration that lifted it at least to the\nvisible and material heaven. On the wide-stretching plains of Western\nAsia, in the warm cloudless Assyrian night, with the lamps of heaven\nflashing out their radiance in uninterrupted splendour from the centre\nto the boundless horizon, it was no wonder that students and sages\nshould have accepted for deities those distant worlds of fire on which\neyes, brain, hopes, thoughts, and aspirations were nightly fixed--the\nguides of their science, the exponents of their history, the arbiters of\ntheir fate.\n\nWhile the rude camel-driver, as he plodded by night through the\ntrackless desert, relied, no less than the early mariner, for progress\nand safety on the stars, priests in their temples, kings in their\npalaces, consulted the same changeless, passionless, inscrutable\nwitnesses, for the web of policy, the conduct of warfare, the\nfurtherance of love, desire, ambition, or revenge. Ere long, by an\ninevitable process in the human mind, the instructor of their course\ncame to be looked on as the originator of events; and that which began\nonly with an assumption that it could foretell, was soon credited with\nthe power to bias, to prevent, or to destroy.\n\nThen arose an idolatry which seemed irresistible to the noblest and\nboldest nations of the ancient world, which, notwithstanding their own\nsublime creed, possessed a strong fascination for the Chosen People\nthemselves. Yav, Nebo, Bel, and Ashtaroth[1] came to be worshipped as\nliving deities, reigning and revealing themselves through the planets\nthat bore these names. The Seven Stars[2] were believed to time the\ninevitable march of the universe to their seven tones of mysterious\nmusic, unheard by mortal ears only because it never ceased nor faltered\nin its eternal diapason. The twelve months of the year were sacred, each\nto its especial luminary. Thirty stars were worshipped as the Consulting\nGods. Twelve to the north, twelve to the south, were believed\nrespectively to compel the destinies of living men and dead, the whole\ntwenty-four bearing the title of Judges of the World. And finally, lest\nsuperstition should overlook one single object of its adoration, or\nidolatry fail in the smallest detail to sin against its Creator,\npriests, temples, sacrifices, and votive offerings were assigned to\nthose countless worlds that gem a Southern night, under the collective\ntitle of the Host of Heaven.\n\n[Footnote 1: Jupiter, Mercury, Saturn, and Venus.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Rather the seven spheres, or the five planets with the sun\nand moon.]\n\nAssarac looked abroad, above, around, below--with the confident glance\nof a monarch who reviews his powers, with the critical attention of a\ncalculator who sums up his total, with the visionary gaze of a prophet\nwho forecasts his destiny, yet not entirely without something of that\nastute and wary expression which on the magician's face seems to scan\nand dominate, while it half mistrusts, the implements of his art.\n\nHe was yet a young man, to count by years, and his dark almond-shaped\neyes had lost none of the fire and softness which are only combined\nbefore middle life; but above his black eyebrows there were lines traced\ndeep in the tawny forehead, and at his temples a few white hairs already\nmingled with the black bushy ringlets that, confined by a fillet of\ngold, were drawn back in clustering profusion to his neck and shoulders.\nHis arms, but for the heavy gold bracelets that clasped their wrists,\nwere bare, as were his strong muscular legs from knee to ankle; he wore\nsandals, fastened by straps; of embroidered leather crossing and\nrecrossing so as to form no slight protection for foot and instep. His\nlong gown of white linen, open to the breast and looped so as to give\nthe legs freedom of action at the knee, was bordered with cunning\nneedlework wrought in tissue of gold and scarlet silk, its arrow-headed\ncharacters displaying many a dark sentence and time-honoured record. A\ntasselled cord fastened it at the waist, and a deep fringe also of\nscarlet tissue, hung below its edges, while an ample cloak, white and\nembroidered like the gown, fell from one shoulder and trailed behind the\npriest as he stood erect and motionless, looking out into the night.\n\nOn his solid earrings, on his golden bracelets, on the fillet that bound\nhis forehead, on the very clasps that secured his sandals, was graven\nthe mystic circle that, with or without its winged figure, constituted a\nmemorial and a symbol of fate, omnipotence, and eternity. If he\nworshipped the stars, he could yet conceive of a power so supreme as to\ncontrol and dominate their influence: nor could his religion in its\naspirations for this ineffable essence find a better emblem of its ideal\nthan that geometrical figure which has neither beginning nor end.\n\nHe bore in his hand a lotus-flower lately gathered, and was careful,\nwith something of superstitious reverence, to preserve its freshness;\nthough once, when it caught his eye by chance, a smile of mingled scorn\nand curiosity wreathed his full red lips; but he looked aloft again the\nnext instant with a keener and more rapt attention in his gaze. If he\nspeculated on the symbolical interpretation of the plant, it was not\n_there_ he sought the power and lore that should enable him to control\nhis kind.\n\nThough he carried two knives in his girdle, though his limbs were\nmassive and muscular, his chest deep and his head erect, the man's\nhabits seemed those of peace and study, not of action and warfare. His\nface, for all its indications of intellectual virility, was somewhat too\nrounded in outline, too full and flaccid, rather perhaps unmanly than\neffeminate, and bearing an expression of sustained effort, as of one who\ncontinually strives to hide and overcome a consciousness of unmerited\ndegradation. There was no sign of beard about the well-cut lips, nor on\nthe firmly-moulded chin; and for Assarac the priest it was too obvious\nthat the domestic affections must ever remain a sealed book--his hearth\nmust be the sacred fire of his worship, and the starry canopy of heaven\nhis home.\n\n\"And what have you given me?\" said he, rising his hand towards the\nglittering world above, with a gesture that denoted quite as much of\ndefiance as devotion. \"What have you given me, O my gods, in exchange\nfor the glow of youth, the dignity of manhood, the rapture and the folly\nand the sweet sorrow that are common, like cool breezes and running\nstreams, to all but such as me? No wife, no child! None of the treasures\nothers guard so jealously; but, in compensation, none of the fears that\nbid the brave man cower and the strong man quake. What have you given\nme, O my gods? The thirst for power, the desire to rule, the knowledge\nthat causes brave and strong to bend and quiver like reeds in the\nEuphrates before the breeze that hurries down its stream. You have given\nme wisdom to forecast men's lives and destinies; it is strange if he who\nhas a knowledge of the future cannot control and warp the present to his\nwill. I have torn open your scrolls by force of hand; I have compelled\nyou to reveal your secrets by sheer strength of intellect--ye are my\ngods indeed, and I your priest and servant; yet is there something\nworking here in this forehead, in this breast, that seems to dominate\nyou as the goad rules the elephant, as the bridle turns and guides the\nfoaming war-horse on the plain! Your strength, your knowledge, and your\nfire are mine--mine until these reasoning powers are dulled--these\nsenses enervated by luxury and indulgence. Prophesy--prophesy! Trace for\nme in your shafts of light the story of that which is to come: show me\nthe future of Assarac the priest--his growing knowledge, his indomitable\nstruggles, his successful encounters, the culminating glory of his\ncareer. Show me the destiny of that fairest, bravest, fiercest of\nwomen--the diamond of the East! whose white arm conquers nations, whose\nflashing eyes set towns and palaces and kingdoms all ablaze--beautiful,\nproud, and pitiless--Semiramis the Great Queen; of her lord, the king of\nnations, the grim old champion who scoffs, forsooth, at your power, O my\ngods! and trusts only in the strength of his right arm and in his sword.\nShall ye not avenge yourselves for his scorn and unbelief? Shall not\nAssarac your priest rise on the war-worn monarch's ruin to a splendour\nbefore which the glory of Ninus and all his line shall pale, even as ye\npale yourselves, eternal host, before the Lord of Light who comes with\nday?\"\n\nEven while he spoke, the dying lion, far off in the desert, turned on\nhis side with one quick gasping moan, one convulsive shudder of his\nmighty limbs, ere they grew rigid and motionless for ever, breaking\nshort off in his death-pang the shaft on which was graven a royal tiara\nand the symbol of the Great Queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nMERODACH\n\n\nThe boldest war-horse was never too courageous to wince and tremble at\nthe smell of blood.\n\nA solitary rider speeding across the surface of the desert, smooth,\nswift, and noiseless, like a bird on the wing, found himself nearly\nunseated by the violence with which the good horse under him plunged\naside in terror, swerving from a low dark object lying in his path.\nWhile the startled horseman drew rein to examine it more closely, he\nscared two sated vultures from their work, the gorged birds hopping\nlazily and unconcernedly to a few paces' distance. Already the gray\nstreaks of morning were tinged with crimson, as they flushed and widened\non the long level of the horizon; and the lion, dead at nightfall, was\npicked nearly to the bone.\n\nEre dawn had fairly broke, and long before the gold on bit and\nbridle-piece caught the first flash of sunrise, the traveller had sped\nmany a furlong on his way, and the vultures had laboured back to\ncontinue their loathsome meal. He had been riding the live-long night,\nyet his good horse seemed neither blown nor wearied; snorting, indeed,\nin the very wantonness of strength, as he settled down again to his long\nuntiring gallop, and cleared his nostrils from the abomination that had\nso disturbed him in his career.\n\n\"Soh, Merodach!\" said his master, \"my gentle bold-hearted steed! I never\nknew you shrink from living foe, be it man or brute; but you would not\ntrample on a dead enemy, would you, my king of horses? Steady then! At\nthis rate we shall see the tower of Belus springing out of the plain,\nand the black tents by the Well of Palms, before the sun is another\nspear's length above the sky-line of this half-cooled sand. Steady, my\ngallant horse! Ah! you are indeed fit to carry him who takes the message\nof a king!\"\n\nMerodach, or Mars, no less sensible of his lord's caresses than he was\nworthy of the praises lavished on him, arched his crest, shook his head\ntill his ornaments rang again, and increased his speed, for a reply.\n\nHe was in truth a rare and unequalled specimen of his kind, the true\npure-bred horse of the Asiatic plains. Strong and bold as had been the\nvery lion he was leaving rapidly behind him, beautiful in his rounded\nsymmetry of shape, and so swift that Sarchedon, his rider, was wont to\nboast only one steed in all the armies of the King of Assyria was able,\nwith a man's weight on his back, to outstrip the wild ass in her native\nplains, and that steed was Merodach. Horse and rider seemed a pair well\nmatched, as they flung their dancing shadows behind them on the sand.\nThe arms of one and accoutrements of the other shone ablaze with gold in\nthe splendour of the morning sun. Both seemed full of pride, courage,\nmettle, and endurance, counterparts in strength and beauty, forming\nwhen combined the fairest and noblest ideal of the warlike element in\ncreation. So they galloped on, choosing their course as if by instinct,\nthrough the trackless waste.\n\nLong before noon a lofty tower seemed to grow, cubit by cubit, out of\nthe horizon. Presently the walls and palaces of a city were seen\nstretching far on either side along the plain, like a line of white surf\non a distant shore. Then strips of verdure, intersecting each other with\nmore frequency, as a network of irrigation filtered the waters of the\nEuphrates through many a trickling stream, to fertilise the desert in\nthe neighbourhood of Great Babylon. Yet a few more furlongs of those\nsmooth untiring strides; a startled ostrich scudding away on long\nawkward legs before the wind; a troop of wild asses standing at gaze for\na moment, to disappear with snort and whinny, and heels glancing upward\nthrough volumes of dust; a fleet gazelle scouring off in one direction,\na desert-falcon darting through the sunlight in another; and Sarchedon\ncould already descry that knot of feathery trees, that sprinkling of\nblack tents, that low marble structure of dazzling white, which, under\nthe name of the Well of Palms, afforded a landmark for every thirsty\nwayfarer journeying to the Great City.\n\nBut, except the sea, there is no such fallacious medium through which to\nestimate distance as the sun-dried atmosphere and unbroken expanse of\nthe desert. Ere they reached those scattered tents and halted at the\nWell of Palms, neither man nor horse were unwilling to enjoy a moment's\nrespite from their exertions; while the former, at least, was suffering\nfrom a protracted thirst, which under those scorching skies made a\ndraught from the desert spring such a cordial, such an elixir, as could\nnot be pressed from the choicest grapes that ever blushed and ripened\nunder the Assyrian sun.\n\nSpringing off Merodach's back, his master drew the embossed bit\ncarefully from his favourite's mouth, pressing his head down with a\ncaress towards the water, while he administered, like a true horseman,\nto the needs of his servant before he slaked his own parched lips, or so\nmuch as dipped his hand in the cold, clear, tempting element. But\nMerodach, though he pointed his ears and neighed joyfully, scarcely\nwetted his muzzle in the marble basin; thereby affording a proof, had\nany been wanting, of his celebrated pedigree and stainless purity of\nbreed. His young lord was not so abstemious. He looked about, indeed,\nfor a drinking-vessel; but would have done very well without it, had not\na shadow come between him and the sun as he was in the act of stooping\nto immerse face, lips, and nostrils in the sparkling water. With the\nready instinct of one whose trade is war, he sprang erect, but bowed his\nhead again in manly courtesy when he saw a girlish figure bending over\nhim to dip her pitcher in the fountain.\n\n\"Drink, my lord,\" said a very sweet and gentle voice from the folds of a\nthin white veil. \"When your thirst is quenched, your servant will take\nher payment in news from the army of the Great King.\"\n\nHe was young, bold, gallant, born under a Southern sun; but had\nAshtaroth, Queen of Heaven, come down in person to accost him, with a\npitcher of water in her hand, he must have drunk before he could utter a\nsyllable in reply.\n\nThe girl watched him, while he emptied the vessel, with such tender\ninterest as women take in the physical needs of one to whom they render\naid, and refilled it forthwith, showing, perhaps not unconsciously, a\nlithe and graceful figure as she bent over the fountain.\n\n\"Thanks, maiden,\" said he. \"You have put new life into a fainting man;\nfor I have galloped over many a weary league of sand, and scarce drawn\nbridle since yesterday at noon.\"\n\n\"The poor horse!\" answered the girl, laying a slender hand on Merodach's\nswelling neck. \"But my lord comes doubtless from the camp, and has\njoyful tidings to bring, or he had never ridden so far and fast. What of\nthe Great King? and O! what of Arbaces? Is he safe? Is he unhurt? Is he\nwell?\"\n\nThere was a tremble in her voice that denoted intense anxiety, and the\npitcher in her hand shook till it overflowed.\n\nSarchedon marked her agitation with a sense of displeasure,\nunaccountable as it was unjust.\n\n\"The Great King,\" he answered, raising his right hand quickly to mouth\nand eyes while he named him--\"the Great King has triumphed, as he must\never triumph when he mounts his war-chariot. The captain of the host is\nwell in health, unwounded, though foremost in battle;--trusted by his\nlord, feared by the enemy, and honoured of all.\"\n\nShe clasped her pretty hands together in delight, while the pitcher,\nescaping from her grasp, poured its contents into the thirsty soil and\nrolled under Merodach's hoofs, eliciting from the horse a prolonged\nsnort of astonishment and disgust.\n\n\"You are indeed a messenger of the gods!\" said she--\"welcome as the\nbreeze at sundown; welcome as the rains of spring; welcome to the Great\nQueen and her people yonder in the city; but to none so welcome as you\nhave been to me!\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" he answered in a cold, measured voice. \"Have I then brought\ntidings of one so very dear to you?\"\n\n\"None can ever be so dear,\" she exclaimed with a light laugh, musical\nand pleasant as the whisper of the rippling fountain--\"none will ever\nlove me so well--none shall I ever love half so dearly in return!\nArbaces is my father, and every day since he mounted his chariot at the\nhead of the Great King's captains have I watched here with my maidens,\nto catch the first gleam of his armour when he returns, to learn good\ntidings of him by the first messenger who rides hither from the camp.\nNot one has yet arrived but yourself, my lord. I say again, may all the\nhost of heaven befriend you, for to me you are welcome as the dawn!\"\n\nIt was unaccountable that his heart should have bounded so lightly at\nher speech, that his tone should have been so much softer while he\nreplied:\n\n\"I am bearing tidings from a king to his queen,--from the conqueror of\nnations to his people in the greatest city of the earth. I have to\nrelate how we slew and spared not, crushing and trampling down the enemy\nas an ox treads out the ripened corn; breaking their chariots of iron;\ntaking their fenced cities by assault; capturing and bringing away men,\nwomen, and children by thousands and tens of thousands. All that I have\nto tell is of honour, glory, and victory. Yet I speak truth when I swear\nto you, maiden, by the light of morning, that whatever recompense it may\nplease the Great Queen to bestow on the lowest of her servants, to have\nmet you here to-day at the Well of Palms, and to have gladdened you with\nassurance of my lord your father's welfare, is to me the richest and\nbrightest reward of all.\"\n\n\"You have noble triumphs to report,\" she answered hurriedly, and drawing\nher veil closer, as if he could see the blood rushing to her cheek\nbehind its folds. \"Great victories, but not without fierce warfare--many\na broken shield and shivered spear, and deadly arrow quivering in its\nmark! And you, my lord--have you escaped scathless? Has this good horse\nborne you always unhurt and triumphant in the press of chariots?--Yes, I\nknow it, in the hottest fore-front of the battle? O, it is dreadful to\nthink of!--the wounded, the dying, the fallen steed, the pitiless\nconqueror--those we love, it may be, gasping out their lives on the\ntrampled plain, and then to watch on the walls of the city, or here by\nthe Well of Palms, for the horseman that never comes! Pardon me, my\nlord: I speak too freely. Let me give you to drink once more from the\nfountain; then will I gather my maidens about me, and depart in peace.\"\n\nHe took her hand in his own, nor did she withdraw it.\n\n\"You are not alone?\" he asked. \"The daughter of Arbaces does not travel\nunattended so much as a bowshot from the city walls?\"\n\n\"My damsels are in those tents,\" she answered, \"my camels are kneeling\nin the shade. I have no need of guards nor horsemen. Over many a league\nwithout the ramparts of Babylon her father's fame is a tower of defence\nfor the daughter of Arbaces.\"\n\n\"The daughter of Arbaces!\" he repeated. \"Maiden, so long as I eat bread\nand drink water I will remember her by that name.\"\n\n\"And by her own,\" she added hurriedly. \"The servant of my lord is called\nIshtar. It was my mother's name, and Arbaces loved her well.\"\n\n\"Ishtar!\" he murmured--and his rich low voice dwelt softly on the\nsyllables--\"Ishtar, the fair pure queen of night! 'twas well chosen, in\ngood truth; for the moon shines ever gentle, mild, and gracious, like a\ntrue goddess.\"\n\n\"And changes, my lord, like a true woman!\" laughed the girl; but\ncontinued in a graver and more respectful tone: \"The day wears on--he\nwho carries a king's tidings must be diligent on the way. I thank my\nlord for his favourable notice of his servant, and I bid him farewell.\"\n\nThen she gathered her dress about her, recovered the pitcher, and walked\naway towards her tents, modest, stately, and graceful--a goddess in\ngesture, as in name.\n\nShe turned once, nevertheless, when he was busied adjusting the bridle\nin his horse's mouth, and drew her veil aside while he might have\ncounted ten. The large serious eyes, the perfect oval, the pale delicate\nbeauty of that young face haunted him, even to the towers and ramparts\nof haughty Babylon, even amidst the shouting crowds who thronged her\nbrazen gates.\n\nThere is a spirit that, whether for good or evil, when it takes\npossession of the heart of man, must needs tear and rend, stanch and\nsoothe, torture and perplex, or elevate and encourage, each and all in\nturn; but, be it a blessing or a curse, it fills the tenement, occupies\nthe whole temple, and when it vanishes, leaves but bare walls and a\nriven altar to mark the sacred spot that it has scathed and blasted ere\nit passed away.\n\nMerodach galloped on, swift, mettlesome, untiring, regardless of the\nmany leagues he had traversed, as he was unconscious of the double\nburden that he bore.\n\nNearing the city, Sarchedon could not but admire the stupendous walls\nthat frowned over him as he rode at a slower pace through scores of\ntents and lodges of wood or sun-dried bricks scattered through the\nrichly cultivated garden-grounds without the rampart walls, that, rising\nto forty cubits in height, were yet so wide as to admit of three\nchariots being driven abreast along their summits, flanked with lofty\ntowers standing out in pairs, bluff and bold, like defiant warriors, and\nutterly impregnable to assault. Between every two of these, large gates\nof brass, worked in fantastic ornaments representing gods, men, and\nanimals, amongst which the bull was the most conspicuous, stood open\nfrom sunrise to sunset, while through their portals passed and repassed\na busy crowd, swarming like bees in and out of the rich and magnificent\ncity, her own especial residence, which the Great Queen had created to\nbe a Wonder of the World. What mattered waste of life and treasure,\nstarving families, fainting peasants, the sinking slave and the\ntask-master's whip? Each countless brick in all those leagues of\nbuilding might be moistened with tears and cemented with blood, every\nstone raised on the crushed and mangled corpses of its founders; masses\nof marble, slabs of alabaster, roof, tower, and pinnacle, beam of cedar,\nand parapet of gold, might tell their separate tales of famine, disease,\nmisery, and oppression--what matter? The Great Queen said, \"Raise me\nhere a city by the river that shall be worthy of my name!\" and\nstraightway up-sprang, on either bank of the mighty stream, such\nstructures of pride, splendour, and magnificence, as were not to be\nsurpassed by that very tower of man's defiance to his Maker, about which\ntheir foundations were laid.\n\nPassing within the walls, a guard of Assyrian bowmen turned out to greet\nwith warlike honours the messenger from their monarch's camp; their\nexertions were even required to clear a passage for him as he rode\nthrough the crowded streets--men, women, and children thronging and\npressing in as he passed on, shouting a thousand cheers and\nacclamations, striving with each other to touch his feet, his garments,\nthe horn of his bow, the carved sheath of his sword, the very trappings\nand accoutrements of his horse. With all his desire for dispatch, it was\nnecessary to rein Merodach back to a foot's-pace; and many a dainty\nflower fell whirling down on the young warrior, many a charm and amulet\nwas cast with unerring aim on his knees and saddle-cloth, while he paced\nforward under stately palaces, solemn temples, or broad terraces glowing\nlike gardens with bright-robed Assyrian women, who flung their veils\naside to shower greetings and welcome on the brave.\n\nThe watchman at the gate had long expected such a one. With the first\nglint of his armour in the distant waste the news spread like wildfire,\nand the whole population of the city was astir.\n\nSo he rode slowly on, the observed of all; and still, turn which way he\nwould, above that sea of faces, amidst that mass of triumph, splendour,\nand gorgeous colouring, floated like a star shining through a mist the\npale spectral beauty of the gentle girl whom he had left an hour ago at\nthe Well of Palms--even the shouts that rent his ear seemed to re\u00ebcho\nfrom afar in an unearthly whisper, \"Ishtar, Ishtar! pure, sacred, and\nbeautiful queen of night!\"\n\nThe streets were wider, the buildings more magnificent, the crowd, if\npossible, denser, as he proceeded through the city.\n\nPresently, reaching a wide flight of low broad marble steps, flanked by\nthose colossal bulls with eagles' wings and human heads, that\nrepresented the strength and solidity of the great Assyrian empire, he\nhalted to dismount; for a cloth of gold and scarlet had been rolled out\nfrom top to bottom, and down these stairs were marching a body of\nwhite-robed priests with slow and solemn gait, their centre figure\nwalking three paces before the rest, and advancing obviously to hold\nconference with the messenger from the camp.\n\nThen the young warrior took a jewelled signet from his breast, and with\na low obeisance pressed it to heart, mouth, and forehead; while over the\neager multitude came unbroken silence, as Sarchedon tendered to Assarac,\nhigh-priest of Baal, his token from the Great King.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nSEMIRAMIS\n\n\nThe silence lasted but a short space. When his lord, ere he accompanied\nthat priestly escort into the palace, bestowed one parting caress on\nMerodach, shouts longer and more deafening than ever went up into the\nsunny sky. The good horse, led away by half a dozen negroes, now seemed\nto attract universal attention; for Sarchedon had disappeared between\nthe gigantic bulls of stone that guarded each entrance to the royal\ndwelling. His armour, here and there defaced with sword-stroke or\nspear-thrust, his dusty, travel-stained garments, and, notwithstanding\nbodily strength and warlike training, the weary gait of one who has seen\nthe sun set twice without quitting the saddle, were in marked contrast\nto the glittering splendour and refined magnificence of all that\nsurrounded him. The marble steps, skirted by their entablatures of\ngilding and sculpture coloured to the life; the broad level terrace,\nglistening and polished like a steel breastplate inlaid with gold; the\nregal front of the costly palace itself, with its colossal eagle-headed\nfigures, its winged monsters, couching or erect, its sacred emblems, its\nstrange deities, its mystic forms, tributes of adoration offered to a\nhost of gods, as the long succession of lifelike carvings on the walls,\nbrought out in high relief with boldness of design and brightness of\ntint, were memorials of the triumphs won by a line of kings.\n\nHere were represented the pleasures of the chase, the vicissitudes of\nwar, the lion, the stag, the boar, the wild bull, beasts, landscapes,\nrivers, chariots and horsemen, warriors, captives, towers, and towns.\nAbove rose a hundred stately pillars to support their painted chambers\nroofed with cedar and other precious wood, inlaid in elaborate and\nfantastic patterns, brilliant with vermilion or other gaudy colours, and\nprofusely ornamented with gold. Over these lofty rooms rose yet another\nstory, on ivory columns carved with the utmost skill that Indian\nhandicraft could produce and Bactrian triumphs furnish, under a roof of\nwhich the very battlements and parapets were plated with silver and\ngold.\n\nHigh above all towered the sacred structure of cedar, which formed that\nmysterious retreat, remote from the gaze of man, where none might enter\nbut the monarch alone when ministering in his holy office, and combining\nin his own person the sacred characters of priest and king.\n\nAssarac left his retinue at the gate of the palace, where stood two\npillars of sardonyx to render poison innocuous should it pass through,\nand over which a gigantic carbuncle flashed its lurid rays, that seemed\nto shed an angry gleam even in the darkness of night. He bade Sarchedon\nfollow, and the pair strode swiftly on through a cool and spacious\nhall, propped by as many columns as there were days in the Assyrian\nyear, or furlongs in the circuit of the city walls, till, having thus\ntraversed the palace at its narrowest part, they emerged once more on a\nparadise or garden, where the first object that met their eyes was a\nwild stag roused from his lair, and scouring with all the freedom of his\nnative mountains to the shelter of a neighbouring thicket.\n\n\"She seldom hunts within these gardens now,\" was the priest's comment on\nthis startling incident. \"She cares for no tamer pastime than to ride\nthe lion down, and shoot him with bow and arrow when at bay. There are\nnone left here since my lord the king slew three with his javelin not a\nbowshot from where we stand; so she must away to the desert, or the\nmountains beyond the great river, for the sport she loves so well.\nFollow me close; you might lose yourself in this pleasant labyrinth, and\nit is death, my friend--by impalement too!--for any one caught\ndisturbing the game.\"\n\nHe looked keenly in the other's face while he spoke, and seemed\ngratified to observe that the young soldier received this announcement\nwith perfect unconcern.\n\nNotwithstanding the power of an Assyrian sun, its rays could not\npenetrate to the darkling path by which they now threaded a tangled\nthicket of verdure--the tender flickering of green leaves above their\nheads, the sweet carol of song-birds in their ears, and a carpet of\nvelvet turf beneath their steps--while they followed the course of a\nrippling stream, guiding them by its murmur, rather than its leap and\nsparkle, back to the light of day. Emerging from this grateful shade,\nthey found a broad sheet of water spread at their feet, its surface\ndotted with wild fowl, its banks fringed with flowers, reflecting in its\ndazzling mirror a temple of silver and ivory raised in honour of Dagon,\nthe fish-god, and much affected by the Great Queen, who, leaving her own\nespecial palace, loved to retire here with her women and wile away the\nhottest hours of the summer's day.\n\nOne of these attendants seemed in expectation of the priest; for,\nappearing suddenly in the portico of the temple, she made him a sign to\nfollow, and led the way, wrapping her veil so carelessly about her as\nto afford ample opportunity for contemplation of her charms. At another\ntime Sarchedon might have observed with greater interest the jetty locks\nand rich Southern colouring of this smiling dame; but besides his\nnew-born taste for beauty of a fairer, paler, and more gentle type, his\nheart was beating, as it had never beat in the hurtle of chariots and\npress of horsemen, at the thought that he was about to enter her\npresence with whose name the whole world rang.\n\nImmediately within the entrance of this temple hung a curtain of crimson\nsilk embroidered in lotus-flowers of gold. Assarac raised the hangings,\nand stepping quickly aside, gave place while he let them fall behind his\ncomrade. Sarchedon, prostrating his forehead till it touched the cool\nshining floor, found himself alone with the Great Queen.\n\nThe temple was circular, paved, panelled, vaulted, in ivory and silver,\nthe latter wrought and frosted with exceeding taste and skill, the\nformer carved into a thousand fantastic patterns, delicate and elaborate\nas needlework. In the midst, a fountain threw its jets of silver to the\nroof, falling back in silvery showers to an ivory basin, of which the\nsparkling waters were thus continually moved with a refreshing drip and\nmurmur. White doves flitted about the building, or cooed their drowsy\nlove-song, perched peacefully on pinnacle and shaft. An odour of some\nsubtle perfume, like incense mingled with the scent of flowers, stole on\nSarchedon's senses; while he became aware of a figure reclining on the\ncouch of silver and ivory over against the entrance. He dared not raise\nhis eyes, and it was but the hem of her garment that he looked on, while\nhe heard the low musical tones of that enchantress who was destined to\nsubjugate the world.\n\n\"Rise, trusty messenger,\" said Semiramis; \"fear not to tell me your\ntidings for good or evil, and speak with me face to face. He must needs\nbe welcome who carries a token from my lord the king.\"\n\nSarchedon sprang to his feet at her bidding, and stood before the queen,\nas fair a specimen of youth, manhood, and warlike grace as could have\nbeen selected from the countless myriads that formed her husband's\nhosts. He averted his eyes, nevertheless, and kept his head bent down\nwhile, plucking from his breast the jewel that had already gained him\nadmission, he replied:\n\n\"The light of the queen's countenance dazzles the eyes of her servant.\nLet him take courage to look but once, and be blind for evermore!\"\n\nWhile he spoke he laid the signet on a silken cushion under her feet.\nShe glanced at it carelessly enough, and bent her eyes on the young\nwarrior with a smile, half soft, half scornful.\n\n\"Am I then so dangerous to look upon?\" said she; \"the face of a queen\nshould be gracious to a faithful servant. I say to _you_, Look and\nlive!\"\n\nA thrill of intense triumph and pleasure shot through him with her\nwords. He took courage to scan the form and features of that celebrated\nwoman, whose intellect and beauty had already made her mistress of the\nmightiest nation in the East.\n\nShe was beautiful no doubt, in the nameless beauty that wins, no less\nthan in the lofty beauty that compels. Her form was matchless in\nsymmetry, so that her every gesture, in the saddle or on the throne, was\nwomanly, dignified, and graceful, while each dress she wore, from royal\nrobe and jewelled tiara to steel breastplate and golden headpiece,\nseemed that in which she looked her best. With a man's strength of body,\nshe possessed more than a man's power of mind and force of will. A\nshrewd observer would have detected in those bright eyes, despite their\nthick lashes and loving glance, the genius that can command an army and\nfound an empire; in that delicate, exquisitely chiselled face, the lines\nthat tell of tameless pride and unbending resolution; in the full curves\nof that rosy mouth, in the clean-cut jaw and prominence of the\nbeautifully-moulded chin, a cold recklessness that could harden on\noccasion to pitiless cruelty--stern, impracticable, immovable as fate.\n\nBut Sarchedon only saw a lovely woman of queenly bearing, glancing\napproval on his glowing face. His Southern nature seemed to expand like\na flower in the sunshine of her smiles.\n\nHis looks could not fail to express admiration, and she, who might have\nbeen satiated with homage, seemed well pleased to accept as much as he\nhad to offer.\n\nBending towards him with a gesture of condescension, that was almost a\ncaress, she bade him advance yet nearer to her couch.\n\n\"And now,\" said she, \"that you have looked on this terrible face of mine\nwithout perdition, tell me your tidings from the camp. What of the war?\nwhat of the host? what of my lord the king?\"\n\n\"The war is ended,\" he answered briefly; \"the host is victorious. My\nlord the king will return in triumph ere another day be past.\"\n\nShe started, but controlled herself with an effort.\n\n\"Enough,\" she answered haughtily and coldly; \"you have done your\nduty--you are dismissed!\"\n\nThen she clapped her hands, and from behind the silken hangings appeared\nthe woman who had guided Sarchedon into the temple.\n\n\"Kalmim,\" said the queen, still in the same constrained voice, \"take\nthis messenger to Assarac without delay; bid the priest report to me, at\nsunset, all the details he can learn from him regarding the host. But\nstay\"--her tone changed to one of winning sweetness, soft, sad, and\nirresistible--\"not till he has had food and rest. You have ridden day\nand night through the desert; you have looked on your queen's face and\nlived. Take courage, you may live to look on it again.\"\n\nWith the last words she turned on him one of her rare intoxicating\nsmiles, and the strong soldier left her presence helpless, confused,\nstaggering like a man who wakes out of a dream.\n\nWithin the gardens, or paradise, belonging to the royal palace stood a\nvast pile of building, dedicated to the worship of Baal, and surrounding\nthe lofty tower of Belus, raised on the same site, and nearly to the\nsame altitude, as that by which human rebellion presumed to offend after\nthe Flood. Here, at the head of a thousand priests, dwelt Assarac in\nsolemn state and splendour, officiating daily in sacrifices offered to\nthe gods of Assyria, and their numerous satellites--Assarac, who\ncombined in his own person the leadership of religion and of politics;\nfor, during the absence of Ninus on his Egyptian expedition, it had been\nthe ambitious eunuch's aim to share, if he could not guide, the queen's\ncounsels, and, as far as he dared, to centre in his own person the\nexecutive of government.\n\nSarchedon found himself, therefore, again threading the shady paths by\nwhich he had come, but on this occasion under the conduct of a guide\nless swift of foot than the priest but, as became her sex, more nimble\nof tongue. Kalmim made no scruple of unveiling, to afford her companion\nthe whole benefit of her charms.\n\n\"A good beginning indeed,\" said this saucy dame, with a smile that did\njustice to the reddest lips and wickedest eyes in Babylon; \"you are in\nfavour, my young lord, I can tell you. To have seen her face to face is\nno small boast; but that she should take thought of your food and rest,\nand bid me charge myself with your guidance through this deserted\nwilderness! why, I cannot remember her so gracious to any one\nsince--well--since the last of them--there, you needn't look so bold at\nan unveiled woman--I ought never to have brought you here alone!\"\n\nIt was almost a challenge; but he was busy with his own thoughts, and\nmade no reply. Kalmim, unaccustomed to neglect, attributed his silence,\nnot unnaturally, to exhaustion and fatigue.\n\n\"You are weary,\" said she kindly; \"faint, doubtless, from lack of food,\nand would not confess it to save your life? O, you men, how your pride\nkeeps you up! and why are you only ashamed of those things in which\nthere is no disgrace?\"\n\nHe compelled himself to answer, though his thoughts were far away.\n\n\"I am not ashamed to be faint and athirst. I have ridden two nights and\na day, and drank water but once--at the Well of Palms.\"\n\n\"The Well of Palms!\" she repeated, her woman's wit marking his\nabstraction, and assigning to it a woman's cause. \"It is the sweetest\nwater in all the land of Shinar. It would taste none the worse when\ndrawn for you by the daughter of Arbaces.\"\n\n\"Ishtar!\" he exclaimed, while his whole face brightened. \"You have seen\nher--you know her! Is she not beautiful?\"\n\nKalmim laughed scornfully.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" she echoed, \"with a poor thin face, white as ivory, and\nsolemn as Dagon's yonder, in the fishing-temple! Well, well! then she\n_is_ beautiful, if you like; and we shall learn next that she is good as\nwell as fair!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he asked, stopping short to look his companion in\nthe face.\n\nKalmim burst into another laugh.\n\n\"I mean nothing, innocent youth!--for strangely innocent you are, though\nthe beard is budding on your chin. And a modest maiden means nothing, I\nsuppose, who frequents the well at which every traveller from the desert\nmust needs halt--who draws water for warriors to drink, and unveils for\na stranger she never saw before! Yes, I am unveiled too, I know; but it\nis different here. The queen's palace has its privileges; and, believe\nme, they are sometimes sadly abused!\"\n\n\"Not by one who has just left the light of her presence,\" answered\nSarchedon, angered to the core, though he scarce knew why. \"I have never\nbeen taught to offend against the majesty of a king's house--to believe\na fenced city taken because a bank is cast against it, nor a woman my\nlawful prize because she lifts her veil.\"\n\nNext to making love, Kalmim enjoyed quarrelling. To tease, irritate, and\nperplex a man, was sport only second to that of seeing him at her feet.\nShe clapped her hands mischievously, and exclaimed,\n\n\"You are bewitched, my lord! Confess, now. She unveiled to turn her eyes\non you before you got to horse and went your way. Is it possible you do\nnot know who and what she is?\"\n\n\"Good or evil,\" he answered, \"tell me the truth.\"\n\n\"She bears her mother's name,\" replied Kalmim; \"and, like her mother,\nthe blood that flows in her veins is mingled with the fire that glitters\nin the stars of heaven--a fire affording neither light nor heat, serving\nonly to dazzle and bewilder the children of earth. Arbaces took a wife\nfrom that race whom, far off in the northern mountains, the daughters of\nmen bare to the spirits of the stars, tempting them down from their\ngolden thrones with song and spell and all the wiles of grosser\nearth-born beauty;--deceiving, debasing the Sons of Light, to be by them\ndeceived and deserted in turn, left to sorrow through long years of\nhopeless solitude and remorse. Old people yet speak of some who had\nthemselves heard the voice of mourning on those mountains in the still\nsad night--the shriek of woman wailing for the lost lover, in whose\nbright face she might never look again! Ishtar, the wife of Arbaces,\npossessed her share of the unearthly influence hereditary in her race.\nHer husband became a slave. He loved the very print of her feet on the\nsand. Travelling here from Nineveh, while this great city was building,\nhe halted in the desert, and Ishtar walked out from her tent into the\ncool starlight night. They say he followed a few paces off. Suddenly she\nstopped, and stretched her hands towards the sky, like one in distress\nor pain. Rushing forward to take her in his arms, she vanished out of\nhis very grasp. At sunrise a camel-driver found Arbaces senseless on the\nplain, and Ishtar was seen no more in tent or palace. But all the love\nhe bore the mother seemed henceforth transferred to the child. Doubtless\nshe has bewitched him too. Beware, my lord--beware! I have heard of men\nleaving real springs in the desert for shining rivers and broad\nglittering lakes, that faded always before them into the hot\ninterminable waste. I am but a woman; yet, had I your chance of fortune,\nI would think twice before I bartered it away for a draught of water and\nan empty dream!\"\n\nHe seemed very sad and thoughtful, but they had now reached the temple,\nand he made no reply. A white-robed priest received the young warrior at\nits portal with every mark of respect, and ushered him into the cool and\nlofty building, where bath, raiment, food, and wine, he said, were\nalready prepared, casting a look of intelligence at Kalmim, who answered\nwith as meaning a glance, and one of her brightest smiles. Then dropping\nher veil, since nobody was there to see her handsome face, she tripped\nback a good deal faster than she had come to her duties about the person\nof the Great Queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE TEMPLE OF HIS GOD\n\n\nIn the hierarchy of Baal, as in other religious orders, false and true,\nit was deemed but right that the priests should want for nothing, while\nthe altar was well supplied with offerings. To one who had dismounted\nfrom a two nights' ride, such luxuries as were scattered profusely about\nthe temple of the great Assyrian god formed a pleasing contrast to camp\nlodging and camp fare.\n\nIf Sarchedon, weary and travel-stained, was yet of so comely and fair a\ncountenance as to extort approval from the queen herself, Sarchedon,\nbathed, refreshed, unarmed, clad in silken garments, and with a cup of\ngold in his hand, was simply beautiful. Assarac the priest, sitting over\nagainst him, could not but triumph in the sparkle of that bauble by\nwhich he hoped to divert and dull the only intellect in the Eastern\nworld that he believed could rival his own.\n\nThe servant of Ninus and the servant of Baal sat together on the roof of\na lower story of the temple; below them the pillars and porticoes of the\nouter court, behind them vast piles of building, vague, gloomy, and\nimposing in the shades of coming night. High over their heads rose the\ntower of Belus, pointing to the sky, and many a fathom down beneath\ntheir feet the stir and turmoil of the great city came up, terrace by\nterrace, till it died to a faint drowsy murmur like the hum of bees in a\nbed of flowers. The sun was sinking in uninterrupted splendour behind\nthe level sky-line of the desert, and already a cool breeze stole over\nthe plains from the hills beyond the marshes, to stir the priest's white\ngarments and lift the locks on Sarchedon's glossy head, while for each\nit enhanced the flavour and fragrance of their rich Damascus wine,\nbubbling and blushing in its vase of gold. Between them stood a table,\nalso of gold, studded with amethysts, while the liquor in their golden\ncups was yet more precious than the metal and brighter than the gem.\n\nSomething to this effect said Sarchedon, after a draught almost as\nwelcome and invigorating as that which he had drained in the morning at\nthe Well of Palms; while, with a sigh of extreme repose and content, he\nturned his handsome face to the breeze.\n\n\"It is so,\" answered Assarac; \"and who more worthy to drink it than the\nwarrior whose bow and spear keep for us sheep-fold and vineyard--who\nwatches under arms by night, and bears his life in his hand by day, that\nour oxen may tread the threshing-floor, and our peasants press out their\ngrapes in peace? I empty this cup to Ninus, the Great King, yonder in\nthe camp, in love, fear, and reverence, as I would pour out a\ndrink-offering from the summit of that tower to Ashtaroth, Queen of\nHeaven.\"\n\n\"And the Great King would dip his royal beard in it willingly enough,\nwere it set before him,\" answered the light-hearted warrior. \"I saw him\nmyself come down from his chariot when we crossed the Nile, and drink\nfrom the hollow of his buckler mouthful after mouthful of the sweet\nvapid water; but he swore by the Seven Stars he would have given his\nbest horse had it been the roughest of country wine; and he bade us ever\nspare the vineyards, though we were ordered to lay waste cornland and\nmillet-ground, to level fruit-trees, break down water-sluices, burn,\nspoil, ravage, and destroy. Who is like the Great King--so fierce, so\nterrible? Most terrible, I think, when he smiles and pulls his long\nwhite beard; for then our captains know that his wrath is kindled, and\ncan only be appeased with blood. I had rather turn my naked breast to\nall Pharaoh's bowmen than face the Great King's smile.\"\n\nAssarac was deep in thought, though his countenance wore but the\nexpression of a courteous host.\n\n\"He is the king of warriors,\" said the priest carelessly--\"drink, I pray\nyou, yet once more to his captains--and beloved, no doubt, as he is\nfeared among the host.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" answered the other laughing, for the good wine had somewhat\nloosened his tongue, while it removed the traces of fatigue from his\nframe. \"_Feared_, if you will. Is he not descended from Nimrod and the\nThirteen Gods? Brave, indeed, as his mighty ancestors, but pitiless and\nunsparing as Ashur himself.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" exclaimed the priest, looking round. \"What mean you?\"\n\n\"I have not counted twenty sunsets,\" answered the other, \"since I saw\nthe Great King's arrow fly through buckler and breastplate, aye, and a\nbrave Assyrian heart too, ere it stuck in the ground a spear's length\nfarther on. He has a strong arm, I can bear witness, and the man fell\ndead under his very chariot; but it should not have been one of his own\nroyal guard that he thus slew in the mere wantonness of wrath. Sataspes,\nthe son of Sargon, had better have died in Egypt, where he fought so\nbravely, than here, under an Assyrian sky, within a few days' march of\nhome.\"\n\n\"Sataspes!\" repeated the other; \"and what said his father? It is not\nSargon's nature to be patient under injury or insult.\"\n\n\"His dark face grew black as night,\" answered Sarchedon, \"and the\njavelin he held splintered in his grasp; but he bowed himself to the\nground, and said only, 'My lord draws a stiff bow, and the king's arrow\nnever yet missed its mark.'\"\n\n\"It was a heavy punishment,\" observed Assarac thoughtfully.\n\n\"And for a light offence,\" answered the other. \"Sataspes did but lift\nher veil to look on the face of a virgin in a drove of captives who had\nnot yet defiled by the Great King's chariot. She cried out, half in\nwrath, half in fear; and ere the veil fell back on her bosom, the\noffender was a dead man.\"\n\n\"Did the Great King look favourably on the virgin?\" asked Assarac. \"A\nwoman must needs be fair to warrant the taking of a brave man's life.\"\n\n\"I scarce heeded her,\" answered Sarchedon. \"She came of a captive race,\nwhom the Egyptians hold in bondage down yonder, imposing on them servile\noffices and many hard tasks--a race that seem to mix neither with their\nconquerors nor with strangers. They have peculiar laws and customs in\ntheir houses and families, giving their daughters in marriage only to\ntheir kindred, and arraying their whole people like an army, in hosts\nand companies. I used to see them at work for their task-masters,\nmoving with as much order and precision as the archers and spearmen of\nthe Great King.\"\n\n\"I have heard of them,\" said Assarac; \"I have heard too that their\nincreasing numbers gave no small disquiet to the last Pharaoh, who was\nwiser than his successor. Will they not rise at some future time, and\ncast off the Egyptian yoke?\"\n\n\"Never!\" answered the warrior scornfully. \"It presses hard and heavy,\nbut this people will never strike a blow in self-defence: they are a\nnation of slaves, of shepherds and herdsmen. Not a man have I seen\namongst them who could draw a bow, nor so much as sling a stone. Where\nare they to find a leader? If such a one rose up, how are they to follow\nhim? They are utterly unwarlike and weak of heart; they have no arms, no\nhorses, and scarcely any gods.\"\n\nAssarac smiled with the good-humoured superiority of an adept\ncondescending to the crude intelligence of a neophyte. Did he not\nbelieve that through the very exercise of his profession he had sounded\nthe depths of all faith, here and hereafter--in the earth, in the skies,\nin the infinite--above all, in himself and his own destiny?\n\n\"Their worship is not so unlike our own as you, who are outside the\ntemple, might believe,\" said he, pointing upwards to the glowing spark\non the summit of the tower of Belus, which was never extinguished night\nor day. \"I have learned in our traditions, handed down, word for word,\nfrom priest to priest, since the first family of man peopled the earth\nafter the subsiding of the waters, that they too worship the sacred\nelement which constitutes the essence and spirit of the universe. If\nthey have no images, nor outward symbols of their faith, it is because\ntheir deity is impalpable, invisible, as the principle of heat which\ngenerates flame. If they turn from the Seven Stars with scorn, if they\npour out no drink-offering, make no obeisance to the Queen of Heaven, it\nis because they look yet higher, to that mystic property from which\nBaalim and Ashtaroth draw light and life and dominion over us poor\nchildren of darkness down here below. Their great patriarch and leader\ncame out of this very land; and there is Assyrian blood, though I think\nshame to confess it, in the veins of that captive people subject now to\nour hereditary enemies in the South.\"\n\n\"The men are well enough to look on,\" answered Sarchedon, \"but, to my\nthinking, their women are not so fair as the women of the plain between\nthe rivers; not to be spoken of with the Great Queen's retinue here, nor\nthe mountain maids who come down from the north to gladden old Nineveh\nlike sweet herbs and wild flowers growing in the crevices of a ruined\nwall. If this people are of our lineage, they have fallen away sadly\nfrom the parent stock.\"\n\n\"What I tell you is truth,\" replied Assarac; \"and I, sitting by you here\nto-night, have spoken with men whose fathers remembered those that in\ntheir boyhood had seen the great founder of our nation--old, wrinkled,\nwith a white beard descending to his feet, but lofty still, and mighty\nas the tower of defiance he reared to heaven, though suffering daily\nfrom torment unendurable; and why? Because of the patriarch and chief of\nthe nation you despise.\"\n\nThrough all the Assyrian people, but especially amongst the hosts of the\nGreat King, to believe in Nimrod was to believe in Baal, in Ashur, in\ntheir religion, their national existence, their very identity.\n\nThe colour rose to Sarchedon's brow as he passed his hand over his lips,\nscarcely yet darkened with a beard, while he answered haughtily,\n\n\"Nimrod was lord of earth by right of bow and spear. No man living,\nbacked by all the gods of all the stars in heaven, would have dared to\ndispute his word, nor so much as look him in his lion-like face!\"\n\n\"And yet did this old man, lord only in his own family--chief of a tribe\nscarce numbering a thousand bowmen--beard the lion-king in the city he\nhad founded, in the palace where he reigned, in the very temple of his\nworship. The patriarch reasoned with him on the multitude of his gods;\nand Nimrod answered proudly, he could make as many as he would, but that\nwhile they emanated from himself they had supreme dominion on earth and\nover all in heaven, save only the Seven Stars and the Twenty-four Judges\nof the World. Then the patriarch took the king's molten images out of\nthe temple, kindled a great furnace in the centre of the city, and in\nthe presence of all Nineveh, cast them into the midst.\"\n\nSarchedon started to his feet.\n\n\"And the king did not hew him in pieces with his own hand where he\nstood!\" exclaimed he. \"It is impossible! It is contrary to all reason\nand experience!\"\n\n\"The king could scarce believe his eyes,\" continued Assarac, smothering\na smile, \"when he saw his sacred images crumbling down and stealing away\nin streams of molten gold. It is even said that he uttered a great cry\nof lamentation and sat on the ground a whole night, with his garments\nrent, fasting, and in sore distress. This I scarcely think was the\nfashion of the mighty hunter: what I _do_ believe is, that he sent a\ncompany of bowmen after the offender with orders to bring him back into\nhis presence, alive or dead. They pursued the patriarch through the\nValley of Siddim, till they came to the bitter waters; and\nhere\"--Assarac put his goblet with something of embarrassment to his\nlips--\"here the stars in their courses must have fought against Assyria;\nfor our warriors turned and fled in some confusion, so that the daring\nson of Terah escaped. Then it is said that he prayed to his God for\nvengeance against our lion-king, entreating that he who had been\nconqueror of the mightiest men and slayer of the fiercest beasts on\nearth, should be punished by the smallest and humblest of that animal\ncreation it had been his chief pleasure to persecute and destroy. His\nGod answered his prayer, though he raised no temples, made no golden\nimages of man, beast, bird, nor monster, and sacrificed but a lamb or a\nkid in burnt-offering on the altar of unhewn stones in the plain.\n\n\"A tiny gnat was sent to plague great Nimrod, as the sand-fly of the\nwilderness maddens the lion in his lair. Under helm or diadem--in purple\nrobe or steel harness--at board and bed--in saddle, bath, or war\nchariot, the lord of all the earth was goaded into a ceaseless encounter\nwhere there was no adversary, and exhausted by perpetual flight where\nnone pursued.\n\n\"Then he sent for cunning artificers, who made for him a chamber of\nglass, impervious even to the air of heaven, so that the king entered it\nwell pleased; for he said, 'Now shall I have ease from my tormentor, to\neat bread and drink wine, and be refreshed with sleep.'\n\n\"But while he spoke the gnat was in his ear, and soon it ascended, and\nbegan to feed on his brain. Then the king's agony was greater than he\ncould bear, and he cried aloud to his servants, bidding them beat on his\nhead with a hammer, to ease the pain. So he endured for four hundred\nyears; and then he--then he went home to his father Ashur; and when the\nSeven Stars shine out in the Northern sky, he looks down, well pleased,\nfrom his throne of light, on the city that his children have built, and\nthe statue of gold they have raised to his name.\"\n\n\"And this is true?\" exclaimed Sarchedon, whose love of the marvellous\ncould not but be gratified by the priest's narrative.\n\n\"True as our traditions,\" answered Assarac, with something like a sneer;\n\"true as our worship, true as our reason and intellect, true as the\nlessons we have learned to read in the stars themselves. What can be\ntruer? except labour, sorrow, pain, and the insufficiency of man!\"\n\n\"Every one to his own duty,\" replied the young warrior. \"Slingers and\nbowmen in advance, spears and chariots in the centre, horsemen on the\nwings. It is your business to guess where the shaft falls; mine is but\nto fit the arrow and draw the bow. I am glad of it. I never could see\nmuch in the stars but a scatter of lamps to help a night march, when no\nbrighter light was to be had. The moon has been a better friend to me\nere now than all the host of heaven. Tell me, Assarac, can you not read\non her fair open face when I shall be made captain of the guard to the\nGreat King?\"\n\n\"What you ask in jest,\" said the other, smiling, \"I will hereafter\nanswer in sober earnest. I go hence to the summit of that high tower,\nand all night long must I read on those scrolls of fire above us a\nfuture which they alone can tell--the destiny of nations, the fate of a\nline of kings, nay, the fortunes of a young warrior whom the queen\ndelighteth to honour, and who may well deserve to sleep to-night while\nothers take their turn to watch.\"\n\nThus speaking, he spread his mantle over a heap of silken cushions,\ndisposed at the foot of the stairs leading to the tower of Belus so as\nto form a tempting couch, in the cool night air, for one who had ridden\nso far through the heat of an Assyrian day.\n\nHe had not ascended three steps towards the tower, ere Sarchedon,\novercome with fatigue, excitement, and Damascus wine, laid his head\namongst the cushions and fell into a deep sound sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE STARS IN THEIR COURSES\n\n\nCasting his eye on the fire of fragrant wood that burned in its brazen\ntripod at the summit of the tower, passing his fingers, as it seemed,\nmechanically through its flame, and with the same unconscious gesture\ntouching his right eyebrow, Assarac leaned his massive figure against\nthe parapet, plunged in a train of deep engrossing thought.\n\nThe tapering structure he had ascended was built, as his traditions\ntaught him to believe, for purposes of astral worship and observation.\nIt afforded, therefore, a standing-point from which, on all sides, an\nuninterrupted view of the heavens could be obtained down to the horizon;\nyet the eyes of Assarac were fixed steadfastly on the great city\nsleeping at his feet, and it was of earthly interests, earthly\ndestinies, that he pondered, rather than those spheres of light, hanging\nunmarked above him in the golden-studded sky.\n\nA soft but measured step, the rustle of a woman's garment, caused him to\nturn with a start. He prostrated himself till his brow touched the\nbrickwork at her feet, and then, resuming an erect position, looked his\nvisitor proudly in the face, like a teacher with his pupil, rather than\na subject before his queen.\n\n\"Assarac,\" said Semiramis, \"I have trusted you with a royal and\nunreserved confidence to-night. I do not say, deserve it, because your\nlife is in my hand, but because our wishes, our interests, and the very\nobject we aim at, are the same. Many have served me in slavish\nsubjection through fear. Do you serve me with loyal regard as a\nfriend?\"\n\nShe laid her white hand frankly on his arm, and he, priest, man of\nscience, as he was, ambitious, isolated, above and below the strongest\nimpulses of humanity, felt the blood mount to his brain, the colour to\nhis cheek, at that thrilling touch.\n\n\"Your servant's life,\" he answered, \"and the lives of a thousand priests\nof Baal, are in the queen's hand to-night; for doth she not hold the\nsignet of my lord the king, sent with Sarchedon from the camp in token\nof victory? And more than my life,--my art, my skill, the lore by which\nI have learned to compel those gods above us, are but precious in my\nsight so far as they can advantage the Great Queen.\"\n\n\"You will unfold the mysteries of the sky,\" she replied eagerly. \"You\nwill bid Baalim, Ashtaroth, and all the host of heaven speak with me\nface to face, as a man speaks with his friend. If you will answer for\nthe gods up yonder,\" she added with a touch of sarcasm on her sweet\nproud lip, \"I will take upon myself to order the actions of men below.\"\n\n\"Something of this I _can_ do,\" said he gravely, \"or I have watched here\nnight by night, and fasted, and prayed, and cut myself with knives\nbefore the altar of Baal, in vain. But, first, I must ask of the queen,\ndoth she believe in the power of the gods? Doth she trust her servant to\ninterpret truly the characters of fire engraved by them on the dark\ntablets of night?\"\n\nShe scanned him with a searching look. \"I believe,\" she said, \"thus\nfar--that man makes for himself the destiny to which hereafter he must\nsubmit. I believe the gods can foretell that destiny, and I would fain\nbelieve, if I had proof, that you, Assarac, their faithful servant,\npossess power to read up yonder the counsels of the Thirteen, and all\ntheir satellites.\"\n\n\"What proof does my queen desire?\" asked the priest. \"Shall I read off\nto her from those shining tables the plastic mouldings of the future, or\nthe deep indelible engravings of the past?\"\n\nThe queen pondered. \"Of the future,\" she replied, \"I cannot judge\nwhether they speak true or false. Were they to tell me of a past known\nonly to myself and one long since gone from earth\"--she sighed while\nshe spoke--\"I might give credit to their intelligence, and shape my\ncourse by those silent witnesses, as men do in the desert or at sea.\"\n\n\"Look upward, my queen,\" answered Assarac, \"and mark where the belt of\nthe Great Hunter points to that distant cluster of stars, like the\ndiamonds on your own royal tiara. Faintest and farthest shines one that\nrecords her past history, as yonder golden planet, glowing low down by\nthe horizon, foretells her future destiny.\"\n\nHe stopped, and from a vase of wine that stood near the sacred fire,\nsprinkled a few drops to the four quarters of the sky. \"I pour this\ndrink-offering,\" he said, \"to Ashtaroth, Queen of Heaven! Shall I tell\nthe Queen of Earth a tale I read in those stars forming the symbol\nwhich, rightly interpreted, contains the name of Semiramis?\"\n\nThe queen nodded assent, turning her beautiful face upward to the sky.\n\n\"Could it all be true?\" was the wild thought that fleeted for an instant\nthrough his brain, \"and had not Ashtaroth herself come down from heaven\nto look on her adoring votary?\"\n\nWith a glance almost of awe into the queen's upturned countenance,\nAssarac proceeded: \"I read there of a city in the South, a city beyond\nthe desert, pleasant and beautiful in the waving of palms, the music of\nrushing waters, built on the margin of a lake, where leaping fish at\nsundown dot the glistening surface, countless as rain-drops in a shower.\nOn its bank stands a temple to that goddess who, like Dagon, bears half\na human form, terminating in the scales and body of a fish. Very fair is\nDerceta to the girdle, and, womanlike, fanciful as she is fair. Near her\ntemple dwelt a young fisherman, comely, ruddy, of exceeding beauty and\nmanhood, so that the goddess did not scorn to love him with all the\nardour of her double nature, only too well.\n\n\"Yet it shamed her of her human attributes when she gave birth to a\nchild, though the stars tell me, O queen, that never was seen so\nbeautiful a babe, even amongst those borne by the daughters of men to\nthe host of heaven.\n\n\"Nevertheless, a foul wound festers equally beneath silk and sackcloth;\nso that the goddess, in wrath and shame, carried her infant into the\nwilderness, and left it there to die.\n\n\"Behold how Ashtaroth glows and brightens in the darkening night. Surely\nit was the Queen of Heaven who sent fair doves to pity, succour, and\npreserve that child of light, tender as a flower, and beautiful as a\nstar. Day by day the fond birds brought her fruits and sustenance, till\ncertain peasants, observing their continual flight in the same\ndirection, followed their guidance, and found by a rill of water the\nlaughing infant, bearing even then a promise of beauty to be unequalled\nhereafter in the whole world.\"\n\nThere was pride and sorrow in the queen's deep eyes as she fixed them on\nthe seer, and whispered,\n\n\"Ask, then, if it had not been better to have left the child there to\ndie.\"\n\n\"The stars acknowledge no pity,\" was his answer. \"It is the first of\nhuman weaknesses cast off by those who rule in earth or heaven. Had they\nnot written the destiny of that babe by the desert spring in the same\ncharacters I read up there to-night? They tell me how, in her earliest\nwomanhood, she was seen by Menon, governor of ten provinces under my\nlord the king. They tell me how Menon made her his wife. They tell me,\ntoo, of an amulet graven with a dove on the wing, which that maiden wore\nhidden in her bosom when she came veiled into the presence of her lord.\"\n\nThe queen started.\n\n\"How know you this?\" she exclaimed almost angrily. \"I have never yet\nshown it even to my lord the king.\"\n\n\"I do but read that which is written,\" he answered. \"They tell me also\nhow, when she shall part with that amulet, it will purchase for her the\ndearest wish of her heart at the sacrifice of all its powers hereafter.\nIts charm will then be broken, its virtue departed. She never showed it\nman save Menon; for the governor of those wide provinces stretching to\nthe Southern sea would have gone ragged and barefoot, would have given\nrank, riches, honours, life itself, for but one smile from the loveliest\nface that ever laughed behind a veil.\"\n\n\"They speak truth,\" murmured the queen; \"he loved me only too well.\"\n\n\"It was written in heaven,\" continued Assarac, \"that the servant must\nyield to his master, and that a jewel too precious for Menon was to\nblaze in the diadem of the Great King. I read now of a fenced city,\nfrowning and threatening, far off in an Eastern land; of a bank cast\nagainst its ramparts, and mighty engines smiting hard at its gates; of\narchers, spears, slingers, and horsemen; of the king of nations seated\non his chariot in the midst, pulling his grey beard in anger because of\nthe tower of strength he could in no wise lay waste and level with the\nground. But for Menon and his skill in warfare, the besiegers must have\nfled from before it in disorder and dismay. One morning at sunrise there\nwere heard strange tidings in the camp. Men asked each other who was the\nyouth who had ridden to Menon's tent in shining apparel, devoid of helm\nand buckler, but armed with bow and spear--beautiful as Shamash the God\nof Light, so that human eyes were dazzled, looking steadfastly on his\nface.\n\n\"Ere set of sun the Great King had himself taken counsel with this\nblooming warrior; ere it had risen twice, Menon was made captain of the\nhost, and the work of slaughter commenced; for the proud city had\nfallen, and the gods of Assyria were set up in its holy places, to be\nappeased with blood and suffering and spoil.\n\n\"When the host returned in triumph, they left a mighty warrior dead in\nhis tent over against the ruins of the smoking town. No meaner hand\ncould have sufficed to lay him low, and none but Menon took Menon's\nlife, because--Shall I read on?\"\n\nA faint moan caused him to stop and scan the queen's face. It was fixed\nand rigid as marble, pale too with an unearthly whiteness beneath that\nstarlit sky; but there was neither pity for herself nor others in the\ncalm, distinct articulation with which she syllabled her answer in his\nown words--\"Read on!\"\n\n\"They teach me,\" he continued, \"that Menon could not bear his loss,\nafter she had left his tent whose place was on the loftiest throne the\nearth has ever seen. When the triumph returned to Nineveh, there sat by\nthe Great King's side, in male attire, the fairest woman under heaven.\nShe guided his wisest counsels; she won for him his greatest victories;\nshe raised his noblest city; she became the light of his eyes, the glory\nof his manhood, the treasure of his heart, mother of kings and mistress\nof the world; but she had never yet parted with her amulet to living\nman. All this is surely true; for it is written in those symbols of fire\nthat cannot lie, and that trace the history of the Great Queen.\"\n\nSemiramis turned her eyes on him with a look that seemed to read his\nvery heart. The priest bore that searching glance in austere composure,\ncreditable to his nerve and coolness; though these were enhanced by a\nvague conviction of his own prophetic powers, the result, no doubt, of a\ncertain exaltation of mind, consequent on his previous fasts, his\nstudies, and his long hours of brooding over deep ambitious schemes.\nAfter a protracted silence, she sighed like one who shakes off a heavy\nburden of memories; and, giving her companion the benefit of her\nbrightest smile, asked him the pertinent question: \"Is it the amulet\nthat controls the destiny, or the destiny that gives a value to the\namulet? Do the stars shed lustre on the woman, or is it the woman's fame\nthat adds a glory to her star?\"\n\nFor answer he pointed to a ruby in her bracelet, sparkling and glowing\nin the light of the mystic flame.\n\n\"That gem,\" said he, \"was beyond price in the rayless cavern of its\nbirth. Nevertheless, behold how its brilliancy is enhanced by the gleams\nit catches from the sacred fire. The stars shine down on a beautiful\nwoman, and they make of her an all-powerful queen.\"\n\n\"All-powerful!\" repeated Semiramis. \"None is all-powerful but my lord\nthe king. To be second in place is to be little less a slave than the\nmeanest subject in his dominions.\"\n\nHe took no heed of her words. He seemed not to hear, so engrossed was he\nwith his studies of the heavens, so awe-struck and preoccupied was the\nvoice in which he declaimed his testimony, like a man reading from a\nsacred book.\n\n\"She whose counsels have won battles shall lead armies in person; she\nwho has reached her hand to touch a sceptre shall lift her arm to take\na diadem; she who has built a city shall found an empire. Walls and\nramparts must hem in the one; but of the other brave men's weapons alone\nconstitute the frontier: as much as they win with sword and spear so\nmuch do they possess. The dove is the bird of peace; and for her whom\ndoves nourished at her birth there shall be peace in her womanhood,\nbecause none will be left to contend with the conqueror and mistress of\nthe world.\"\n\nHe fell back against the parapet of the tower, pale, gasping, as if\nfaint and exhausted from the effects of the inspiration that had passed\naway; but beneath those half-closed lids not a shade on the queen's\nbrow, not a movement of her frame, escaped his penetrating eyes. He\ncould read that fair proud face with far more certainty than the\nlustrous pages of heaven. Perhaps he experienced a vague consciousness\nthat here on these delicate features were written the characters of\nfate, rather than yonder above him in the fathomless inscrutable sky.\nShe seemed to have forgotten his presence. She was looking far out into\nthe night, towards that quarter of the desert over which Sarchedon had\nridden from the camp, where an arrow from her own quiver lay under the\nbleaching bones of the dead lion. Her eyes were fierce, and her\ncountenance bore a rigid expression, bright, cold, unearthly, yet not\ndevoid of triumph, like one who defies and subdues mortal pain.\n\nSuch a glare had he seen in the eyes of the Great King when he awarded\ndeath to some shaking culprit--such a look on the victim's fixed face,\nere it was covered, while they dragged him away.\n\nIt was well, thought Assarac, for men who dealt with kings and queens to\nhave no sympathies, no affections, none of the softer emotions and\nweaknesses of our nature. The tools of ambition are sharp and\ndouble-edged; the staff on which it leans too often breaks beneath it,\nand pierces to the bone. Moreover, it would have been wiser and safer to\ncommit himself to the mercy of winds and waves than to depend on the\nwilfulness of a woman, even though she wore a crown. Already the queen's\nmood had changed: her face had resumed its habitual expression of calm,\nindolent, and somewhat voluptuous repose.\n\n\"No more to-night,\" she said, with a gracious gesture, as of thanks and\ndismissal. \"There is much to be done before the return in triumph of my\nlord the king. To-morrow you will carry my commands to the captains\nwithin the city, bidding them have all their preparations made for the\nreception of the conquerors. Let them assemble their companies under\nshield; let the chariots and horsemen be drawn up in the great square\nover against the palace; and let the archers look that their bows have\nnew strings. You can answer for your own people here?\"\n\n\"For every hand that bears a lotus in temple, palace, or streets--two\nthousand in all, without counting the prophets of the grove, and the\npriests of Baal, outside the walls.\"\n\n\"Enough,\" said the queen; \"you have done well. I, too, can read in the\nfuture more and mightier things than you have imparted to me to-night.\"\n\nShe wrapped her mantle round her to depart, not suffering Assarac to\nattend her one step on her way. Kalmim, she said, was waiting in the\ngarden, and would accompany her to the palace. So she walked slowly down\nthe winding staircase, grave, abstracted, as though revolving some\nweighty purpose in her mind. At its foot she started to see the\nrecumbent figure of Sarchedon buried in profound sleep.\n\nWas it a fatality of the stars? Was it an impulse of womanhood? She bent\nover that beautiful unconscious face till her breath stirred the curls\non its comely brow, then, with a gesture almost fierce in its passionate\nenergy, snatched the famous amulet from her neck, and laid it on his\nbreast.\n\n\"It is a rash purchase,\" she muttered; \"but I am willing to pay the\nprice.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nA DREAMER OF DREAMS\n\n\nHe was sleeping, yet not so sound but that his rest was visited by a\nstrange and terrifying dream.\n\nHe thought he was in the desert, galloping his good horse in pursuit of\nan ostrich, winged with plumes worthy to tuft the spears that guarded\nthe Great King's tent. But for all his efforts of voice, hand, and\nframe, Merodach laboured strangely in the deep sand, of which the\nlong-legged bird threw back such volumes as to choke his lips and\nnostrils, wrapping him in a dim revolving cloud, that whirled and\ntowered to the sky. Like a stab came the conviction that he was in the\nmidst of the pitiless simoon, and he must die. Once more he strove to\nrouse Merodach with heel and bridle; but the horse seemed turned to\nstone, till, plunging wildly, he struggled forward, only to sink under\nhis rider and disappear beneath the sand. Then the cloud burst asunder\nto reveal the glories of a dying sunset, fading into the purple sea.\n\nHe was on foot in the desert, fainting, weary, and sore athirst; but he\nheard the night-breeze sighing through palms and whispering in lofty\npoplars; he heard the cool ripple of water against the shore, and the\npleasant welcome of a stream, singing in starts of broken melody as it\ndanced down to meet the waves; then he saw a yoke of oxen, a camel at\nrest, a few huts, and a boat drawn up high and dry on the beach.\n\nHe was no longer a warrior in the armies of the Great King, but a rude\nfisherman amongst fishermen. He ate of their bread, he drank from their\npitcher; yet was he still hungry and athirst, still wore a sword at his\ngirdle and carried a bow in his hand.\n\nHe took his share of their labour; he drew in their nets. It seemed to\nhim he had seen their faces before, though they knew him not; but he\nmarvelled why they moved so slowly, and neither spoke nor smiled. While\nhe helped them, too, it was as if the whole weight of rope and meshes\nhung on his arm alone. So night fell; and they took him into a hut,\npointing to a cruse of water and a mantle spread in the corner, but\nwithdrawing in the same sad silence, calm and grave, like those who\nmourn for the dead.\n\nHe could not sleep. The moon rose and shone in on him where he lay.\nAfter long hours of tossing troubled waking, a figure blocked the window\nwhere her rays streamed in on his couch. Then a great horror came over\nhim without cause or reason, and tugging hard to draw his sword, he\nfound it fastened in the sheath. Solemnly, slowly the figure signed to\nfollow. Leaving his couch, he felt his heart leap, for it resembled\nIshtar! But in the porch of the hut he seemed to recognise the clear\nproud features of the queen. Nevertheless, when its face was turned to\nthe moonlight, he knew it was Assarac under the garb of a fisherman, but\nbearing the lotus-flower always in his hand. Without exchanging word or\nlook, with averted eyes and stealthy steps, these two set the little\nbark afloat and took the oars. Then at last was broken the long weary\nsilence, by a voice that came up from the deep, saying, \"Ferrymen, bring\nover your dead!\"\n\nLight, buoyant, and high in the water, the boat had danced like a\nsea-bird on the surface; but now, though never a form was seen nor sound\nheard, she began to sink--deeper, deeper, so that the waves seemed to\npeer over her sides, leaping and sporting about her in cruel mockery, as\nthough eager to break in and send her down.\n\nIt was a hard task to row that heavy freight out to sea. Weary and\nhorror-stricken he tugged at his oar till the sweat dropped from his\nbrow.\n\nThe moon went down, and a great darkness settled on the waters--the\nthick clogging waters, through which their oars passed so heavily. Was\nit the sea of the plain whereon they were embarked? Yes, surely, it must\nbe the sea of the plain, the Dead Sea.\n\nWas he never to approach the term of this numbing oppressive labour?\nMust he row on for ever and ever, without pause or respite, having bid\nhis last farewell to the shores of earth and the light of day? Thus\nthinking, he felt the boat's keel grate against the bottom, while the\noar started from his hand.\n\nHe took courage to look about him; but mortal eye could not pierce that\nthick darkness; and though the toil awhile ago had been so severe, a\nchill air curdled his blood, and crept into his very heart.\n\nStill and silent as the grave seemed that shadowy land, till the same\nvoice he had heard on the other shore called out the name of one he knew\nwell and loved with a brother's love. There was no answer; but the boat\nlightened perceptibly, and her keel no longer touched the shingle.\n\nAnother name was called, and yet another, always in the same calm\npassionless accents, always with the same strange solemn result.\n\nAt every summons the boat rose higher in the water. When Sataspes was\ncalled, she swung to the flow and wash of the sluggish wave against her\nsides; at the name of Ninus, the Great King, she floated free and\nunencumbered as before she put out on her mysterious voyage.\n\nWith a heart lightened as was the boat that bore him, he pushed her off\nto return; for something warned him that now his task was done. He would\nfain have spoken with Assarac; but the surrounding gloom seemed so to\noppress his lungs and chest, that the words formed by his tongue could\nnot find vent through his lips.\n\nOnce more he was bending to the oar, when, as it were out of his own\nheart, came a voice whispering his name, \"Sarchedon! Sarchedon!\" in low\nsweet tones, which yet he knew vibrated with the sentence of his doom.\n\nAn unseen power raised him to his feet, and would have lifted him to\nshore, but that the priest held him back by his coarse fisher's garment,\nwhich dragged on chest and throat till he was fairly choked. Then, in\nextremity of fear and agony, he found his voice to call on Assarac for\nhelp at the moment when his vesture, yielding to the strain laid on it,\nparted asunder to let the cold night air in on his naked breast.\n\nSo he awoke, scared, trembling, panting for breath, and even in his\nwaking seemed still wrapped in the gloom of that Isle of Shadows--seemed\nstill to catch the tread of muffled footsteps, the breath of airy\nwhispers, faint echoes from another world.\n\nIn that age, and amongst a people ever striving after a mystic ideal,\nyearning for communion with a higher world, dreams, and the\ninterpretations thereof, were held of no small account.\n\nSarchedon, warrior though he was, and, like his great chief, little\nimbued with the superstitions of his time and country, could not yet\npass over such a scene as his imagination had even now pictured without\nmuch cogitation and concern. He sat up and considered it in no small\nperplexity, inclining to regard the vision now as an omen of fortune,\nanon as a warning of fate. In his suffocating struggles to wake, his\nhands had been pressed close against his breast; a few moments elapsed\nere he became conscious that he held in them a jewel he had never seen\nbefore. Rising from his couch at the foot of the tower, he hastened to\nexamine it by starlight under the open sky. It consisted of an emerald,\non which was cut the figure of a dove with outspread wings, following,\nas it seemed, the course of an arrow flying upward through the air. That\nit had come to him by supernatural influences during his sleep, he never\ndoubted, and interpreted it, as men always do interpret the\ninexplicable, in the manner most agreeable to his own wishes. This dove,\nhe said to himself, must mean the girl he had so lately seen at the Well\nof Palms; for what could be more dove-like than the maiden sweetness and\ninnocent bearing of Ishtar? The arrow doubtless signified, in its upward\nflight, his own future career. He would become illustrious as a warrior,\nand Ishtar would follow him in his brilliant course to fame. Was it an\narrow, or the initial of a name? He was forced to confess, from its\nshape and direction, that it seemed intended to represent the weapon\nitself, and not the letter of which he would fain consider it a symbol.\nNevertheless, it must be a sign that the gods intended him for great\nthings, and it should be no fault of his if the only woman who had yet\ntouched his heart did not share with him the good fortune thus promised\nby the stars.\n\nMeantime it wanted many hours of dawn; so he returned to his cushions\nand mantle for the remainder of his night's rest, stopping by the table\nat which he had sat with Assarac in the evening for a pull at the golden\nflagon, not yet emptied of its good Damascus wine.\n\nNevertheless, long before sunrise, he awoke refreshed, invigorated,\nhappy; feeling the amulet resting on his breast, he accepted its\npresence for a fortunate omen; and ere daylight paled the beacon-fire on\nthe tower of Belus, was galloping Merodach through the desert on his way\nto the Well of Palms.\n\n\"Surely,\" thought this dreamer, \"she will be watching there for the\nfirst glitter of spears that shall give token of her father's return?\nThen will I tell her when to expect the host, and how to distinguish\nbetween its vanguard and the spearmen of its strength, having Arbaces at\ntheir head, who march with the chariot of the Great King. She will give\nme to drink, and I will say unto her, Maiden, as this draught of water\nto one athirst and stifled with the desert sand, so is a whisper from\nthe lips and a glance from the eyes of the fairest damsel in all the\nland of Shinar to him who has ridden from the great city only to look on\nher face ere he departs to see her no more. Then she cannot but lift her\nveil, and speak kindly to me, bidding me tarry but a few moments, while\nshe draws water for my horse. So will I tell her the whole tale; and\nhereafter, when my lord the king has rewarded his warriors for service\ndone with bow and spear, I will take to Arbaces a score of camels, a\nhundred sheep, and a talent of gold, together with the armour I won of\nthat swarthy giant beyond the sweet river; and how shall he say me nay?\nSo will I lead her home to my tent, and then shall I have attained full\nhappiness, and need ask for nothing more on earth.\"\n\nThus it fell out that Kalmim, arriving in the temple of Baal soon after\ndaybreak, missed both the object of her real and her fictitious search.\nThe queen after a heated restless night, bade her chief tiring-woman\nseek in that edifice for an amulet, which Semiramis affirmed she could\nonly have dropped at the foot of the tower of Belus, where some one, she\nadded, was sleeping, who must be brought to her and interrogated\nforthwith. Kalmim's experience, in her own person and that of her\nmistress, led her at once to guess the truth; therefore she hurried off\nto apprise Sarchedon he was wanted without delay in the royal palace. On\nher arrival, it might be said that she found the nest still warm, though\nthe bird had flown; for a priest was carrying away the cloak and\ncushions that had formed the young man's couch, and his dark eyes\nglittered with a roguish smile while he peered into the flagon of\nDamascus, to find little left in it but dregs.\n\n\"These warriors seem to know the use of good wine when they can get it,\"\nsaid he, \"and I doubt not it sings and mantles under helm of steel no\nless than linen tiara or fillet of gold; but they clasp bow and spear\nthrough many a long night for one that they spend with goblet of Ophir\nin hand. Men sleep little in the camp too, and feed sparingly, they\ntell me, nor day after day must they be cheered by the sight of a\nwoman's veil or the sound of a woman's voice. To say nothing of a fierce\nenemy and a place in the fore-front of the battle between two hosts in\narray, where it is scarcely more dangerous to fight than to fly. Truly\nit is better to be a servant of Baal than of the Great King.\"\n\n\"It is better to be a boar in the marshes than a lion in the mountain!\"\nretorted Kalmim with high disdain; \"a vulture battening on a dead camel\nthan an eagle striking the wild goat from its rock! Conquering or\nconquered, up or down, a warrior is at least a _man_, and a match for\nmen!\"\n\n\"While a priest is a match for women,\" answered the other, laughing. \"Is\nthat what you would say? Nevertheless, Kalmim, it must be a priest who\nwill serve your turn this morning, for there are here a thousand in the\ntemple, and never a hand among us to draw bowstring or close round the\nshaft of a spear.\"\n\n\"There was a warrior in the porch even now,\" replied Kalmim; \"a goodly\nyoung warrior with dark flowing locks, and a chin nearly as smooth,\nBeladon, as your own. What have you done with him? He bore hither the\nGreat King's signet, and if he has come by harm, not all the gods of all\nyour temples will shield you from the fair face that never looked on man\nin anger but he was consumed.\"\n\nBeladon, a handsome young priest, with bright roguish eyes and swarthy\ncomplexion, turned pale while she spoke--pale even through the rich\ncrimson of his cheek and the blue tint of lips and chin, where his beard\nwas close-shaven, and rubbed down with pumice-stone in imitation of\nAssarac's smooth unmanly face.\n\n\"The youth lay here scarce an hour ago,\" said he, trembling. \"He mounted\nthe noblest steed that ever wore a bridle--a white horse, with eyes of\nfire--and rode off through the Great Brazen Gate into the desert like an\narrow from a bow. Surely he will return.\"\n\nKalmim burst out laughing at his discomposure.\n\n\"Surely he will return!\" she repeated; \"and when he does return, surely\nyou will bring him to me by the path through the great paradise without\ndelay. Semiramis hath been dealing justice amongst the people since\nsunrise, but she will pass the heat of the day as usual in the fishing\ntemple, and you will find me in its porch. You do not fear to present\nyourself before Dagon? His worship requires no sacrifice of sheep nor\noxen, no blood of priests to flow from the gashes they cut in their\nnaked flesh, before his altar.\"\n\nShe spoke in a jesting tone ill befitting the solemnity of the subject,\nand he answered in the same vein.\n\n\"The sheep and oxen we offer are consumed without doubt by Baal himself,\nwhile his servants live miraculously on the light of his countenance and\nthe fragments that he leaves! Touching our self-inflicted wounds,\nnotwithstanding all the blood spilt before the people, we scarcely feel\nthe pain; and this too cannot but be by a miracle of the god. I make no\nsecret with you of our mysteries. Tell me, in return, what mean these\nwarlike preparations that have set the whole city astir to-day?\"\n\nHer tone was still of banter and sarcasm.\n\n\"Would you wish the Great King to be received,\" said she, \"with no more\nceremony than a shepherd bringing a stray lamb in from the wilderness on\nhis shoulders? When he returns a conqueror, shall not the triumph be\nworthy of the victory?\"\n\n\"But if every man who can bear arms is to stand forth in array with bow\nand spear; if the women and children, on pain of death, are not to come\ndown into the streets; if the priests of Baal and the prophets of the\ngrove are to be marshalled like warriors, with knives unsheathed and\nsacrificing weapons in hand, our welcome will seem to Ninus more like\nthe assault of a fenced city than the return of my lord the king to his\nhome!\"\n\n\"So be it,\" answered Kalmim. \"It is not the flash of a blade or the\ngleam of a spear that will frighten the old king. By the serpent of\nAshtaroth, he fears neither man nor demon; and when his queen raised a\ntemple in Bactria to Abitur of the Mountains, he profaned his altar and\ndefied the Chief of the Devils in sight of our whole army. It angered\nher, and she hath not forgotten it. Why, men say, he believes no more in\nBaal than--than you do yourselves!\"\n\nHe looked about him in alarm.\n\n\"Hush!\" said he. \"It is not for me to judge between my gods and my lord\nthe king. The divining cup of Assarac has not failed to tell him that\nNinus shall one day take his place with the Thirteen Gods. It may be\nthat he knows the golden throne is waiting for him even now.\"\n\nHe scrutinised her face narrowly, but saw on it only a light and\ncareless smile.\n\n\"Were I the queen, I'd have a younger one next time,\" was her reply. \"Of\n_your_ years, say you? No, thank you, Beladon--not for me. Well, you may\ncome with me to the Jaspar Gate and as far as the outer court; I dare\nnot pass alone through all those oxen, lowing, poor things, as if they\nknew not one of them would be left alive to-day at noon.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE KING OF NATIONS\n\n\nLeaning on his spear within a day's march of the Great City, the tall\nfigure of a warrior loomed massive and indistinct in the early light of\nmorning breaking on the Assyrian camp. Line by line, shade by shade, as\ndawn stole slowly upward, his form came out in bolder relief. Presently\na dark blurred mass, some few paces off, took the shape of a sleeping\ncamel; soon shadowy tents, dusky banners, spoil, arms, accoutrements,\nall the encumbrances of an army on the march, grew into their real\noutline, filled with their respective colours; and the man's features,\nunder his steel headpiece, became plainly visible in the light of day.\n\nHe was arrayed in the utmost splendour of armour and apparel. The\nformer, inlaid throughout with gold, shone bright and polished like a\nmirror, though the goodly silks and heavy embroidery that formed the\nlatter were sadly rent and frayed by the press of many a hot encounter,\nthe wear and tear of many a weary march. He wore in his girdle a short\nstraight sword with jewelled hilt and ornamented scabbard, carried a\nbow and quiver of arrows at his back, and a shield studded with precious\nstones on his arm. From his shoulders hung an ample mantle of crimson\nsilk, bordered with deep fringes of gold; while the head of the spear,\nor rather javelin, on which he rested, though broad, sharp, and heavy,\nwas plated and ornamented with the same costly metal.\n\nIn such an arm it seemed no doubt a formidable weapon; for the man's\nsquare frame and weighty limbs denoted great personal strength; while\nhis marked features wore an expression of habitual fierceness, in\naccordance with a swarthy complexion, thick black brows, and ample\ncurling beard.\n\nHe was buried in thought of no pleasing nature, to judge by the working\nof his lips and the scowling glances he directed towards a tent standing\napart, of which two upright spears tufted with ostrich-plumes marked,\nand seemed to guard, the entrance.\n\nAs morning brightened, the whole camp came into view from the mound\nwhere he kept guard, and whereon the Great King's tent was pitched--a\ncamp of many sleeping thousands, ranged in warlike order under a hundred\nbanners drooping heavily in the still clear air.\n\nSuddenly the warrior started from his listless attitude into life and\naction; for a light step was approaching, and a figure advanced to the\ntufted spears that denoted the abode of royalty.\n\n\"Stand!\" he exclaimed in threatening accents, advancing his shield and\nraising the javelin to strike. \"Nay, pass, Sethos,\" he added with a\nscornful laugh. \"I have no orders to stop the king's cup-bearer; but you\nare on foot betimes this morning, though you wot well the old lion stirs\nnot before break of day.\"\n\nSethos patted the wine-skin under his arm--a homely vessel enough,\nthough its contents were to be poured into a jewelled cup.\n\n\"The old lion laps ever at sunrise,\" said he; \"and the hunter who brings\nhim to drink need not fear to enter his lair.\"\n\n\"Fear!\" repeated the other with an accent of contempt. \"He who deals\nwith lions must forget the meaning of the word. 'Tis thus, man, they are\ntrapped and tamed.\"\n\n\"Of a truth,\" answered Sethos, \"I once believed that in all the hosts of\nAssyria or of Egypt was to be found no frown so dark as gathers on the\nbrows of the Great King when he is angered. By the beard of Ashur,\nSargon, I have seen a fiercer look of late on the face of one who used\nto be ready with smile and wine-cup as with bow and spear; and it comes\nfrom under the helmet, my friend, that keeps _your_ head.\"\n\n\"Have I not cause?\" muttered the other, speaking below his breath in the\nquick concentrated accents of intense feeling. \"When the host marches\ninto Babylon, and the women come out with song and timbrel to welcome\nthe conquerors; when each man makes his boast, showing his treasure, his\nspoil, and the captives of his bow and spear; when my lord the king\nrewards his servants, giving gifts--to this a dress of honour, to that a\nbeautiful slave, to another a talent of gold and spoil of household\nstuff--what shall be done for Sargon, the king's shield-bearer,\nreturning childless and bereaved by the king's own hand? Boy, it is well\nI hold not your place. I might be tempted to mix that in the cup which\nshould cause Ninus to pour out his next drink-offering amongst a host of\nheaven in whom he professes to have no belief.\"\n\n\"Dangerous words,\" answered Sethos, \"and empty as they are rash. Why,\nman, you yourself cover him in battle with his shield. It is but\nlowering your arm a cubit, and the king's life is in your hand.\"\n\n\"I could not do it,\" said Sargon, drawing himself proudly up. \"It shall\nnever be said that the great Assyrian fell to point of Egyptian arrow,\nor gash of Bactrian steel. Nay; though the fire on Sargon's hearth may\nbe quenched, his name extinct, let Ninus fulfil his destiny, and sit\namongst the gods like his forefathers. It may be they are waiting for\nhim even now. Listen, Sethos; he calls from his tent. Hie thee into the\nlion's den, and pour him out such a morning's draught as shall keep him\nfasting from blood at least till noon.\"\n\nSethos--a handsome light-hearted youth, who as the king's cup-bearer\nenjoyed many privileges and immunities, of which he availed himself to\nthe utmost--passed swiftly between the tufted spears, and with a low\nprostration raised its curtain, to enter the tent of the oldest and\nmightiest warrior in the world.\n\nNinus, half risen from his couch, ruder and simpler than that of any\ncaptain in his host, stretched his long gaunt arm with impatience for\nthe wine he so craved, to replenish the exhausted energies and wasting\npowers of extreme old age. The Great King's face was pale and sunken;\nhis eyes, deep in their sockets, were dull and dim; while his thin\nscattered locks, shaggy brows, and long flowing beard had turned white\nas snow. Nevertheless, the wreck of that mighty frame, like some hoary\nfortress crumbling and tottering into ruin, still showed the remnant of\nsuch grand proportions, such fabulous strength as was allotted to the\nmen of olden time, when earth was new and nature inexhaustible. Yet was\nit whispered through the host, that as their fiercest champion would\nhave seemed a mere child by the side of their king in his prime, so was\nNinus but as a babe compared with great Nimrod, his ancestor, the god of\ntheir idolatry, and mighty founder of their race.\n\nSethos tendered the wine-cup as in duty bound, then stood with hands\ncrossed before him, and looks bent lowly on the earth. The king drained\nhis morning draught to the dregs; and for a moment there rose a faint\nflush on the ashen features, a lurid glow in the wan weary eyes--but\nonly to fade as quickly; and it was a sadly tremulous hand, though so\nbroad and sinewy, that grasped his wine-cup; while the deep voice came\nvery hoarse and broken in which he asked Sethos,\n\n\"Who waits outside? Is it near sunrise?\"\n\n\"Sargon, the royal shield-bearer,\" was the answer, \"has been on guard\nsince cock-crow; and Shamash, Prince of Light, will doubtless show\nhimself above the horizon so soon as my lord the king appears at the\ndoor of his tent.\"\n\nNinus bent his shaggy brows in displeasure on the volubility of his\nservant.\n\n\"Halt!\" said he. \"Rein in thy tongue, lest the dogs have their share of\nit without the camp. Fill yet again; and let me hear no more of this\nendless jargon about the gods.\"\n\nIt was death to laugh in the king's presence; but Sethos, replenishing\nthe goblet to its brim, did not repress a smile. The old warrior's\nsecond draught seemed somewhat to renew his strength.\n\n\"Reach me that gown,\" said he--\"the heavy one; and the girdle yonder.\nFool! that in which hangs the sword--my good old sword! Ha! if Baal and\nAshtaroth had done for me but one half the service of horse and weapon,\nthey might take their share of the spoil, and welcome. By the belt of\nNimrod, they shall not have one shekel more than a tenth this time!\nThirteen gods, by my beard, and every god a thousand priests! Why, it is\nenough to ruin the richest king that ever built treasure-house. I must\nreduce them. I will about it at once, when the people are busy with the\ntriumph. I wonder what _she_ will say--my beautiful! I angered her long\nago, when I refused to worship Satan up yonder in the mountains. I would\nbe loath to anger her again, though I will worship nothing but the eyes\nthat are watching fondly for my return.\"\n\nOld, exhausted, weary as he was, there came a gentle look over his grim\nwar-worn face while he thought of the woman he loved so fondly, whom it\nhad cost him so much of crime and cruelty to possess. But the passion of\nacquisition, almost inseparable from age, was strong in the king's\nheart; and it chafed him to think the votaries of Baal should so largely\nshare in the fruits of this his last and most successful expedition\nbeyond the Nile.\n\nSethos, standing before him in the prescribed attitude of respect,\nmarked every shade of his lord's countenance, drawing his own\nconclusions, and preserving his usual air of imperturbable good humour\nand self-conceit.\n\nThe early flush of sunrise now stole under the hangings of the tent,\ncrimsoning the cup-bearer's feet where he stood, so that his sandals\nlooked as if they had been dipped in blood.\n\n\"Bid them sound trumpets,\" said the king. \"Go tell Arbaces that the\nvanguard must set themselves in array at once. Where is Ninyas? He\nshould have been waiting before his father's tent ere now. Wine, sloth,\nand pleasure--he loves them all too well. Yet the boy drew a good bow in\nhis first battle, and rode through Pharaoh's horsemen, dealing about him\nlike Nimrod himself. Go, bring him hither; and, Sethos, as you pass\nthrough the camp, order the captain of the night to call in the watches.\nSo soon as the camels are loaded I shall march.\"\n\nA warrior to the very marrow, Ninus loved such minute details as the\nmarshalling of a vanguard, or the ordering of an encampment, better than\nall the pomp of royalty; and felt more at ease in steel harness, on the\nback of a good steed, than seated in purple and gold, with the royal\nparasol over head, the royal sceptre in hand, an object of worship to\nadoring crowds in ancient Nineveh, or even great Babylon itself.\n\nHis son Ninyas, on the contrary, though scarcely yet verging on manhood,\nwas already steeped in sensuality, and a slave to that reckless\nindulgence of the appetites which so soon degenerates from pleasure into\nvice. His grim father perhaps would have been less patient of excesses\nand outbreaks in camp and city but for the lad's exceeding beauty and\nlikeness to his mother, Semiramis, whose race and womanly graces were\nreproduced with startling fidelity in those delicate boyish features,\nthat lithe symmetry of form.\n\nSethos was a prime favourite with the prince, who approached his\nfather's tent, leaning on the cup-bearer's shoulder, in respectful\nhaste, denoted by his flushed face and disordered apparel. Though\ncareless of the displeasure with which Ninus visited such unwarlike\nnegligence, as he was of everything save the folly of the moment, he had\nput on neither harness nor headpiece, had neither taken a spear in his\nhand nor girt a sword upon his thigh.\n\nThe old king's shaggy brows lowered till they almost hid his dull stern\neyes.\n\n\"What maiden is this,\" said he, \"who comes thus unveiled into the camp\nof warriors? Go, take needle in hand, and busy them with cunning\nembroidery if those unmanly fingers be too dainty to bear the weight of\nheavier steel.\"\n\nIt was death to laugh in the king's presence, death to assume any other\nthan the prescribed attitude with bowed head and crossed hands;\nnevertheless a merry peal rang through the tent, the boy tossed the\nking's goblet in the air, and caught it again, while his fresh young\nvoice answered lightly,\n\n\"There is a season for all things, father, and I like fighting at the\nproper time as well as old Nimrod himself. But this is a day of victory\nand rejoicing. I begin it with a drink-offering to my lord the king.\"\n\nHe held the cup to Sethos while he spoke, laughing to see how little of\nthe generous fluid was left in the wine-skin. His mirth was contagious,\nand the old lion smiled a grim smile while he laid his large wrinkled\nhand on the lad's shoulder, with a kindly gesture that was in itself a\ncaress.\n\n\"Begone with you!\" said he, \"and if proven harness be too heavy for\nthose young bones, at least take bow and spear in hand. It was thus your\nmother came riding into camp the first time I ever saw those arched\nbrows of hers. You have her fair face, lad, and something of her proud\nspirit and wilful heart.\"\n\nHe looked after the boy sadly and with a wistful shake of his head; but\njust then a trumpet sounded, and the old warrior's eye gleamed, his\nfeatures assumed their usual fierce and even savage expression, while he\nsummoned his armour-bearer to rivet harness on his back, and the\ncaptains of his host to take their short, stern orders for the day.\n\nAnd now the whole camp was astir. Tents were struck and camels loaded\nwith a rapidity only acquired by the daily repetition of such duties\nunder the eye of discipline and in presence of an enemy. Ere long, where\nhorses and beasts of burden had been loosely picketed, or wandering half\ntethered amongst bundles of unbound forage, between the lines of dusky\nweather-stained tents--where spears had been piled in sheaves, amongst\ncooking utensils and drinking vessels--where bow and arrow, sword and\nshield, helm and habergeon, had been tossed indiscriminately on\nwar-chariots, horse furniture, or scattered heaps of spoil--where the\nmovable city had seemed but a confused and disorganised mass, was fairly\nmarshalled the flower of an Assyrian army, perfect in formation,\nsplendid in equipment, and no less formidable, thus disposed in its\nsmooth motionless concentration, like a snake prepared to strike, than\nwhen drawn out in winding shining lines to encircle and annihilate its\nfoe.\n\nEven the captives had their allotted station, and with the spoil were\ndisposed in mathematical regularity, to be guarded by a chosen band of\nspears. These prisoners were of two kinds, separate and distinct in\nevery detail of feature, form, and bearing. The darker portion, some of\nwhom were so swarthy that their colour looked like bronze, scowled with\npeculiar hatred on their conquerors, and, as it seemed, with the more\nreason that several bore such wounds and injuries as showed they had\nfought hard before they were taken alive, while a whiter-skinned and\nbetter-favoured race, with flowing beards, high features, and stately\nbearing, who kept entirely apart and to themselves, seemed to accept the\nproceedings of their captors in the forbearance of conscious\nsuperiority, not without a certain sympathy, as of those who have\ninterests and traditions in common with their masters.\n\nThe admiration of all, however, was compelled by the imposing appearance\nof those war-chariots and horsemen that formed the strength and pride of\nan Assyrian army.\n\nAs the old king, tottering somewhat under the weight of his harness,\nappeared at the door of his tent, the entire host was set in\nmotion--bowmen and slingers in front, followed by a body of horsemen\nglittering in scarlet and gold, raising clouds of dust, while their\ntrumpets sounded above the neigh and trample of those horses of the\ndesert that knew neither fatigue nor fear; then, with stately even\ntread, marched a dark serried column of spears, bearded, curled, and\nstalwart warriors, every man with shield on arm, sword on thigh, and\nlance in hand; next, the war-chariots, thousands in number, with a roll\nlike distant thunder, as they came on in a solid mass of moving iron,\ntipped with steel. After these a few priests of Baal, weary and\ndejected, walking with but little assumption of sacred dignity, bore the\nimage of a bull and a few other idols small and portable, but formed of\nmolten gold. These hurried on, as if they feared to be ridden down by\nthe king's body-guard who succeeded them, picked champions, every one of\nwhom must have slain an enemy outright with his own hand, mounted on\nwhite steeds, and glistening with shields and helmets of gold. In their\nrear rode Arbaces, the captain of the host, and immediately behind him\ncame the chariot and led horse of the monarch himself.\n\nAs these reached the mound on which the royal tent was pitched, the\nwhole force halted, and a shiver of steel ran like the ripple of a wave\nalong their ranks, while every man brandished his weapon over his head,\nand shouted the name of the Great King.\n\nNinus stood unmoved, though for an instant the wrinkles seemed less\nfurrowed on his brow. They gathered, however, deeper than ever, when his\nquick eye caught sight of Ninyas reclining in his chariot, with his\nfavourite Sethos beside him, and a cup of wine half-emptied in his hand.\n\nThe king's own chariot was in waiting; but he caused it to pass on, and\nbade them bring his war-horse, a fiery animal, that came up curvetting\nand champing at its bit. Sargon, with the same scowl that had never left\nhis face, went down on hands and knees for his lord to mount with\ngreater advantage from off his back, and Ninus, settling himself in the\nsaddle, while the war-horse plunged with a force that would have\nunseated many a younger rider, looked his son fixedly in the face,\nobserving in a tone of marked reproach,\n\n\"Couches for women! chariots for eunuchs! May you never learn to your\ncost, boy, that his good horse is the only secure throne for an Assyrian\nking!\"\n\nThen he signed with his hand, and while trumpets rang out, and warriors\nrecovered their weapons, a globe of crystal, emblematic of the sun, and\nsuspended above the royal tent, was illumined by a priest with sacred\nfire. As it flashed and kindled, the whole army set itself in motion,\nand the King of Nations was once more on the march towards his last\ntriumph, after his last campaign.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE LUST OF THE EYE\n\n\nBabylon the Great had pranked herself out in holiday attire, like some\nloyal and splendid dame arrayed to welcome her lord. From the Gates of\nBrass in her southern wall to the temple of Baal towering in her centre,\nsquares, streets, and terraces were hung with scarlet, blazing with\ngold, and strewed knee-deep in flowers. Her population were shouting by\ntens of thousands on either bank of the Euphrates, which ran through the\nheart of the city, while even the broad river was dotted with boats of\nevery shape and colour, fantastic, gaudy, and beautiful as the exotics\non the tanks of those paradises or gardens which formed her\ndistinguishing characteristic and her pride. Myriads of women waved\ntheir veils and scarfs from roof and balcony in endless perspective,\nwhile countless children added a shriller echo to every cry of welcome\nas it rose.\n\nIt was remarkable, however, that, contrary to custom on similar\noccasions, none of the weaker sex were to be seen in the streets. Such\nhad been the decree of the Great Queen; a decree enforced by the\npresence of so strong an array of warriors as denoted the mighty\nresources of an empire, which could thus furnish a formidable army at\nhome to receive an army of comrades returning from the frontier.\n\nBesides these champions of bow and spear, masses of white-robed priests\noccupied the porches of every temple and every open space dedicated to\nsacrifice throughout the city; while others, chosen from the servants of\nBaal, and therefore under the immediate influence of Assarac, were\nscattered through the crowd, conspicuous amongst the gay dresses and\nglittering arms of their countrymen by their linen garment and the\nlotus-flowers in their hands.\n\nOf these, Beladon seemed the busiest and most voluble, gliding from\ngroup to group with plausible words and impressive gestures, which\nnevertheless left on his listeners a nameless sense of dissatisfaction\nin the pageant, the victory, and general results of the Egyptian\ncampaign.\n\nAmongst the warriors perhaps this discontent was most apparent,\namounting indeed to a sentiment of insubordination, which lost nothing\nin strength and bitterness from the observations of the priest.\n\n\"A feeble war,\" said he, addressing himself to the captain of a band of\nspearmen who occupied one of the Brazen Gates--\"a distant country and a\ndoubtful success. Few captives, I have heard, little spoil, and the\nfrontier remains where it was.\"\n\n\"Not much to boast in the way of fighting,\" answered the other, a\nstalwart warrior curled and bearded to the eyes. \"Look at the vanguard\npassing even now. Scarcely a dinted shield or a torn garment in their\nranks; every bowman with a whole skin and a quiver full of arrows at his\nback. It was not thus we marched in from Bactria, when I myself could\ncount three scars on my breast, and one on my face that you may see\nthere even now; ay! and bore on my spear the head of a giant whom I slew\nin sight of both armies with my own hand. Ninus laughed, and swore I\nhewed at him like a wood-cutter at a broad-leafed oak in the northern\nhills. I wonder if he will remember me to-day.\"\n\n\"The Great King hath forgotten many a stout blow and faithful service\nsince then,\" answered Beladon. \"The lion grows old now, his teeth are\ngone, and his claws worn down. Ere long he will take his seat among the\nThirteen Gods, my friend, and Ninyas, his son, will reign in his stead.\"\n\n\"He is a leader of promise, I have heard,\" said the other, \"who can set\nthe battle in array; ay, and strike hard in the fore-front too, despite\nhis slender body and winsome woman's face.\"\n\n\"Winsome indeed,\" replied Beladon, pointing upward to where the queen\nsat in state on the wall amidst her people. \"Is he not his mother's son?\nand has he not inherited her very eyes and smile?\"\n\n\"She would make the noblest leader of the three,\" swore the captain of\nspears. \"By the serpent of Ashtaroth, she has more skill of warfare than\nthe Great King himself; and I have seen the Bactrians lay down their\narms and surrender without a blow, when she drove her war-horse into\ntheir ranks. You are a priest, and priests are learned in such matters.\nHave you never heard that she is something more than woman?\"\n\n\"The gods will take her to dwell with them in their own good time,\"\nanswered Beladon gravely, but smothering a smile as he reflected on\nsundry feminine weaknesses and caprices of the Great Queen, freely\ndiscussed by the priests of the inner circle in the temple of Baal.\n\"More than woman,\" he muttered, moving away to another group of\nspectators--\"more than woman in cunning, more than man in foresight,\nmore than the lion in courage, more than a goddess in beauty! The day\nmust come when she will rule the world! Assarac is her chief\nadviser--Beladon is high in the counsels of Assarac--and so, what\nmatters a gash or so before an altar, a little reserve amongst the\npeople, compared with the prospect that opens before us, if only we were\nrid of this fierce old unbeliever, who fears neither gods above nor men\nbelow?\"\n\nThen he moved a few paces on, and bade a listener mark how the queen had\nturned the course of a stream out of her gardens round the royal palace\nto fill the fountains of the city, wondering in the same breath how\nNinus would relish the alteration--Ninus, who a few years back had\nlevelled walls, streets, and temples to enlarge the borders of a\nparadise for his game. This observation having won sufficient attention\nfrom the crowd, he proceeded to discuss the value of provisions, a\nsubject of interest to all, reminding them that grain had been strangely\ncheap during the king's absence from his dominions, and marvelling why\nmillet should have gone up in price as the conquering army advanced\nnearer and nearer home. Were they better or worse for the Great King's\npresence, he wanted to know; had they been athirst or ahungered while\nNinus was far away making war on the frontier; and why was it that now,\non the day of his return in triumph, they began to feel scarcity and to\nbe sparing of the children's bread? Men looked blankly in each other's\nfaces, and shook their heads for a reply; but such seed is never sown on\nbarren ground, and it dawned on many minds that their city, which after\nall was not of his own founding, but his queen's, would have been none\nthe worse had the Great King never come back from the war at all.\n\nA hundred priests prating to the same effect in a hundred quarters\nproduced no contemptible result. Discontent soon grew to disloyalty, and\nmen who at daybreak would have asked no better than to fling themselves\nin adoration under the king's chariot-wheels were now prepared to\nreceive him in sullen displeasure, and, as far as they dared, with\noutward demonstrations of ill-will.\n\nYet, like clouds before the northern breeze, all these symptoms of\ndisaffection were swept away by the first glitter of spears in the\ndesert, the first trumpet blast without the walls giving notice of his\napproach--to return, when the triumph and the pageant should be over,\nwhen the shouting and the excitement should have died away.\n\nThere was one, however, who watched the alternations of temper in the\nmultitude as a steersman in shoal water watches the ebb and flow of the\ntide. Assarac's keen intellect penetrated the wavering feelings of the\npeople, while his daring ambition aimed even at the overthrow of a\ndynasty for the gratification of its pride. He had long dreaded the\nreturn of Ninus as a check to his own power over the populace and\nparamount influence with the queen. The old lion loved neither priests\nnor priestcraft, and would have had small scruple in putting all the\nservants of Baal to the sword, if he suspected them of treachery or\nrevolt. Had the army marched back from Egypt weakened and disorganised\nby the fatigues of its campaign; had the numerous force within the walls\nshowed stronger symptoms of impatience and discontent; in short, had his\nmaterials seemed but inflammable enough to take fire at a moment's\nnotice, Assarac would not have hesitated that one moment in applying a\ntorch to set the whole Assyrian empire in a blaze.\n\nBut the priest, though swift to strike his blow, was also patient to\nabide his time. The Great Conqueror's army marched home as it had\nmarched out, strong in numbers, in courage, in supplies--flushed\nmoreover with an easy victory and a sufficiency of spoil. Warlike\nenthusiasm is of all excitement the most catching, and the hosts within\nthe city were fain to greet their brethren-in-arms with at least the\nsemblance of cordiality and good-will. Not thus on the day of his\ntriumph was the old lion to be taken in the toils. Assarac, in his place\nof honour as high priest, standing near the queen, watched every turn of\nher countenance, and bethought him that the stars in their courses\nafforded no such difficult page to read as the text of a woman's heart.\n\nSemiramis was attired with a magnificence that, enhancing her own\nunrivalled beauty, seemed to envelop her in splendour more than human.\nWhen she raised her veil to look down on the crowd, an awe came over the\npeople, so that they forbore even to shout. It seemed as if Ashtaroth,\nQueen of Heaven, had descended in their midst; but a single voice\nfinding vent at last, such a pent-up burst of cheers rose to the sky,\nthat her fair face turned a shade paler, and to him who was scanning it\nwith eager gaze of curiosity and admiration, it seemed as if a moisture\nrose in her deep dark eyes.\n\nThe shouts of the people were caught up again and again. Clad in a robe\nof golden tissue, crowned with a diadem of rubies and diamonds set in\ngold, wearing the star-shaped ornaments round her neck that denoted her\ndivine origin, and on her breast the most precious jewel in the empire,\nrepresenting a cock and a crescent-moon, emblems of that homage to the\nEvil Principle which she had herself inculcated on the nation; wrapped\nbesides in the halo of her own surpassing beauty, it was scarce possible\nto believe she was only a woman after all, of the same mould, the same\nnature, the same passions, with the drudges they had left pounding corn\nand drawing water at home. From gilded warrior to naked slave, from the\ncaptain in his chariot to the leper at the wayside, not a man, as he\nlooked on that lovely face, but would have felt death cheaply purchased\nby a kind word or a smile. And these were lavished on one who was asked\nto encounter no danger--scarcely to perform an act of homage, in return.\n\nSarchedon, flushed, dazzled, bewildered by the position, found himself\ninstalled at her right hand, chief officer and prime favourite, placed\nthere ostensibly as bearer from the camp of the Great King's signet; in\nreality, something whispered to his astonished senses, because he had\npleased the eye and taken captive the fancy of the queen.\n\nMany a stolen look had he intercepted that could but be interpreted as\nof high favour and approval. Once she fixed her eyes on the amulet,\nwhich, in ignorance of its ownership, he wore openly round his neck, and\nseemed about to speak, but checked herself, sighing languidly, and\nturning with impatience to Assarac; while she questioned him about the\ndetails of the pageant, wondering why the vanguard, already marching in,\nshould be thus far in advance of the main body and the Great King. \"Was\nthe army so encumbered with spoil? Had they so many captives? Were there\nbeautiful women among them? She had heard much concerning the daughters\nof the South--Sarchedon could tell them--was it true the women of Egypt\nwere so dangerously fair?\"\n\nOnce more she bent her eyes on the young warrior, and was not displeased\nto mark the colour deepen on his cheek, while bowing low he answered,\nwith his looks averted from her face.\n\n\"I thought so till I returned to Babylon from the host. But a man who\nhas once seen the glitter of a diamond is blind thenceforth to the\nlustre of meaner gems.\"\n\n\"Your eyes must have been strangely dazzled,\" replied Semiramis with\nexceeding graciousness; \"and the diamond that so bewildered you--was it\nrough from the mine, or cut and set in gold? Did it sparkle in the zone\nof a maiden, or in the diadem of a--\" She stopped short with a faint\nlaugh, adding in a more reserved tone, \"She was no Egyptian, then, but\none of our own people, whose beauty thus reached the heart at which\nPharaoh's bowmen have been aiming in vain? Shall I press him to name\nthis victorious archer? Kalmim, do you plead guilty? Is it you? or you?\nor you?\" She looked round amongst her women while she spoke, and one\nafter another, trying hard to blush, bowed her modest disclaimer with\nglances of admiration, not unmarked by the queen, at the warrior's\nhandsome face and figure, set off by the splendid armour and apparel in\nwhich he stood. Even Semiramis, proud, conquering, almost omnipotent,\nliked him none the worse that it was obvious the other women would have\nliked him too, if they dared. But Assarac, ever watchful, ever jealous\nof his own interests, which centred in the dignity of the Great Queen,\nnow interposed.\n\n\"The land of Shinar has been the land of beauty ever since the sons of\nheaven came down to woo her daughters on the mountains beyond the two\nrivers,\" said the priest. \"Even before the days of the Great Queen, has\nnot Ashtaroth the beautiful reigned ever goddess of the Assyrians?\nAshtaroth, with her golden crown, enrobed in streams of light!\"\n\n\"Ashtaroth trampling the lion beneath her feet!\" added Semiramis, with a\ncurl on her lip and a dangerous glitter in her eyes.\n\n\"Ashtaroth with the serpent in her hand,\" retorted Assarac, lowering his\nvoice to a meaning whisper. \"The emblem of cunning, stratagem, and true\nwisdom. Think not it is her star-like beauty, her golden crown, her\nlustrous robes, that dominate the world. No; it is the counsel of the\nserpent she carries in her hand!\"\n\nThe queen flung up her head. \"I require no counsels,\" said she, \"from\npriest or serpent. When I spear the wild bull, I ride my horse freely\nagainst his front. When I shoot the lion, I aim mine arrow straight at\nhis heart. Warriors bolder than the wild bull, fiercer than the lion,\nmust needs go down before the weapons of Semiramis!\"\n\nIt had been an ungraceful boast, but for the sweet smile, the soft\nglance, that accompanied her words, causing them to convey a loving\ninvitation rather than a warlike defiance.\n\nSarchedon's heart was thrilling and his brain burning. The sweet\nintoxication of vanity possessed the one, the fiery spark of ambition\nkindled in the other. He muttered low, that \"to be slain and trampled\nunder foot by the Great Queen was a nobler lot than to drive a\nwar-chariot over prostrate nations,\" and was raising his eyes to learn\nhow the humility of such an avowal would be received, when his face\nturned pale, and he started like a man who leaps to his feet at the\napproach of danger.\n\nNot half a bowshot off, looking fixedly towards him, was the gentle\ntroubled face of Ishtar, on the terrace of her father's palace, watching\nfor the chief captain's return.\n\nThe queen did not fail to detect his agitation and its cause. Her eyes\nflashed, her delicate mouth shut close on the instant as if with a\nclasp, her features set themselves like a mask, a beautiful mask, but of\nthe hardest steel. So looked she when she rode the lion down and pierced\nhim to the heart; so looked she when she urged her chariot through the\nranks of an enemy, over heaps of slain; so looked she when she\nadministered justice from the Great King's tribunal, and turned pitiless\nfrom a suppliant pleading hard for life. The glance she shot at the\ndaughter of Arbaces was that of an unhooded falcon eyeing the gazelle\nupon the plains.\n\nAnd at the same moment glances, pleading, passionate, longing, as of\nthat same gazelle when she nears the desert-spring, were directed\ntowards Ishtar from a gorgeous chariot passing slowly in pompous march\nof triumph through the Brazen Gate, while veils were waved, steel\nbrandished, and the acclamations of ten thousand voices rose higher and\nhigher; for in that chariot stood their future king, the young Ninyas, a\nliving reflection of his mother, bright, delicate, and beautiful as the\nqueen herself.\n\nShe marked her son's admiration of the pale fair girl; she marked\nSarchedon's uneasiness; but whatever thoughts were busy in her royal and\nlovely head, she looked abroad into the desert and held her peace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE PRIDE OF LIFE\n\n\nAs the glittering procession defiled in proud array through the gates of\nthat imperial city, Babylon might well be proud of her children. The\nmost warlike nation on earth had assembled to greet the flower of its\narmy returning from conquest; and the warriors of the old king bore\nthemselves like men who are conscious they deserve the meed of triumph\naccorded to their fellows. Each black-browed spearman, so bold of\nfeature, so open-eyed, so curled and bearded, stalwart of limb and\nstately of gesture, marched with haughty step and head erect, as though\nhe felt himself the picked and chosen champion of a host. Archers and\nslingers assumed the staid dignity of veteran captains, while the very\nhorses that drew the war-chariots champed, snorted, and swelled their\ncrests as if they too were conscious of the reputation it behoved them\nto uphold.\n\nFar as stretched the triumph--so far indeed that its van had already\nreached the temple of Baal, while its rearguard was yet below the\nsky-line of the desert--every link in that chain of victory afforded\nsome object of interest, admiration, or pride to the spectators. These\nwere the bows that had been bent to such purpose in their first pitched\nbattle with the ancient enemy, when Egypt was worsted and driven back\nupon the Nile. Those strong and stately spearmen, so bronzed, so\nscarred, so splendid in dress and armour, were the very warriors who had\nwithstood the fury of all Pharaoh's chariots and horsemen, nor yielded\none cubit of ground, though sore out-numbered and beset, while they\ncovered the Great King's passage of that famous river. Close in their\nrear, with clang of trumpet, clash of steel, and ring of bridle, came\ntrampling four abreast the famous horsemen of Assyria; and men told each\nother, with kindling eyes and eager gestures, how the steeds that drank\nfrom the Tigris and the Euphrates had charged to the gates of Memphis\nand been stabled in the temples of the Stork.\n\nNext, with horses gorgeously caparisoned, trapped, plumed, and stepping\ndaintily under the rein, rolled on the terrible war-chariots of iron,\nthat, with their scythes of steel, mowed down the ranks of an enemy in\nbroad swathes of slaughter where they passed. Each car, besides its\ncharioteer, held a heavily-armed warrior under shield, with bow and\narrows, sword and spear; three horses plunged abreast, two of which were\nharnessed to the chariot, while a third, linked only with its fellows to\nthe bridle, was driven along-side in readiness to replace a maimed or\nfallen steed. This formidable array, which struck with awe even the\naccustomed senses of the bystanders, was compared by them to the chest\nand body of the army, while the horsemen represented its limbs and feet.\n\nImmediately in rear of that moving mass of metal rode the captain of the\nhost, less distinguished for splendour of array than personal dignity of\nbearing and such a noble face as must have been beautiful in youth. To\nplease his fierce old master, he followed the example of Ninus, and\nabandoned his chariot for the back of so goodly a steed as could only\nhave been bred in the plain between the rivers. If a thousand\nacclamations rent the air while this stately veteran came galloping on,\nmanaging his war-horse with all the grace and pliancy of youth, they\nwere increased tenfold when he drew rein beneath the terrace where stood\nIshtar and her maidens, halting for a moment, while he looked fondly\nupward at his daughter and his home.\n\nWith the gesture of a child, she stretched out her arms towards him, as\nif she would fain have leaped down into his embrace. Sarchedon, looking\non her from the wall, was but one of many thousands who felt her\ninnocent beauty thrill to his very heart. Nevertheless, Assarac,\nnarrowly watching Semiramis, observed her cheek turn a shade paler,\nwhile the hard pitiless expression came back to the queen's unrivalled\nface.\n\nArbaces made no long delay. Waving his hand towards his daughter, and\nglancing proudly round on his applauding countrymen, he paced slowly on,\nwhile a whisper ran through the crowd:\n\n\"Stand close--here they come! Welcome to the golden helmets! Honour to\nthe guards of the Great King!\"\n\nTwo by two, mounted on white horses with scarlet trappings, arrayed in\nsilks of white and scarlet, with shields and helmets of burnished gold,\ncame flashing on this picked and chosen body--every man of whom,\nselected for strength and beauty, must also have distinguished himself\nby an attested act of daring in the field. In their centre floated their\nstandard, likewise of scarlet, and on its folds was embroidered in gold\nthe figure of Merodach, god of war, standing on a bull with a drawn bow\nin his hand. The arms of these champions were bare to the elbow, their\nlegs to the knee; but their persons were otherwise defended by close\nscale armour, thickly inlaid with gold; precious jewels studded the belt\nand pommel of each man's sword, and the shaft of his spear; the fringes\nof their gowns were inordinately long, their beards and hair elaborately\ncurled and perfumed. It was evident that these guards of royalty\nesteemed themselves no less ornaments than champions of the Assyrian\nhost.\n\nSarchedon's eyes flashed, and his cheek glowed with pleasure while they\npassed. He was proud to think that these were his own special comrades\nand brethren-in-arms; that it was from their glittering ranks he had\nbeen detached with the royal signet and tidings of the Great King's\nreturn.\n\nThe queen marked his enthusiasm; and, bending kindly towards him,\ndemanded in a soft voice, scarce above a whisper:\n\n\"Who are these, Sarchedon? To my eye, they seem the goodliest and\nbest-favoured men in the armies of Assyria.\"\n\n\"They are my comrades,\" he answered proudly; \"the guards of the Great\nKing: the meanest of us holds himself equal to a leader of ten thousand.\nArbaces Tartan[3] is our captain, as he is captain of the host.\"\n\n[Footnote 3: Tartan, the general in command.]\n\n\"And Sarchedon would look nobly at their head,\" she answered, with one\nof her bewildering smiles. \"It may come to pass yet for him who knows\nwhen to strike and when to forbear. Hush! there are higher destinies\nwritten in the stars than the posting of a few tinselled spearmen to\nwatch the slumbers of a king!\"\n\nHe was equal to the occasion. O, heart of man! so strong and bold when\nbeset by danger or privation, so weak and untenable when assailed on the\nside of vanity! He replied in a low and trembling voice, \"It is honour\nenough for me. Yet is there one post I would rather hold--one watch I\nwould give my life to keep, if only for a day!\"\n\n\"You shall not pay so dear a price!\" she answered gently. \"Take a lesson\nfrom the amulet on your own breast. See how that loving bird follows the\narrow's flight. So long as her career is upward, the shaft can never\npierce her heart. 'Tis a fair and precious jewel--let no temptation lead\nyou to part from it. I will examine it more closely hereafter.\"\n\n\"It is my queen's!\" he exclaimed. \"As is my life, and all I have.\"\n\n\"Keep it till I require it of you,\" was the answer. \"And now tell me,\nSarchedon, amongst these goodly warriors, whom think you the fairest and\nthe comeliest?\"\n\n\"There are none in all the host to be compared with him now passing\nbeneath us in his chariot,\" said Sarchedon boldly. \"None other face of\nman or woman half so fair--but one!\"\n\nSuch words conveyed no mental reservation--though his own heart told him\nhe had over shot the truth. But punishment for his duplicity followed\nquickly on the offence.\n\nAnother of those rare smiles stole over the queen's face, as the\nacclamations of the multitude rose higher than before to greet him who\nmust hereafter be their king; and Ninyas, reclining in his chariot,\naccepted with indolent good-humour that loud and boisterous welcome.\nHis shield and spear were laid aside--his bow and quiver hung at the\nback of the chariot. On his head, from which the dark curls were combed\nback so daintily, he wore no helmet of defence--only a light linen tiara\nbound by a circlet of gold. Robes of violet silk floated loosely round\nhis exquisite shape and womanly roundness of limb, while he carried a\njewelled drinking-cup, long since emptied, in his hand. It was the\nattire--the attitude--the appearance of a votary of pleasure hastening\nto the banquet, rather than of a tired warrior returning from the field.\nNevertheless, it may be that a character for prowess, cheaply earned\nenough by a king's son in battle, lost nothing of its value among the\nthoughtless crowd, for an affectation of effeminacy, only excusable in\none of such youth, beauty, and reputed valour. The queen, looking down\non him well-pleased, could not refrain from exclaiming:\n\n\"My son is indeed comely! Yet is it the comeliness of a woman rather\nthan a man.\"\n\n\"There is but one woman on earth more fair,\" whispered Assarac in her\near. \"Nevertheless, were she down yonder in male attire on a\nwar-chariot, and he sitting amongst us here in the royal robes of a\nqueen, I doubt if the change would be suspected by one of all that\ncountless multitude now gazing in admiration on both.\"\n\nShe started, not expecting to receive her answer from the priest, and\nbent her brows in deep thought, mingled with displeasure, as she\nobserved the uneasiness of Sarchedon, eagerly watching certain movements\ngoing on below.\n\nGuiding the horses, by the side of Ninyas, sat Sethos, the king's\ncup-bearer, who being in high favour with his young lord usually\naccompanied him in his chariot, both to battle and to the chase. Perhaps\nnot entirely without a purpose, he drew rein immediately under the\nterrace where stood Ishtar and her maidens, at the instant when a posy\nof flowers, projected innocently enough by the damsel herself, came\nwhirling down at the feet of her future king.\n\nNinyas looked up quickly; and even in that moment of vexation Sarchedon\ncould not but remark the winning smile, that, brightening all his face,\nenhanced her son's extraordinary resemblance to Semiramis.\n\nThe young prince lifted the flowers, and put them to his lips with a\ngraceful salutation. Then he bent his head to Sethos, and the latter,\ntaking the cup from his lord's hand, flung it deftly upward so as to\nlight on the terrace within a cubit of where the damsel stood.\n\n\"Keep it for the sake of Ninyas,\" called out the giver, as he bowed his\nhead once more; whispering in the ear of Sethos, while the chariot moved\nslowly on, \"That comely maiden, pale and tender like a lily in a\nparadise, is better worth the taking than all the beauty of Egypt,\ncaptives of our bow and spear.\"\n\n\"And my lord has won her with an empty cup,\" answered laughing Sethos.\n\"When he flings aside the maiden, like the goblet, may I be there to\ncatch her ere she falls!\"\n\nThough the populace applauded loudly, as it was natural they should\napplaud such an action of mingled gallantry, condescension, and\ninsolence, a shudder crept over Ishtar from head to heel, and she moved\nthe skirt of her garment to avoid touching that gift of a future\nmonarch, as if it had been some noxious reptile in her path.\n\nSemiramis did not fail to note how the daughter of Arbaces shot more\nthan one imploring glance at Sarchedon, that seemed to deprecate a\njealousy of which she was aware, while conscious of not being answerable\nfor its cause. It was perhaps more in character with the spite of a\nwoman than the dignity of a queen that she should have leant towards the\nyoung warrior, and addressed him with such marked demonstrations of\nfavour as could not fail to be observed by Ishtar, whose perceptions and\nfeelings were now strung to their highest pitch.\n\nShe might even have shown him greater condescension than was either\nroyal or prudent, but for the renewed intervention of Assarac, who once\nmore took possession of her ear, speaking so as to be heard by the queen\nalone.\n\n\"My directions have been carried out,\" he whispered, \"and of every\nhundred men assembled in the streets, ten are warriors and four are\npriests. The people admire, but partake not in the triumph; they shout,\nbut their hearts go forth less freely than their voices. There is\ndiscontent abroad, and even displeasure, relating to this conquest of\nmy lord the king. The men of war who have gone down with him to battle\nare like to be ill-satisfied with their share of spoil. Those who have\nremained within the walls already jeer and point the finger at the\nunhacked armour and whole skins of their returning comrades. Our own\nfollowers, servants of Baal and prophets of the grove, whisper strange\nauguries, and the stars themselves declare that Ninus is destined ere\nlong to take his place among the gods. Caution, Great Queen! caution! I\nmust away on the instant, to be in readiness at the head of a thousand\npriests who will receive the king on the steps before the temple. He\nloves not such receptions, and holds but little with offerings and\nsacrifices to the gods; nevertheless, even Ninus must not, _dare_ not,\nbeard the whole host of heaven in this their very stronghold. He will\nmake the ceremony short and simple as he can, however, and every priest\nthat ever laid knife to his own flesh before an altar will feel outraged\nand aggrieved. You have the Great King's signet. Keep it safely. That\njewelled toy is worth ten thousand chariots of iron and as many\nhorsemen. Behold, the guards have now passed on. See what a handful of\npriests are pacing with his chariot--an empty chariot, too; and look how\nfew in number and scant in metal are the molten gods that go before him\nto battle. He comes. I say again, Caution, Great Queen! caution! and for\na space forbear!\"\n\nPointing his warning with an expressive glance towards Sarchedon,\nAssarac bowed reverently and withdrew.\n\nSemiramis turned a shade paler, and for one moment a shudder seemed to\ncreep from her brow even to her feet. The next she stood forth to mark\nher lord's approach, erect and beautiful, the stateliest queen, as she\nwas the fairest woman, in the world.\n\nImmediately in rear of the royal standard passed on the war-chariot of\nthe Great King, containing his charioteer and shield-bearer. Sargon's\nlowering brow was black as night, and to the vociferous greetings of his\ncountrymen he returned but a silent scowl. In the brief space that had\nelapsed since the cruel slaughter of his son, the man's nature seemed\nwholly changed. His very beard, formerly so black and glossy, was\nstreaked with grey, and the dark eyes now dull and downcast, glowed\nwith lurid light as though from some inner fire. Few, however, remarked\nthis alteration in the aspect of the shield-bearer; for with the first\nglimpse of Ninus, shouts of jubilee rose once more from the people, and\nin that moment of enthusiasm, assembled Babylon could not have afforded\na fuller, fairer welcome to mighty Nimrod himself.\n\nThe Great King came on at a foot's pace, reining his steed with that\ncraft of practised horsemanship which outlasts failing sight, lost\nactivity, and bodily powers impaired by age. His large, gaunt frame,\nthough bowed and tottering, swayed easily to every motion of his steed;\nhis broad loose hands, though numbed and stiff, closed with unimpaired\nskill on spear and bridle; while ever and anon, with some vociferous\ncheer or stirring trumpet-call, the drooping head went up, the dim eye\nsparkled, and for a space in which bow might have been drawn or\nsword-blow stricken, Ninus looked again the champion warrior of the\nworld.\n\nThe king had abstained from all outward pomp of attire or panoply; he\nwore neither diadem nor tiara, but a steel helmet, much dinted and\nbattered, guarded his brow. Save for the lion's head embossed in its\ncentre, his shield was the plainest, as it was the most defaced, that\npassed into Babylon that day; while neither his horse's trappings nor\nhis own accoutrements could compare in splendour with those of his\nguards who preceeded him on the march. But his sword was a span longer,\nhis spear some shekels heavier, than any other in the whole Assyrian\nhost, and none, looking on that renowned conqueror, so formidable even\nin decay, but would have recognised him for the bravest and mightiest\nfighter of his time.\n\nSlowly, sternly he came on, receiving the homage and acclamations of his\npeople with a royal indifference not far removed from scorn. The press\nof chariots, the clash of steel, all the wild tumult and fierce music of\nbattle, could scarcely now call the light to his eye, the colour to his\nvisage. What was a mere peaceful triumph but an unmeaning pageant, a\nprotracted and somewhat wearisome dream? His grim old features sank and\nlowered till it seemed to the nearer bystanders that they were looking\non a corpse in mail.\n\nBut once the Great King's face brightened, the blood rushed redly to his\ncheek, and his strong hand shook so on the bridle, that his good horse,\naccepting the signal, bounded freely in the air. Then he turned ghastly\npale, drawing his breath hard, and trembling like a maiden or a child.\n\nBeaming down on him from the wall with her own bright smile, he saw the\nface that had haunted him in those long night-watches for many a weary\nmonth--the face that, of all on earth, had alone made itself a home in\nhis fierce old heart.\n\nThe wild joy of battle was indeed over, but for him the calm of peace\nhad come at last. From his saddle where he sat to the wall whence she\nsmiled down on him, not a score of spear-lengths divided him from\nSemiramis, looking fonder and more beautiful than she had ever appeared\neven in his lonely dreams.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA BANQUET OF WINE\n\n\nOn the first night of his return from conquest, it was customary for an\nAssyrian king, his captains, and chief officers of state to be received\nby his consort with a banquet, offered to their special entertainment.\nThe stars were already out, the moon was rising from the desert, when a\nthousand torches, flaring on the summer night, lit up the central court\nof the royal residence with a fierce red glow, vivid as the light of\nday. It brought out in strange grotesque relief the gigantic sculptures\non the wall, till winged bull, man-faced lion, and eagle-headed deity\nseemed but fleeting flickering shadows, that moved, threatened, and\nretired as the night breeze rose and fell. It played in variegated hues\non the columns of porphyry and jaspar that supported the upper story,\nblackening the remote recesses of its lofty chambers, while marble\npillar, shaft of alabaster, carving, cornice, and capital blushed in\ncrimson flame. It shed a ruddier lustre on wine, fruit, and flowers, the\nrich profusion of a royal table, glittering from massive chalice and\nancient flagon, blazing in jewelled cup and vase of burnished gold. The\nbrilliant gems, the costly robes, the stately figures of those noble\nguests, were enhanced tenfold by its power; while the king's wan face\nshowed paler, fiercer, ghastlier than ever, in that strong searching\nglare.\n\nThe procession had been long, the triumph protracted and wearisome;\nsacrifices offered, not ungrudgingly, to the gods, had delayed him with\nobservances he loathed, ceremonials he despised; and Ninus had been in\nthe saddle since daybreak. It was not strange then that Arbaces, his\nchief captain, sitting over against him, should have felt his heart sink\nwhile he looked on the ashy war-worn face, from which he had so often\ngathered counsel and resource, picturing to himself that he saw a dead\nmonarch presiding, stark and grim, at his own funeral feast.\n\nThe king sat for a while with his head sunk on his breast, to all\nappearance thoroughly out-wearied and overcome; but after Sethos had\nfilled his cup more than once, a feeble light came into his eyes, while\nhe glared around with a haughty air of inquiry, that seemed rather to\nthreaten the absent than welcome those who were present at his festival.\nHe looked sternly satisfied, however, with the number and importance of\nhis guests--men who formed the props of his throne and the very bulwarks\nof his empire. There was Arbaces, captain of the host, firm in position\nas in character, a sage counsellor, a skilful leader, and a stout man of\nwar in close fight, hand to hand; there was Sargon, his shield-bearer,\nwho slew before the gates of Memphis, in single combat, seven Egyptian\nchampions, one by one, and vowed in the hearing of both armies, that as\nhe had sacrificed these to the Seven Stars, so would he take life after\nlife from the host of Pharaoh till the Consulting Gods, the Judges of\nthe World, and each of the Assyrian deities, had been propitiated with a\nvictim. Scowling and silent, Sargon sat apart at the banquet; and a keen\neye, scanning him warily and by stealth, noted the seal of murder set\nupon his brow.\n\nThere was Assarac too, the scheming priest, unwarlike indeed in form and\nnature, yet owning a more daring spirit, a more enduring courage, than\nthe fiercest archer who ever drew bow from a war-chariot--Assarac,\npresent in virtue of his office to pour out drink-offerings, to peer\ninto the divining cup if required, above all, to watch with jealous\nsupervision the temper and opinions of those who surrounded the king.\nThough aware that Ninus disliked, suspected, and would have put him to\ndeath without scruple, his eye never quailed, nor did his speech falter;\nand when he raised his goblet, filled to its brim, the eunuch's hand was\nfirm and steady as a rock.\n\nThese last-named persons, with the older leaders and captains of ten\nthousand, were placed near the king; but scores of younger warriors,\nrising in fame, comely in person, and splendid in apparel, thronged the\nlower and more noisy extremity of the board. Over these, amongst whom\nSarchedon was not the least remarkable, presided Ninyas, distinguished\nno less for his beautiful face and magnificent attire than for his deep\ndraughts, reckless hilarity, and boisterous freedom of discourse.\n\n\"Once more in Babylon,\" said he, \"after months of toil and heat, and\nworst of all, that torturing thirst! After those weary marches by day,\nthose endless watches by night, welcome to the land of palm and\npomegranate, peace and plenty, women and wine! What say you, Sarchedon?\nWell, I trow that, being of his guard, your duty bids you echo the Great\nKing. The old lion cannot hear you where you sit; you may speak the\ntruth freely as if you were reading the Seven Stars. Confess, now. None\nbut a fool would go forth in warfare who could stay to revel and sleep\nat home.\"\n\nSarchedon, though familiar with camps, was also no stranger to the\nusages of a palace.\n\n\"My lord did not seem of so peaceful a mind,\" he answered, \"while he\ndrove his war-chariot through the archers who lined her vineyards when\nwe invested the city of Pasht, or it had cost us a weary siege ere we\nbroke in pieces the idols of the Cat!\"\n\n\"Well said, Sarchedon!\" was the vain-glorious reply. \"Why did we not\npush on, as I advised? By the gods of my fathers, I swear to you, that\nif Ninyas had been your leader but for one week, rather than the Great\nKing, he would have left the Ethiopians to lose themselves amongst the\nmarches in our rear, fought a pitched battle on the plain by the sweet\nriver, and you and I would have been drinking wine of Eshcol in the\npalace of Pharaoh at this moment.\"\n\nIt may be that Sarchedon had his own opinion of the strategy which\nshould have conduced to so triumphant a result. He answered gravely\nenough:\n\n\"My lord confessed even now that he was far better in the palaces of\nBabylon. Is he not satisfied with the spoil, the captives, and the\ncheers of the people? They lifted up their voices when he passed to-day\nas it had been great Nimrod himself.\"\n\n\"The lazy drones!\" laughed his well-pleased listener. \"When I come to\nrule, they shall have something more to do than shout, I promise them.\nReach me that flagon, I pray you--nay, hold! I am like my scoffing old\nsire, in one respect at least--I pour all drink-offerings down my own\nthroat! No; what pleased me best to-day was neither spoil nor glory nor\nthe voices of fools. It was the face of a maiden sweeter than the\nhoneysuckle and fairer than the rose. Did you not mark her Sarchedon? or\nwere you so busy in attendance on the queen, my mother, that you had\neyes for none beside?\"\n\nStifling the hideous misgivings that rose like a flood in his heart,\nSarchedon answered with forced calmness:\n\n\"My lord must have passed to-day under the glances of a thousand\ndamsels, and every one his handmaid. The comeliest of all were standing\nbehind Kalmim, in attendance on the Great Queen.\"\n\n\"You are blind! by the beak of Nisroch, you must be blind!\" exclaimed\nthe excitable young prince. \"Take Kalmim herself--for when she has tired\nher head and painted her eyes she is the best of them, since the queen\nloves not too much beauty so near her own--but take Kalmim, I say, and\ntell me whether she shows not like a camel beside a courser when you\ncompare her with the daughter of Arbaces. O! never bend your brows and\nlook so scared towards the chief captain. He cannot hear us up there;\nand, by the belt of Ashur, the king's voice raised in anger is enough to\ndeafen a man in both ears! What can have chafed the old lion to make him\nroar so fiercely, even over his food?\"\n\nIn truth, the deep harsh tones of Ninus, loud and overbearing, were\nheard above the ring of flagons, the clatter of tongues, all the din\nthat accompanies a feast--even above the vibration of the lyre, the roll\nof the drum, the soft sweet music floating on the night air from an\nunseen gallery, far off amongst the pillared corridors that surrounded\nthe open court.\n\nLike the lion to which his graceless son compared him, Ninus was lashing\nhimself into rage. His theme was the rapacity of priests, and, to use\nhis own words, the extortions of the gods.\n\n\"Ten thousand of you!\" roared the old warrior, turning fiercely on\nAssarac, of whom he had asked a question relating to certain details of\nthe day's pageant. \"Ten thousand demons! and for Baal alone. By the\nbeard of Nimrod, he should be better served than any of us his\ndescendants, who must needs feed the hungry swarming brood. And you\nwould have me believe that there are gods as many as stars in heaven?\nHear him, Arbaces! You and I have set armies in array ere this, so\nstrong that our trumpets in the centre carried no sound to the horsemen\non the wings; but if we are to have a thousand gods, and every god ten\nthousand priests, it will pass your skill and mine to devise how such a\nmultitude may be ranged in order of battle. And one company of my bowmen\nwould put them all to flight ere you could ride a furlong! Ten thousand\npriests of Baal! Ten thousand vultures tearing at a dead carcass! I trow\nthere will be little left for the desert-falcon that struck the prey.\nYou read the stars, forsooth, and can foretell the future easily as I\ncan forget the past! Go to! Will you compute me the share of spoil I am\nlikely to assign to-morrow for your entertainment and the altars of your\ngods?\"\n\nWithout compromising one jot of his own dignity, the wily eunuch's\nanswer was yet temperate and respectful to the Great King.\n\n\"My lord is himself the child of Ashur and of Baal--the father gives\nfreely to the son, requiring only honour and reverence in return.\"\n\n\"Fill my cup!\" thundered the king to Sethos, who ministered hastily to\nhis wants. \"I have not found it so,\" he continued, harping still on the\ntheme that thus chafed him. \"The honour and reverence I pay them\nwillingly, though they keep me standing long enough in their temples,\nand, perhaps because they sit so far off, it seems hard to make them\nhear. But if honour and reverence are to signify, sheep and oxen, wine,\njewels, raiment of needlework and heaps of treasure, they have had their\nshare from Ninus--henceforth I will follow the example of those poor\nslaves we found in Egypt, the captives of our captives, who worship but\none God, and offer him neither silver nor gold!\"\n\n\"Therefore are they but servants to the servants of my lord the king,\"\nreplied Assarac, unabashed by the frowns of Ninus and the open derision\nof certain veterans, who took their creed from their leader, as they\ntook their orders--without comment or inquiry.\n\n\"Prate not to me!\" was the angry answer; \"I have scores of them down\nyonder bound in the outer court amongst my Egyptian captives. I cannot\ntell, Arbaces, what hinders me now, this moment, from sending you with a\nhandful of spearmen to clear his temple of its white-robed locusts, and\ndrive in these strangers, Egyptians and all, to worship Baal in their\nstead.\"\n\nThe chief captain, who to certain scruples of religion added those of\ncustom, policy, and propriety, would have ventured on expostulation; but\nAssarac interposed.\n\n\"The gods, thy fathers, who look upon us to-night!\" said he, in a stern\nloud voice, that awed even Ninyas and the younger revellers into\nattention while he pointed gravely upward where the stars were shining\ndown in their eternal splendour on all the royal magnificence and\nglittering profusion of that feast in the open court.\n\nAt the same moment, sweeping round the outer walls of the palace,\nvibrating through its long corridors and lofty painted chambers, there\nrose a cry, so wild, so pitiful, so unearthly, that it arrested the\ngoblet in each man's hand, froze the jest on his lip, and curdling the\nblood in his veins, caused him to sit mute and petrified, as if turned\nto stone.\n\nThe Great King started, and bade Arbaces summon up his guard; but\nAssarac's voice was heard once more, solemn and majestic in its notes of\nwarning and reproach.\n\n\"The gods, thy fathers!\" he repeated, looking Ninus sternly in the face,\n\"who have spared the blasphemer, but visited his sin on the innocent\ncause thereof. Hear those Egyptian prisoners mourning for a comrade this\nmoment passed away, wearied and out-worn by a toilsome march to the\nhouse of his captivity, stricken and thrust through by the iron that has\nentered into his soul!\"\n\nIt was indeed such a wail of bereavement and despair as was to rise\nhereafter through all its length and breadth in the land of the South,\nbecause of the terrible punishment that visited her people, \"from\nPharaoh that sat on the throne to the captive that was in the\ndungeon\"--on that awful night, the climax of successive judgments, when\n\"there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was not a house where there\nwas not one dead.\"\n\nAs these long-drawn notes of woe swelled, sank, and swelled again, the\nking's first emotions of horror were succeeded by a fresh outbreak of\nwrath. It might have gone hard with the sorrowing herd of captives, and\nperhaps not one had been left to mourn for another, but that the old\nlion's fury, redoubled by its momentary check, was at this juncture\nwholly diverted and appeased. A burst of music, so loud, so full, so\njubilant, that it drowned all other noises in its grand triumphant\nswell, announced the entrance of Semiramis; and like the Queen of Heaven\nrising from the dark back-ground of night, this Queen of Assyria,\nblazing in jewels, and robed in the light of her incomparable beauty,\nstood forth a shining vision from the black shadows of the gateway, to\nmove with stately step and slow through long lines of admiring\nrevellers, ere she made her royal obeisance before the throne of gold,\nwhere sat the Great King. While she traversed the lower end of the\ncourt, Assyria's chosen warriors, the goodliest men of all the East,\nrose from the board and bent them low in courtly reverence, like a bed\nof garden-flowers doing homage to the south wind as it passes by. With a\nmother's love and a queen's dignity, she laid her hand on the shoulder\nof her son Ninyas, while he bowed himself before her; but it was a\nfeeling stronger than the one, and but little in accordance with the\nother, that bade her pause by the side of Sarchedon and whisper tenderly\nin his ear.\n\nHe started, colouring to his temples--two or three young warriors\nglanced enviously at their favoured comrade; but it was dangerous to\nobserve too narrowly the motions of royalty, and each man fixed his eyes\nin deep humility on the hem of her garment as Semiramis moved proudly\non.\n\nNinus stirred uneasily where he sat. He would fain have risen to meet\nhis queen, and taken her in his gaunt embrace to the fierce old heart\nthat knew no other want; but such an innovation was not to be thought of\neven by the conqueror of the East, and he could only reach towards her\nthe golden sceptre that lay on a cushion at his feet.\n\nWhile she pressed it to her fair white brow, there came a light in the\nold king's haggard face that told of the loving spark too often kindled\nbut to be quenched in sorrow, the blind trust born to be betrayed, the\nfond unreasoning pride in another that goeth before a fall.\n\nThis final ceremony broke up the banquet. With loud peals of music, the\nking and queen, waited on by their personal attendants, betook them to\ntheir respective dwellings, between which ran the Euphrates, though\nunder the broad river a tunnelled passage afforded free communication\nfrom one to the other. Arbaces and Sargon followed closely behind their\nlord, as Kalmim and her group of women accompanied the queen. Ninyas,\npushing round a mighty flagon, called Sethos to his side, and swore he\nwould not stir till midnight; an intention loudly applauded by many of\nthe younger revellers, who gathered joyously round their prince. In the\nchange of places that ensued, Sarchedon made his escape from the\nbanquet, hastening through the outer gates to cool his brow in the night\nair, while he communed with his own perplexed aspiring heart.\n\nThe queen's soft breath seemed still upon his neck, her whisper\nthrilling in his ear. What could she mean? \"Follow the shaft! Fly on,\nfly upward!\" Was it possible? Could the stars have written for him such\na destiny as these words seemed to imply, or was he deceiving himself\nlike a fool? And how was this upward flight to be accomplished? A\nthousand wild impossible longings and fancies filled his brain, but\nshining calmly through them all, like the moon amidst clouds and\nstorm-wrack veiling a troubled sea, rose the gentle image of the girl he\nreally loved. Could he give her up? Must it so soon come to an end,\nthis dream, so short, so sweet, so cruel in its hour of waking? At any\nrisk he was resolved to see her once again; that very night, that very\nhour, before the gods had time to cast his lot for him without recall.\nHe hurried, like a ghost, through the shadows of the silent courts\ntowards the palace of Arbaces.\n\nBut Ninyas, while he filled cup and emptied flagon, by no means lost\nsight of those interests and pleasures which, in his royal opinion,\nconstituted the chief advantages of his station as a prince. Sarchedon\nhad not moved ten paces from his seat to leave the revellers, ere the\nking's son whispered to the king's cup-bearer, \"Follow him, Sethos. A\nwise hunter never loses sight of his hound till he pulls down the deer.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nLIKE TO LIKE\n\n\nDeep in his own thoughts, and wholly unconscious he was watched,\nSarchedon hurried through the outskirts of the palace, traversing, with\none passing glance of curiosity and compassion, an open space in which\nthe Israelitish and Egyptian captives lay bound. The voice of mourning\nwas hushed at last among these sufferers, save where some weeping woman,\nwaking, as it were, to a sense of intolerable misery, pressed both hands\nagainst her throat, and thus enhanced the long vibrations of that dismal\nwail--so piteous, so keen, so thrilling, that it stirred the very jackal\nin his lair amongst the vineyards without the city walls.\n\nGroups of these prisoners sat or grovelled on the ground, in attitudes\nexpressive of the utmost sorrow and desolation. Here was a wounded\narcher, one of Pharaoh's choicest marksmen, gnawing his bonds in\nimpotent rage and shame, while he cursed the javelin that disabled\nhim--the comrades who had fled and abandoned him to be taken\ncaptive--the gods in all their different earthly shapes of goose, bull,\nfalcon, stork, and locust, whom he had worshipped faithfully by the\nNile, that they might leave him here in Babylon to die. There was a\ncluster of children, the elder sleeping the calm lovely sleep of youth,\nthe youngest prattling, laughing, stretching its little arms towards the\nstars. And beside them, on her knees, their tawny mother, with head\nbowed down, dark eyes fixed, dim but tearless, and thoughts far away in\nthe South, by a rude hut raised on props above the river, where last she\nsaw him stark, motionless, and gashed from brow to breastplate, the\nlover of her girlhood, the husband of her heart, the father of those\ndear ones, dragged, without hope of return, into the land of their\ncaptivity. Wherever grieved a dark-skinned mourner, from brawny warrior\nto tender maiden, there seemed to be embodied the very abandonment of\nwoe; while a few Ethiopians, surprised by hazard amongst Pharaoh's\nauxiliaries, before they had time to run away, wept and bemoaned\nthemselves, with a force of lungs and vehemence of gesture, so unbridled\nas to border on the grotesque.\n\nBut somewhat apart, treated, as it would seem, by their Assyrian\nconquerors with less rigour than the rest, a handful of prisoners had\ndisposed themselves, with scrupulous attention to decency of attitude\nand bearing. Conversing little, and only to each other, their low tones\nwere forcible and expressive; their demeanour, grave and gentle, was\nmarked with a certain sad dignity and grace. Though dark of beard and\nhair, they were far less swarthy in complexion than their fellow\nsufferers, and while nobler of stature and fuller of limb, lacked the\nsinuous ease and pliancy of movement so remarkable in the slender\nEgyptian. Their high features, kindling eyes, and curved nostrils\npartook of the peculiar beauty general amongst their present masters;\nbut they showed none of the haughty self-assertion, the lofty warlike\nbearing, of the fierce Assyrian race. Such kin they seemed to their\nconquerors as the dog to the wolf, the ossifrage to the eagle, the\npatient ox in the furrow to the fiery wild-bull of the fell.\n\nPresently silence came over them, and taking advantage of the laxity of\ntheir fetters, one and all rose to their feet and stood erect. Then he\nwho seemed eldest and gravest spoke a few words in a loud solemn voice,\nto which the others listened attentively, responding at intervals, with\nheads sunk on their breasts. Sarchedon, hastening past, had yet time to\nobserve their motions, and marvelled, in his own mind, if this could be\na religious ceremonial, thus divested of all pomp and outward form; no\nsacrifice of blood, nor drink-offering poured out, nor altar\nraised,--only deep awe and reverence impressed on every face, courage,\nlove, and trust beaming in each worshipper's eyes. The white robe of a\npriest of Baal flitted through the darkness round the circle; but\nSarchedon's heart was filled with a sentiment that left no room for\ninterest or curiosity, save on one subject, and he sped towards his\ngoal, longing only for the moment that should bring him face to face\nwith her he loved.\n\nThe moon was low in the sky, yet gave light enough to have guided him on\nhis way, even had not every step of it been familiar as the handle of\nhis sword. Was it strange he should have found so readily a path that\nled to the home of Ishtar? that he should have had access to the roof of\na dwelling adjoining the palace of Arbaces? that the girl herself should\nhave been restless, unable to sleep, and fevered with a desire to spread\nher carpets and cushions under the sky in the cool night air by the\nparapet of her father's house?\n\nNo, it was not strange; and the reason seemed simple enough as explained\nin a low measured chant, by a rich sweet voice--richer and sweeter that\nit was toned down and suppressed--which thrilled and scorched through\nevery fibre of the young girl's being, while Sarchedon poured forth his\nheart in passionate pleading conveyed through the fanciful imagery of\nthe East.\n\n    \"I pass'd without the city gate,\n        I linger'd by the way;\n    The palm was bending to her mate,\n        And thus I heard her say,\n\n    'The arrow to the quiver,\n        And the wild bird to the tree;\n    The stream to meet the river,\n        And the river to the sea.\n    The waves are wedded on the beach,\n        The shadows on the lea;\n    And like to like, and each to each,\n          And I to thee.\n\n    'The cedar on the mountain,\n        And the bramble in the brake;\n    The willow by the fountain,\n        And the lily on the lake;\n    The serpent coiling in its lair,\n        The eagle soaring free,\n    Draw kin to kin, and pair to pair,\n          And I to thee.\n\n    'For everything created\n        In the bounds of earth and sky,\n    Hath such longing to be mated,\n        It must couple, or must die.\n    The wind of heaven beguiles the leaf,\n        The rose invites the bee;\n    The sickle hugs the barley-sheaf,\n          And I love thee.\n    By night and day, in joy and grief,\n        Do thou love me?'\n\n    The palm was bending to her mate,\n        I marked her meaning well;\n    And pass'd within the city gate,\n        The fond old tale to tell.\"\n\nWhen he ceased, she rose on him like a ghost, from behind the parapet.\nIn another moment her veil was up, her sweet lips parted in a greeting\nthat was rather breathed than spoken, and both hands were abandoned to\nthe caresses of her lover.\n\n\"Ishtar,\" he murmured, \"queen of my heart! I scarcely dared to hope, and\nyet I _knew_ I should find you here.\"\n\n\"I thought not you would come,\" she whispered, for a girl's modesty\nthinks no shame to veil with ingenuous falsehood the truth of which she\nis really proud. \"But I could not sleep--I could not rest under a\nroof--the war is over--my own dear father has returned safe. O\nSarchedon! this has been such a happy day.\"\n\nIt was the first time she had called him by his name, and the endearing\nsyllables dropped like honey from her lips. It was no more to be \"noble\ndamsel,\" \"my lord's handmaiden,\" but \"Ishtar,\" and \"Sarchedon,\" because\nthey knew they loved each other with all the rich warmth, the stormy\npassion of their race and climate.\n\n\"A happy day!\" he repeated, rather bitterly; \"and a day of victory for\nthe fairest maiden in the land of Shinar! Think you it was such a happy\nmoment for _me_, Ishtar, when I saw the love-gift hurled from our\nprince's chariot to your feet?\"\n\nShe had not been a woman, could she have quite suppressed a double sense\nof triumph--of vanity gratified by the homage of a prince, and, sweeter\nfar, of pride in his own avowal that she could excite the jealousy of\nhim she loved. Very tender was her smile, very soft and kind her glance,\nwhile she replied:\n\n\"You may judge how I value the gift when I tell you the handmaidens are\nshredding herbs in it even now. Yet is he a goodly youth, our young\nlord, and a comely--fair he must surely seem in _your_ eyes, Sarchedon,\nfor is he not the very picture of his mother? and _you_ of all men would\nbe loath to dispute the beauty of the Great Queen.\"\n\nIt was a feminine thrust, and planted fairly home; but here in Ishtar's\npresence it rather roused in him a feeling of alarm, lest he should lose\nthe blossom in his hand, than any wish to reach the riper and costlier\nfruit hanging above his head.\n\n\"Beloved!\" he answered gravely, \"the desire of queens and princes is\nlike the hot wind of the desert, that blasts and scorches where it\nstrikes. It matters little what befalls Sarchedon, if he loses her who\nhas become the jewel of his treasure-house, and the light of his path.\nWith the young prince, to see is too often to covet, and to covet, too\nsurely to possess! It may be, that ere the days of triumph are over, he\nwill have asked you of Arbaces in marriage, and whither shall I go for\ncomfort then, if I am to look nevermore on the only face I love?\"\n\nThat face showed strangely pale in the wan light of the stars and\ncrescent moon. There was a thrill of deadly fear in the whisper that\nappealed so piteously for succour and protection.\n\n\"Save me, Sarchedon, save me! It would be worse than death. What shall I\ndo? What shall I do?\"\n\nHe pondered, pressing the hand he held fondly to his eyes and forehead.\n\n\"Arbaces would not barter you away for treasure, like a herd of camels\nor a drove of captives?\" he asked, after a pause.\n\n\"My father loves me dearly,\" she answered. \"I know he fears to lose me;\nfor he has often said, if I were to vanish from his side, like my\nmother, he would never wish to come out of his war-chariot alive!\"\n\n\"She was a daughter of the stars,\" said Sarchedon abstractedly; \"their\nlove is fatal to mortal men! You see, I have learned it all, and yet I\ncare not--I have but you in the world!\"\n\nThe daughter of the stars, he thought, had surely transmitted her\ncelestial beauty to the girl who now bent fondly over him, and shook her\nhead.\n\n\"They say so!\" she answered. \"But Arbaces is loath to be questioned, and\nI know not what to think. She may have been the child of a priestess of\nBaal, espoused to the god. I cannot believe that the stars have come\ndown from their thrones for the love of women in these later days, since\nthe plague of waters in the olden time, before the great tower of Belus\nwas built. I only know I would I had my mother's beauty and my father's\nfame, and the wealth of the Great Queen, that I might bestow it all on\nthe man I love. You would be rich, Sarchedon, and of high repute; while\nI should be----very, very happy!\"\n\n\"Then, if Ninyas sent to ask you of your father,\" whispered the young\nwarrior, \"you would be loath to go and rule over him and his in a palace\nof gold?\"\n\n\"Better to serve Sarchedon in a tent of goat's-hair,\" was the answer;\n\"better by far draw water at the Well of Palms for your herds, your\ncamels, and the fair horse you rode that happy morning; better to be the\nmeanest and lowest of your slaves, than never see your kind face again!\"\n\nVanity, pride, ambition--the dazzling career open to him--the lustrous\nbeauty of the queen: what were they to such love as this, but the flash\nand glitter of tinsel, compared to the ray of a real diamond? If a\nthought of Semiramis and her fatal favour crossed his brain, it did but\nspur him on to secure his happiness ere she could thwart it, to remove\nIshtar, ere it was too late, from the sphere of the queen's displeasure,\nand the still more dangerous admiration of her son.\n\n\"Then I will ask you of your father before another day has gone down!\"\nexclaimed Sarchedon, stealing his arm round that lithe slender figure,\nleaning over the parapet, like the palm-tree bending to meet her mate.\n\"To-morrow will I send into the court below a score of camels and a\nhundred sheep, with a suit of the truest armour that ever brought the\ncaptain of a host unwounded out of battle, and my young men shall say to\nArbaces--'they seek but Ishtar in return.'\"\n\n\"So my father will summon me from amongst my maidens, to know if\nperadventure his daughter's heart hath gone forth to him who is so\nlavish of sheep and camels, so skilled in choice of armour, and what\nshall I say then?\"\n\nOnly from the depths of a young girl's heart, happy and triumphant in\nher honest love, could have risen the smile that beamed on Ishtar's\nface. It was reflected in Sarchedon's eyes, while he answered:\n\n\"The daughter of Arbaces will tell him, that where her heart has gone\nforth, thither must Ishtar needs follow, and she will be mine!\"\n\n\"And she will be yours!\" repeated the girl, with a great sob of womanly\nhappiness, tempered by maiden shame, the blood rushing to her face,\nwhile she hid it on her lover's breast.\n\nFast as her heart was beating, it had scarce counted a score of\npulsations ere tramp of horses, call of servants, and flash of torches\nin the court below, announced the return of Arbaces from his duties\nabout the Great King.\n\nNo sooner had he dismounted at the porch of his palace than the fond\nfamiliar voice was heard, asking loudly for his daughter; and gliding\nlike a shadow from the embrace of Sarchedon, she was gone.\n\nYet even in that brief moment during which her brow was pressed against\nhis bosom, she had discovered the amulet he wore, and knew, as women\nonly do know such things, that it was not there when she saw him last.\n\nPerhaps to an impulse of female tenderness was added the stimulant of\nfemale curiosity, when she whispered, even in the act of escape:\n\n\"To-morrow, beloved one, at the same hour. You will tell me then whence\ncomes that jewel, and--and--if it was given you by the queen!\"\n\nTurning stealthily to depart, with his hand on the amulet, doubtful\nwhether he would not tear it from his neck and trample it under foot,\nbut in the mean time leaving it where it was, Sarchedon felt conscious\nof a strange depression, of vague misgivings, as though some future evil\nwere casting its shadow about him ere it came. The air felt heavy, the\nnight was darker, the stars had become dim. It seemed a different world\nas he passed along the silent streets towards his home, and those keen\nsenses of his, quickened by the practice of war, must have been\nstrangely blunted, that he neither saw the form nor heard the footsteps\nof one who had watched his interview with Ishtar from first to last.\n\nSethos, no less nimble of foot than he was light of hand and heart, made\nsuch good haste in returning to the queen's palace, that he found Ninyas\nstill seated at the banquet, flushed with wine, and more reckless, more\nimpetuous, as he was more beautiful, for the excess.\n\n\"You are a trusty hunter,\" laughed the prince, steadying his uncertain\nsteps as he rose with a hand on his favourite's shoulder, \"and you\nfollowed the good hound bravely to the thicket where lies the deer? What\nthink you? Is she worth the bending of a bow?\"\n\n\"My lord had already wounded her with a random shaft,\" answered the\ncup-bearer. \"It is the daughter of Arbaces, who flung him the posy of\nflowers as his chariot passed beneath her in our triumph.\"\n\nThe intelligence seemed to sober Ninyas on the instant.\n\n\"And it is Sarchedon who contends with me,\" said he, pondering. \"By the\nbrows of Ashtaroth, the sport grows to earnest now, and the prize will\nbe won by him who can strike first!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE GODS OF THE HEATHEN\n\n\nHastening from the queen's palace towards his stolen interview with\nIshtar, Sarchedon had not failed to observe the white robe of a priest\nin the neighbourhood of the Israelitish exiles, though his\npreoccupation forbade his identifying the person to whom it belonged.\nSethos, on the contrary, whose wits were more at their master's service,\nhad no difficulty in recognising Assarac, and marvelled in his own mind\nwhat interests could exist in common between the haughty servant of the\nAssyrian god, and this fettered prisoner, a captive even amongst the\ncaptives of the Great King's bow and spear. Could he have overheard\ntheir conversation, his curiosity would indeed have been sharpened, but\nany ideas he might have previously conceived regarding supernatural\ninfluences must have sustained a shock very confusing to his\nunderstanding and his faith.\n\nHis interests, however, were of the earth, earthy, and he left to such\naspiring spirits as the high priest of Baal those abstruse speculations\nwhich would fain penetrate the mysteries of another world.\n\nAssarac only waited till the last of the revellers had departed, the\nlast of the thousand torches flaring in the palace court had been\nextinguished, to glide through the band of captives and lay his hand on\nthe shoulder of him who seemed chief amongst the Israelites.\n\n\"Arise,\" said he, \"my brother. Comfort your heart, I pray you, with a\nmorsel of bread and a draught of wine, while your servant spreads his\nmantle for your ease, and loosens the fetters on your limbs.\"\n\nHe took the cloak from his own shoulders while he spoke, and folded it\nround the prisoner, releasing him at the same time from the chain that\nclanked and rung with every movement of wrist or ankle.\n\nThe Israelite accepted these good offices with the imperturbable\ndemeanour he had preserved through all the incidents of his captivity.\nStanding erect by the priest of Baal, he seemed to look on his liberator\nwith a mild and condescending pity not far removed from contempt.\n\nScanning him warily and closely in the dubious starlight, Assarac could\nnot but admire the lofty bearing and personal dignity of this chief\namongst a nation of bondsmen. His marked features, dark piercing eyes,\nample beard, and venerable aspect denoted the sage and counsellor, while\nhis well-proportioned figure, with its shapely limbs, inferred an\namount of physical strength and activity not always accompanying the\nnobler qualities of the mind.\n\nThere was a strange contrast between the eunuch's shifting restless\nglances, his looks of eager curiosity, half doubtful, half scornful,\naltogether suspicious and dissatisfied, with the expression of quiet\nsuperiority and contented confidence that glorified the Israelite's\nface, imparting to it a calm majesty like the light of sunset on a\nmountain.\n\n\"You offer bread,\" said he, \"and pour out wine unto him who hath neither\ncornland nor vineyard. Therefore shall your harvest and your grapes\nreturn you an hundredfold.\"\n\n\"Baal will not suffer me to want,\" replied the other. \"Shall I, then,\nsee my brother hunger and thirst, while I have enough and to spare? Are\nyou not of our race and kindred? Are not your oppressors our ancient\nenemies? Do we not come of one lineage and worship the same God?\"\n\nThe Israelite pointed upward to the stars, and shook his head.\n\n\"Our fathers have taught us otherwise,\" said he solemnly; \"and I, Sadoc\nthe son of Azael, standing here in the bonds of my captivity, protest\nagainst your idols, your temples and your worship, your gashes and\ndrink-offerings, your winged monsters, your sacred tree, and all the\nthousand unworthy forms to which you degrade the majesty of the\nOmnipotent and the Infinite!\"\n\nAssarac smiled with the frank liberality of a disputant who in admitting\nhis adversary's premises narrows, as it were, the field in which to do\nbattle.\n\n\"Symbols,\" he answered, \"symbols; the mere outward efforts of that inner\nspirit of worship which must find vent, like the mind of man, through\nthe senses. He can see but with the eye, he can hear but with the ear,\nhe can impart his thoughts only in those forms of speech that his tongue\nhas learned to frame, and his fellows have skill to comprehend. How\nshall you express the principle of heat but by fire? How shall you\ncomprehend the majesty of light but through the sun? How can you form a\nnobler ideal of spirits, gods, and departed heroes than in those serene\nand silent witnesses who never weary of their endless watches in the\nunfathomable night?\"\n\n\"So you send a thousand labourers to the mountain,\" replied Sadoc,\npointing scornfully at the sculptures on the palace wall, \"and bid them\nrend the granite from its unyielding sides till they have hewn out a\ncreature such as was never seen in earth or sea or sky--a creature of\nmake and qualities in direct defiance to that nature you profess to\nreverence--winged like a bird, headed like a man, limbed like a bull--a\nmonster, grotesque, impossible, imposing only from its gigantic size and\ntruthful outline. You rear it up at a prince's doorway, and call on men\nto fall down and worship before the hoofs of that which is lower than\nthe lowest of the brutes in the system of creation!\"\n\n\"Are you a priest among your people?\" asked Assarac quickly.\n\n\"Every head of a family is the priest of his own household,\" was the\ndignified reply. \"There need no mysteries for a worship sublime as the\neternal heavens, and clear as the light of day.\"\n\n\"Yet surely you cannot move the multitude without extraneous influences\nstronger and more tangible than those truths of the inner shrine which\nwe the initiated know and accept at their real value,\" argued Assarac.\n\"That very figure which you scorn speaks to the senses of the Assyrian\nnation far more forcibly than all the promptings from within that ever\nmoved a prophet to leap and howl and gash himself with knives before an\naltar, while he foretold great actions and mighty events that should\nnever come to pass. Not a spearman in the Great King's host but, when he\nlooks on these carven blocks of granite, walks with a prouder step and\nshakes his weapon in a stronger hand. He sees in that mighty frame the\nover-powering forces that have made his race conquerors of the world; in\nthat majestic face, calm and indomitable, the true spirit of victory\nmarching unmoved over the ruins of an empire as over the ashes of a\npeasant's hearth; in those unfurled wings, the ubiquity of a dominion\nthat can command ships for the sea, camels for the desert, and horsemen\nswarming like locusts to overrun the fertile plain. It is no\nrepresentation of mere nature evoked by the toil, skill, and indeed the\nsufferings of countless labourers, but of that spirit which dominates\nand subdues nature for its own aggrandisement and fame. Where is the\ntype of godlike dominion to be found, if not here, in this impersonation\nof conquest: strength, intellect, and audacity combined?\"\n\nSadoc pointed to an Egyptian child sleeping a few paces off with a\nwild-flower grasped in its little hand.\n\n\"Is there less of the godlike power,\" said he, \"in the skill that put\ntogether leaf and blossom for the delight of that poor infant, who has\nno other joy nor comfort?\"\n\nAssarac pondered.\n\n\"There must be gods,\" he replied, \"as there are stars, differing in\nmagnitude and glory. Dagon hath dominion on the waters, Anu and Abitur\nin the mountain, Merodach raging in battle is yet subject to Ashur, and\neven that monarch of the mighty circle yields to his irresistible\nsuperior, and bows before the sentence of Nisroch, with the eagle's\nhead.\"\n\n\"And your Nisroch,\" continued the Israelite; \"hath he not also a master\nat whose word he spreads his wings and flies to the uttermost parts of\nthe desert? Whence comes he? Who gave him his eagles head and his\nfeathered shoulders? If he is substantial, he must be perishable; and\nwhen he has passed away, who will make another god for the land of\nShinar, and what shall he be called?\"\n\n\"You speak with reason,\" replied the priest of Baal, \"and you speak to\none who has watched many a long night from the summit of the tower above\nus, and pored on those starwritten scrolls till his brain reeled, to\nlearn that mystery which rules the heavens, and apply it to the\ngovernment of men below. You speak wisely indeed. Who shall make a god\nfor the land of Shinar? He it is who shall bring the whole Eastern world\nbeneath his feet.\"\n\n\"I speak not of gods made by men's hands,\" answered Sadoc. \"The time\nmust surely come ere long when there will be one worship of the true God\nthrough all the earth, as there is one sun that shines over the whole\nheaven. Clouds may obscure it for a season, but no less doth it exist in\nits warmth and splendour, giving vitality to creation and light to day.\"\n\n\"When there is but one worship, there will be but one dominion,\" argued\nAssarac. \"The altar and the temple will then become the judgment-seat\nand throne, while the high-priest will be the true monarch and ruler\nover all. Listen, my brother; for indeed here in the house of your\ncaptivity you have found a friend. I am a priest of Baal, as you behold;\nbut in truth I am no hot-brained votary who mistakes his own intoxicated\nfrenzy for the inspiration of a god. My subordinates may gird their\nloins to leap and run and gesticulate, shedding their own blood the\nwhile in crimson streams. Such extravagances are foreign to my nature,\nand below the dignity of my worship. I am a priest of Baal, but I am\nalso an Assyrian descended from a line of warriors, and to me the\ngreatness of my country is the paramount object and interest of life.\nWhat else have such as I, who are severed, without being alienated, from\ntheir kind? To extend an empire founded by our father Nimrod from the\nBactrian mountains to the Southern sea, to behold the standards of\nMerodach waving on the confines of Armenia and over the gates of\nMemphis, while conscious that I, Assarac the priest, had set in motion\nthe armies of victory and guided the march of triumph, were worth all\nthe fire-worshipper's dreams of luminous immortality, all the starry\nthrones of the gods who are supposed to be looking down in judgment on\nus even now.\"\n\n\"And when your wishes have been fulfilled,\" said Sadoc quietly--\"wishes\nonly to be accomplished through much bloodshed, cruelty, and sin--you\nwill not be one whit happier than now.\"\n\nThe other laughed in scorn.\n\n\"Is fame nothing?\" he asked. \"Is power nothing? Is it nothing to cast\ndown the mighty from their golden thrones, and to raise the lowly, as I\nhave raised you to-night, from fetters of iron and a bed on the cold\nearth? Teach me the lore of your worship, as I will impart to you my own\nsecrets of priestcraft, and hereafter--ay, sooner than you may think--I\nwill set you in judgment over a score of nations, in a purpled robe,\nwith a sceptre in your hand.\"\n\n\"_My_ lore!\" repeated Sadoc, with a sad smile. \"You would deem it\nbeneath your understanding, as it would be above your practice. It is\nbut to do justice, and to love mercy, dealing with man as before the\nface of God.\"\n\n\"But surely you have learned important secrets amongst the Egyptians?\"\nurged Assarac, somewhat disappointed with this exposition of the\nIsraelite's simple creed. \"Surely they have taught you mysteries of\nmagic and the art of divination, in which they boast their proficiency,\nhanded down, as they profess, through scores of dynasties and hundreds\nof successive generations. Or is it true that your nation have been the\nteachers, and Egypt, with all her pride, is but the pupil of a people\nwho took with them from this very land the art that we, its present\ninhabitants, have lost, the spells that compel gigantic spirits to work\nout their behests--rearing colossal buildings, causing wide tracts of\ndesert to blossom like the rose, bidding the very waters of the great\ndeep to subside and overflow at their will?\"\n\n\"You know not our nation,\" answered Sadoc, \"nor have you felt the iron\nhand of our oppressors, who practice the forbidden arts of which you\nspeak, but with no result that hath ever spared groan or stripe to a\nsingle captive. The Israelite must toil under the scourge for his scanty\nmorsel of bread. The great river indeed rises and falls at the command\nof one who is mightier than our task-masters, and who will not surely\nforget his people for ever in their bonds; but for the huge shapeless\nstructures--the gigantic monster idols of the South--they are reared by\na magic of which blood, sweat, and hunger constitute the spells, under\nthe fierce eye that never sleeps, the cruel hand that is never raised\nbut to urge, and smite and destroy. Yet when our fathers were driven by\nfamine into Egypt they found there one of their own people, reigning\nwisely over a prosperous nation, and second only to Pharaoh on the\nthrone; they found themselves honoured guests where now they are\ndegraded prisoners, friends and allies where now they are hated and\ndespised, masters, in truth, where they are slaves! And slaves to those\nwho are themselves sunk in the degradation of a vile and brutal\nidolatry.\"\n\nHis eye blazed, and his very beard seemed to bristle with anger, while\nhe spoke. It was in such flashes of indignation or excitement that the\nlikeness of kindred races was to be noted on the features of Israelite\nand Assyrian.\n\n\"You scorn the gods of Nimrod,\" replied Assarac, with a sneer; \"but the\nfathers from whom we claim a common descent have taught _us_, at least,\na nobler impersonation of our worship than the goose, the serpent, the\nstork, the locust, and the cat! If we choose the lotus, the fir-cone, or\nthe beetle to convey an idea of that reproductive power in nature,\nalways existing even when dormant, as the flower in the bud, or the\nblade in the seed, at least we do not hang our temples with carvings of\nthe humblest animals, the most loathsome reptiles, and the meanest\nutensils of our daily life! It is baser, I grant you, to adore the stars\nthan the principle which gives them light, baser to kneel before the\nsculptured image than the god it represents; but basest surely of all\nworship is that practised by the cruel Egyptian, the enemy whom _we_\nhave humbled, the master who is grinding _your_ people into dust!\"\n\n\"Our God will surely free us,\" said Sadoc, in a low mournful tone. \"It\ncannot be that we, the lineal descendants of his favoured servant, are\nto remain for ever in the house of bondage, eating the bitter morsel of\nslavery, weeping tears of blood under the task-master's lash! But we\nhave neither arms nor leaders; there is no proven harness in our\ndwellings, nor sword, nor shield, nor spear. How are we to go out from\nour enemies in the garb of peace, with our wives and children in our\nhands? And yet, I pray that it may come to this--I, for one, would march\nout fearlessly to die in the wilderness rather than gather another\narmful of straw, bake one more brick for the useless structures that\nonly bear witness to our sorrows and our shame.\"\n\nThe pride of race, the intense consciousness of a peculiar destiny, in\nall ages an inheritance of the sons of Abraham, gave to the words of\nSadoc a truth and bitterness, marked with no slight satisfaction by the\nscheming priest of Baal.\n\n\"Hands that have toiled so skilfully for their task-masters,\" said he,\n\"can surely strike a blow in their own behalf. Courage that has borne\nlong years of suffering and privation will not fail at the moment of\nliberation and revenge. You and yours are of our blood and lineage. You\nshall be no captives in Babylon, as you have been in Egypt. This very\nnight I will take order for your food and lodging--nay, fear not, they\nshall be found you without the temple, if indeed you entertain any\nscruples as to entering the abode of Baal--and you shall return to your\nown people in safety and honour, as a son returns to the dwelling of his\nfather with a gift in his hand. You will tell them that here, in the\ngreat city, our warlike Assyrians look on the Israelites as their\nkinsmen and friends; that when the oppressed rises against the\noppressor, and the children of Terah resolve once for all to throw off\nthe Egyptian yoke, they will see a cloud rising out of the desert from\nthe trampling of horses, countless as locusts in a west wind--they will\nhear a thousand trumpets sounding far and wide from the hosts of the\nGreat King!\"\n\nThe Israelite's eye sparkled and his cheek glowed but he answered\nsolemnly,\n\n\"It must be a mightier king than yours, who leads us forth into the\nwilderness out of the house of our captivity.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nMOTHER AND SON\n\n\nNot the least sumptuous range of halls and chambers in the queen's\npalace had been devoted, from his boyhood, to the accommodation of her\nson. Here, surrounded by his own servants, he had lived ever since he\ncould walk alone in princely state and magnificence, imitating, though\non a less extended scale, the splendour of the Great King's court, and\nexacting from his attendants those ceremonious observances which\nsomewhat chafed his father's spirit, causing the fiery old warrior to\nbreak out in words and gestures savouring rather of the swordsman's\nimpatience than the monarch's dignity. Here too he had been trained\nunder the queen's own eye in manly exercises befitting his rank,\npractising mimic warfare on the wide terraces of the royal dwelling, and\neven hunting the lion in dangerous earnest through its spacious\nparadise, a wilderness in the heart of the swarming city.\n\nIt had been the policy of Semiramis, as it was her pleasure, to keep the\nfuture monarch under her own eye and within her immediate influence,\nteaching him to depend on her alone for all his occupations and\namusements, thus obtaining an ascendancy over his young mind, which\ndaily custom rendered so easy and natural, that he never attempted to\nshake it off.\n\nArrogant at the feast, valorous in the fray, reckless and unscrupulous\nin the gratification of every passing desire, every whim of the moment,\nhe was yet in his mother's presence the same loving wayward child, who,\nthough wilful and petulant, had ever looked to her alone for succour and\nencouragement, had run to her knee with a bruised skin or a tear-stained\nface, and would have begged of her, with equal confidence, a bunch of\ngrapes and a string of pearls worth a king's ransom.\n\nIt was not strange then, that, waking from his heavy slumbers after the\nbanquet, with a vague impression of some unfulfilled desire burning at\nhis heart, his first wish was for his mother's presence, even before he\nremembered the purpose for which he wanted her assistance and advice.\n\nSemiramis, on this the morning after his return from a campaign in which\nher boy had won no slight reputation as a warrior, passing into his\nchamber according to custom, found him, as she had often found him\nbefore, tossing, heated, and restless on his couch, pushing his short\ndishevelled locks off his brow, while he turned on her a glance, half\nmirthful, half imploring, from eyes deep liquid and beautiful as her\nown.\n\nThe queen's head was tired, her dress arranged with the utmost skill and\ncare, while in her gait and bearing there was a dignity of repose no\nless graceful than becoming; but if her dark locks had been unbound, her\nrobes shaken into disorder, and her fair face heated with the flush of\nmirth, pleasure, or excitement, surely never had been seen so wondrous a\nresemblance as existed between that unquiet youth on the couch and the\nbeautiful woman who bent over him to lay her hand against his hot\nforehead with a gesture of endearment and caress.\n\n\"What ails my boy?\" asked Semiramis, looking fondly down on her\ngraceless offspring. \"Was the triumph yesterday so long and wearisome?\nthe wine of Eshcol last night so rough and new? Or has he left his heart\namong the daughters of Egypt, in exchange for the fame and high repute\nof valour he has brought with him from the Nile?\"\n\n\"I wish I had never gone there!\" answered Ninyas petulantly. \"I wish the\nreins had rotted in his hand who turned my chariot from the Gates of\nBrass to leave Babylon and all the pleasures it contained!\"\n\n\"It would not have been like your father's child,\" said the queen, \"to\nhave forborne going forth to warfare with the host. You would not be\n_my_ son,\" she added more tenderly, \"did not your heart leap to the\nrattle of a quiver and the roll of a chariot, wheeling at a gallop\namongst the spearmen. Think you it was no pain to me when I sent you\ndown yonder to learn your first lesson in war, under the eye of my lord\nthe king? But you have made yourself a name for valour, and I am\ncontent.\"\n\n\"Valour!\" repeated Ninyas. \"Men have a strange way of computing courage\nand portioning out the fame, which is indeed of small value when you\nhave got it. Is it such a great deed to be driven under shield in a\nchariot of iron through ranks of half-armed wretches flying for their\nlives? I saw one of our bowmen stand his ground in a vineyard, when we\npassed the Nile, having three arrows in his limbs and a spear through\nhis body. But Arbaces scarce cast an eye on him as he drove by in hot\nhaste to bring up the rearguard of spears; and I thought, if a man would\nbe accounted mighty, it were well to be born a king's son. Valour\nindeed! That very day, an hour later, I would have bartered all the\nvalour and all the fame of the Assyrian army for a cup of the roughest\nwine that ever burst a skin. I love pleasure, for my part; and whosoever\nwill have it is welcome to my share of hunger and thirst, long marches,\nweary sieges, heat, privation, night watches, and all the troubles of\nwar.\"\n\nThe queen smiled, well pleased, as it would seem, with this frank\nconfession of opinions, in which of all women on earth she was the least\ninclined to share. Had she been a man, she thought, the saddle should\nhave been her only home, the spear never out of her hand. Not even\nNinus, with his insatiable desire for fame, should have flaunted so far\nand wide the banners of Assyria, so pushed the conquests of the mighty\nline founded by Nimrod the Great. And yet here was one of her own\nblood, her very counterpart, who, being of the stronger and nobler sex,\ncould sit calmly down in the flush of his youth to scoff at warlike\nhonours, to confess his unworthy preference of inglorious ease and\nmaterial pleasures to the immortality of a hero.\n\n\"For one so young,\" said she, \"you have already attained to high\ndignity. Even my lord the king has spoken of you as a judicious leader\nand a man of valour in fight. Arbaces himself was obliged to admit,--my\nson, you are ill at ease,--Arbaces, I say, though so devoted to the\nking's interests that he seems to look with an evil eye on the king's\nsuccessor, could not but acknowledge that on the field you were a worthy\ndescendant of the line of Ashur; though in camp, he added, the example\nof one prince was more injurious to the discipline of armies than the\ntaking of ten towns by assault, with all the license and outrages of a\nstorm.\"\n\nThere was enough of his father's nature in the lion's cub to bring the\nflash to his eye, the scowl to his brow, while he listened.\n\n\"Arbaces dared to speak thus of _me_!\" he exclaimed, springing to his\nfeet, and grasping instinctively at a gilded javelin standing against\nthe wall. \"He must be a bold man, this chief captain of the Assyrian\nhost.\"\n\n\"He must be a bold man,\" repeated the queen, \"since he is _your_ enemy\nand _mine_.\"\n\n\"Let him beware!\" said the prince. \"I can take up my mother's quarrel as\nheartily as my own. He will have no woman to deal with if he crosses\n_me_. And yet,\" he added, sinking back on the couch, and turning his\nhead aside amongst its cushions, \"there is not in the whole empire one\nwhom I would so gladly call my friend.\"\n\nA shade of perplexity crossed the queen's brow; but she forced a\ncareless laugh while she asked,\n\n\"What have you, the future ruler of all the earth, to gain from this\nwar-worn spearman, whose very existence hangs on the breath of your\nfather, my lord the king?\"\n\nHe turned to her with one of the caressing gestures of his childhood;\nand even the queen's steadfast heart wavered for a moment in the\nmerciless prosecution of her schemes.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"you have never denied me from my youth upward what\nI asked. Give me now the daughter of Arbaces, and I am content. If she\nbe withheld from me, I care not to look on an unveiled woman again.\"\n\nAs the light of morning creeps over a fair landscape, the queen's smile\nbrightened her face into matchless beauty; as the summer sky is mirrored\nin the lake, that smile was reflected on the glowing features of her\nson. Again how comely they were, and how alike!\n\n\"Is she then so fair,\" asked Semiramis, \"this pale slender girl, to whom\nyou flung a cup of gold yesterday from your chariot in return for a posy\nof flowers? Such exchanges, my son, are made every day in follies like\nyours; but I did not believe that a bow drawn thus at random could have\nsent its shaft so deftly through the joints of _your_ harness. Is there\nmagic about the girl, that she draws men to her feet with a mere look\nand sign? I have heard that her mother was a daughter of the stars.\"\n\n\"The daughters of earth are good enough for me,\" replied the prince.\n\"But if this one comes not into my tent, I will never look in the face\nof woman again.\"\n\n\"The tent is not to be despised,\" answered Semiramis, glancing round the\ngilding and vermilion, the beams of cedar, the inlaid flooring, the\npurple hangings, of that painted chamber. \"And she must be difficult to\nplease, if she find fault with its lord. Nevertheless, there are\nobstacles in our way. Arbaces would surely neither wish nor dare to\noppose us, and, if he did, could be silenced or removed. But how shall\nwe set aside the opposition of my lord the king?\"\n\n\"He would never consent,\" said Ninyas. \"I know it too well. The\nmill-stone is not harder than the heart of the Great King. May he live\nfor ever!\"\n\n\"May he live for ever!\" repeated the queen. \"Those of Nimrod's race are\nindeed immortal; and you have little to hope from the lapse of time.\nTell me, my son--do you really love this girl so much?\"\n\n\"I would give my whole life afterwards,\" he answered passionately, \"to\nbring her here into my dwelling for a year and a day.\"\n\nAt the moment, no doubt, he spoke truth. The stream of a passing\ninclination, stemmed by opposition and difficulty, had swelled into a\ntorrent of desire he had neither power nor inclination to control.\n\n\"And if you might take this fair dove to your bosom,\" continued the\nqueen, \"would you consent to forego Babylon and its pleasures? Would you\nmake your escape in secret, and remain for a season in seclusion, until\nthe wrath of the Great King was overpast?\"\n\n\"I am ready to go now,\" answered the impetuous boy. \"My horses are of\nthe purest breed in all the land of Shinar. I will fly with her to the\nends of the earth.\"\n\n\"You need not go farther than Ascalon,\" replied his mother with a smile.\n\"In mine ancient stronghold, rude and timeworn though it be, I can still\ncount many a friend who would beard Ninus and all his line at my\nlightest word. And the common multitude are devoted to my service far\nmore than in Nineveh, or even here in Babylon, which but for me would\nstill have been a mere hamlet of huts in a marsh. My son, if ever you\ncome to rule, trust no longer to the people's gratitude than while you\nhave benefits to confer: the loyalty of a nation is seldom proof against\na rise in the price of corn. Nevertheless, in lofty Ascalon you may be\nsafe and secret enough, until time and my constant entreaties shall have\nsoftened the resentment of my lord the king. The girl is willing, of\ncourse,\" continued the queen, tenderly and in a half-sorrowful tone;\n\"for such faces as yours are made to be the ruin of all who look on them\ntoo freely.\"\n\nNo woman, she was thinking, could resist that smile of her boy's--so\nfond, so winning, so like her own.\n\nNinyas hesitated; and once more his hand stole towards the javelin by\nthe wall.\n\n\"There must be neither delay,\" said he, \"nor hesitation. The girl would\nlove well enough without doubt; but--but--\" here the blood flew to his\ntemples and the angry light to his eye--\"another has seen her, and would\nfain make her his own: one who brought here tidings from the camp before\nthe host marched in--a goodly youth and a brave warrior. Nevertheless,\nhe must die.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" exclaimed the queen, turning pale. \"Believe me, this is a\nmatter to be carried through by the fine wit of woman, rather than the\nstrong hand of man. You must abide wholly by my counsel. I have never\nfailed you, my son. Shall I fail you now in this your great need?\"\n\nIt is possible that, had he trusted implicitly to his mother's guidance,\nher heart might have been softened and her purpose set aside even now;\nbut he flung his head up impatiently, and threatened where he should\nhave confided or cajoled.\n\n\"I will not wait a day!\" he exclaimed angrily. \"I will not sit still\nwhile another is in my place. Sarchedon loves this girl very dearly, and\nin a few hours I may be too late.\"\n\n\"Sarchedon does _not_ love her,\" hissed the queen through her clenched\nteeth, while her face turned white. \"Foolish boy!\" she added, recovering\nher self-command, \"with all your manhood and your valour, you are as\nmuch a child as when you cried on my knee for a lotus-flower or a\npomegranate; and you must even have your toy to-day, at any sacrifice,\nthough you tire of it to-morrow, like the wilful babe you are.\"\n\n\"I am satisfied when I have what I want,\" answered Ninyas. \"Is it not so\nwith us all, from the Great King to the spearman that marches by his\nchariot? Even Ninus will chafe and roar and lash himself into rage like\nthe lion of the desert, if the merest trifle runs contrary to his whim.\nAm I not his _son_, mother, as well as _yours_?\"\n\n\"You are more easily ruled than your father,\" answered the queen. \"And\nit is well for you, my boy, that with your mother's form and features\nyou inherit her temperament--joyous, placable, and easily moulded to the\nwishes of those you love.\" She spoke in a light, bantering tone, not\nentirely devoid of scorn. \"Carry your toy with you, if so it must be;\nbut do not murmur at the measures I take for your safety, nor quarrel\nwith the restraint that can alone preserve you from the king's anger, as\na young warrior chafes under the weight of that harness which fences\ndeath from his heart.\"\n\n\"I only ask for the daughter of Arbaces,\" was his reply. \"Give me the\ndesire of mine eyes, and do with me what you will.\"\n\n\"You shall carry her off from her father's house to-night,\" said the\nqueen. \"Follow my counsel, and you shall pounce on the girl, swift and\nsecure as the hawk when she strikes a partridge on the mountain. Ride\nout of the Great Gates, taking Sethos, or some one attendant whom you\ncan trust, with bow and spear, as though you purposed hunting the lion\nin the desert. Let none see you return, but steal back to the city in\nthe darkness of night. I will take order for such a band of spearmen to\nbe under arms as no single household could attempt to resist, and I will\nplace one at their head who knows neither compunction nor remorse. With\nthese you shall force the gate of the chief-captain's palace. When they\nhave gained possession of the court, I need scarce tell you, my son, so\nlately returned from warfare, the rights of those who occupy the\nstronghold of an enemy--the women's apartments are not far to seek. A\nshawl may be round her head, and the girl herself on the back of your\nbest horse or swiftest dromedary, in less time than it will take to put\nto the sword such few servants as Arbaces can muster in the first watch\nof night. Ere the alarm is sounded and the city in arms, you should be\nmany a furlong off in the desert, galloping towards your place of\nrefuge, like a wild stag to the hill.\"\n\n\"And Arbaces?\" asked Ninyas. \"He has the courage of a lion. He will\nresist to the death.\"\n\n\"Arbaces will take his chance like another,\" answered the queen coldly.\n\"An adversary who stands in the path, my son, must be ridden down ere we\ncan pass on. Nevertheless, I will not have a hair of _your_ head fall in\nthis business. A few priests of Baal shall accompany the spearmen, wrap\none of their linen robes about you, and thus avoid detection as well as\ndanger; but do not neglect to wear your armour underneath. Is that a\nproven harness I see yonder, thrown aside in the corner?\"\n\n\"It is inlaid with gold,\" answered Ninyas lightly, \"and curiously\nwrought; but Pharaoh's bowmen have blunted many a shaft on it, and it\nturns the thrust of a spear as it were a bulrush.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the queen had taken a helmet from amongst the other\npieces of armour, and placed it, laughing, on her brows.\n\n\"They say I am like my mother,\" exclaimed her son, \"in face and bearing.\nBy the beauty of Ashtaroth, it must be true! When I look at you I seem\nto see my own image on the march stooping down to drink from a stream!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nSTRONG AS DEATH\n\n\nIt is well known that secrets are not to be kept from princes, and that\nfor royal ears \"the bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that\nwhich hath wings shall tell the matter,\" however scrupulously it may be\nhidden from curiosity of lower rank. Sarchedon's interview with Ishtar\nhad been witnessed by Sethos, who reported it, as in duty bound, to\nNinyas; and although that wilful youth, ignoring, according to custom,\neverything running counter to her wishes, never mentioned it to his\nmother, the whole affair came to her knowledge very soon after Semiramis\nhad quitted the apartments of her son. It may be that in Assyrian\npalaces, below the surface of forms and ceremonies, stole an\nunder-current of interest, intrigue, and license, which, eddying upward\non occasion, troubled the courtly waters to the brim, and those who\nlived habitually in an atmosphere of luxury and magnificence refused to\ndeny themselves certain relaxations of the heart or senses, that\nrelieved the peasant's toil, and sweetened his hard-earned fare.\n\nSethos was a comely youth with laughing eyes. Kalmim a black-browed\ndame, joyous of temperament, and pleasant to look on as a summer's\nmorning. It was natural that the woman's maturer tact and greater\nexperience should lead the king's cup-bearer into confidences it had\nbeen wiser to withhold; and whatever Kalmim learned of good or evil,\nwithin or without the city walls, she lost no time in imparting to her\nmistress.\n\nSemiramis listened, to all appearance undisturbed. Only the most\npractised of tire-women could have marked how the blue veins about her\ntemples traced themselves more distinctly, how the colour turned a shade\nfainter in her cheek.\n\nAnd yet what rage and self-contempt were tearing at her heart! That she,\nwhose wishes were daily anticipated almost before they were formed, who,\nnever since she arrived at woman's estate, and succeeded to her royal\ninheritance of matchless beauty, had left a desire ungratified, should\nfind, here in Babylon, the citadel of her power, the very throne, as it\nwere, of her dominion, a man who could resist the one and undervalue the\nother, preferring, to the Great Queen's favour, and such a destiny as\nthe mightiest monarch on earth might envy, the smile of a sickly girl,\nthe simple follies of a homely, humble, unpolluted love!\n\n\"Tire me nobly, Kalmim,\" said she, sitting before a mirror of burnished\nsilver, that reflected her faultless form from head to foot. \"There must\nbe no crevice in mine armour to-day--not a fold must be ruffled, not a\nplait laid awry, since I go hence straightway into the presence of my\nlord the king.\" Thus to her woman, but to her own heart: \"He will be on\nduty about the gates. He shall see how fair that face is he has dared to\ndespise, and look on the beauty he undervalues, till he turns faint and\nsick and dizzy in its rays. I will crush him to the earth, and when he\nsues at my feet for the hope I bade him but yesterday to entertain, I\nwill turn coldly away, and leave him to perish like a trampled worm. But\nhe shall not go to this girl for comfort in his despair--no, he shall\ndie! I have said it; he shall die! O Sarchedon, Sarchedon, I could not\nhate you so bitterly, did I not love you so well!\"\n\nAnd all the while not a quiver moved her eyelid, nor caused her jewelled\nhand to shake, while it smoothed the soft dark hair on her brow; the\nfair bosom itself, white, smooth, and polished, seemed also hard and\nmotionless as marble. How different, the thought struck her, as she rose\nto depart--how different was that stately figure sweeping past the\nmirror from the flushed and panting woman, who, with shining eyes and\nheated cheeks, and dewy lips apart, had bent over the sleeping form of\nSarchedon, to drop her love-token in the breast of him on whom she had\nset her heart! And yet, could it be because she had lost him, she asked\nherself, with fierce rage and longing, that he was a hundredfold more\nprecious now?\n\nThere are women whom it is very dangerous to love, as in Eden there\nstood a tree that it was death to taste. But the forbidden fruit was\ngathered nevertheless; and these beauties seem to allure more than their\nshare of victims, to win more than their natural meed of triumph.\nPerhaps it is their destiny to avenge on mankind the common wrongs of\ntheir sex, and to fall at last by the very weapons they have wielded so\nsuccessfully in their march over a host of slain.\n\nThe old king's eyes were dim, and his senses failed him perceptibly, as\nlife waned gradually, yet surely, like an unfed lamp, or a leaking\nvessel of wine. The pomp of royalty, the joy of battle, the feast, the\npageant, the bright steel quivering in his grasp, the good horse\nbounding between his knees, what were they all now but shadows,\nmemories, vague, idle dreams of the past? Was this the hand, he was fain\nto ask himself, that drew the heaviest bow in the broad land of Shinar,\nthe arm that could drive a javelin through and through the lion's heart?\n\nYonder upon the wall was sculptured many a deed of prowess, many a noble\ntriumph of warfare or the chase. Warriors in long array were marching to\nthe battle or the siege; archers bent their bows, slingers and spearmen\nsmote and slew and spared not; horsemen galloped, chariots rolled, and\nvultures soared over heaps of corpses. A bank was raised against a city,\nthe battering-ram laid to its gates, while amidst a shower of arrows and\njavelins men were falling headlong from its walls to feed the fishes in\nthe river below.\n\nAgain, linked in a cruel chain, the line of captives paced slowly by,\nbearing on their shoulders children, household stuff and goods, equally\nthe spoil of their conqueror. The men marched sullenly, with downcast\nlooks; the women beat their breasts and tore their hair. Here, with hook\nin his victim's nostrils, or knife to flay his naked flesh, a fierce\nwarrior tortured some poor suppliant slave. There, proffering for a\ntribute the productions of his country--garments, gold, grain, animals\nwild and tame--some cringing wretch implored mercy at the feet of his\nexecutioner. But amongst all these scenes of strife, glory, and rapine,\none figure still predominated, tall, fierce, and stately, the high tiara\nbound about its brows, bow and spear in hand; but, whether careering in\nthe war-chariot over prostrate enemies, or sitting on the throne of\nstate under the royal parasol, there was still poised above its head the\nwinged mystery within a circle that heralded the sacred person of a\nking.\n\nCould this be the same Ninus, he asked himself, whose limbs, so stiff\nand aching, now endured his silken robes with less patience than once\nthey had carried his iron harness, whose head wavered and nodded on the\nlean neck that was once a tower of strength, proud, erect, colossal,\nlike a column of stone?\n\nAnd that winged figure in the circle. What was it? Did it really hover\nover them to protect the race of Nimrod in battle, or was this too a\nmyth, a fable, a mere imposition of the priests? Should he know when he\nwent to join his ancestors? and would it be long--how long!--ere he took\nhis place among the stars?\n\nThere was not much to leave, after all! The wild bull had been driven\nfrom the plains, and could be found in no nearer fastness than the\nnorthern mountains now. He had himself exterminated the lion within the\nparadise round his palace, and it was weary work to ride in search of\nhim over the scorching desert. Even the rush of battle was not what it\nused to be. Where were the men of the olden time, such as the champion\nhe slew in Bactria, who stood two palms' breadths higher than the\ntallest warrior of either host, leaning on their spears to witness the\nsingle combat between a giant and a king? Or that fierce Ethiopian in\nthe first Egyptian campaign, whom Pharaoh's chief counsellor had made\ncaptain of his armies for his matchless valour, and whose sturdy assault\ncaused Ninus to reel and stagger where he stood, ere the swarthy\nswordsman went down under the buffets of the Great King, then in the\nvigour of his prime? But in his last expedition the armies of Egypt\nseemed to give way without a struggle before his spear, and it was\nhardly worth while to bid his chariot driver turn his hand into the\npress of battle. Even the wine of Eshcol was tasteless now; the wine of\nDamascus worse, and the feast had become loathsome to him as the fray.\nHe was weary of it all, could give it up without a regret, but for the\nqueen.\n\nFeeling, in spite of his angry protest against his own misgivings, that\nthe link which bound them together grew slighter every day--that, like a\nfrayed bowstring, it must snap at last, and leave her free,--the love in\nhis fierce old heart began to be tinged with a savage and unreasoning\njealousy, such as made him intolerant of every glance she directed at\nanother, of every moment she was absent from his side. He had summoned\nher to his presence with all those forms and observances, the necessary\nceremonial of royalty, which chafed him now more than ever; and in his\nimpatience he bade the light-footed Sethos hurry to and fro to see if\nthe queen and her train of attendants were not yet at the gates,\nalthough from where he sat in his throne of state he could command a\nnoble approach, some furlongs in length, through double lines of\ncolossal monsters, leading to the wide entrance of his palace.\n\nA jewelled cup, filled to the brim, stood neglected at his hand. Ever\nand anon he stormed at Sethos because the wine had lost its flavour, and\nthe queen tarried so long.\n\n\"I could put on and prove ten suits of harness,\" said the angry old\nmonarch, \"in less time than it takes a woman to tire her head! And yet\none hair of that comely head is surely better worth preserving than the\nwhole of this worn-out body of mine, that hath scarce strength left to\ndraw a bow or empty a cup. Saw you not, Sethos, how fair she looked on\nthe wall above us when we rode in, slender and pliant like a spear\nbending beneath a truss of forage? Who was attending her, boy? My memory\nhalts and fails me now worse than a ham-strung steed.\"\n\n\"Kalmim, my lord,\" answered the cup-bearer, \"with certain of the women,\nand Sarchedon.\"\n\nHe was too good a courtier to mention Assarac, dreading the storm a\npriest's name was likely to bring down in the king's present mood.\n\n\"Sarchedon,\" repeated Ninus--\"one of my own guards. A stout warrior\nenough, in the boy's play we call fighting now, and a comely\nyouth--ruddy and comely as a maid. How came he absent from his duty in\nthe ranks?\"\n\n\"He had been sent by my lord from the host with the Great King's signet\nto the queen,\" was the reply. \"He has remained in attendance on her ever\nsince.\"\n\nThe old face turned gray with some hidden pang, and the blood-shot eyes\nrolled savage under their shaggy brows.\n\n\"By the beard of Nimrod, I will take better order with these golden\nguards of mine!\" exclaimed the king. \"Do they think, because Pharaoh and\nhis bowmen are no longer flying before my chariot, I have beaten my\nsword into a pruning-hook, and have forgotten how to mount a war-chariot\nor set a company in array? Where is this deserter now?\"\n\n\"He is on duty at the great entrance,\" was the respectful answer. \"My\nlord the king may see him from where he sits.\"\n\nSarchedon, in truth, with a handful of his comrades, was on guard at the\npalace gate, conspicuous even amongst those goodly warriors by the\nbeauty of his person and the splendour of his attire.\n\nEre the king could summon him to his presence, his attention was\ndiverted by the approach of his wife, followed by the women of her\nhousehold; a fair and fragrant company, that wound through the avenues\nof winged bulls and colossal monsters, like a growth of wild flowers\ntrailing across the surface of a rock.\n\nThe king's eyes were not too dim to mark every movement of the woman he\nloved. His old heart began to beat faster and the blood stirred in his\nveins.\n\nHow fair and noble was the bearing of that shapely figure, as it glided\non with the measured step that became her so well! How delicate and\nbeautiful the pale face! so easily recognised even at a distance from\nwhich its features could not be distinguished, and bringing back to him\nas it was unveiled now, on entering her husband's dwelling, that\nwell-remembered morning in Bactria, when she rode into the camp serene\nand radiant, like a star dropped down from heaven.\n\nWhat was this? He started, and half rose from his throne; for she had\npaused amongst the guards, and one of them had fallen on his face at her\nfeet.\n\nSemiramis, who was above all the forms and ceremonies that trammelled\nweaker natures, breaking through them at will in court, camp, or\npalace, had resolved to take signal vengeance on Sarchedon whenever she\nshould see him, careless alike whether they met in the desert, on the\nhouse-top, or here in the formidable presence of the king. She knew how\nto stab him too, and determined, at whatever cost to her own feelings,\nshe would drive her thrust home.\n\nHow beautiful he looked, standing there in his golden helmet, with the\nscarlet-bordered mantle falling from his shoulders, and the white tunic\nreaching to his knee! Not Menon, she thought, when he wooed her by the\nsilver lake that mirrored the towers of Ascalon, was half so fair; but\nMenon loved her dearly, while this man--well, she would make him eat the\nhardest morsel, drink the bitterest waters of affliction, and afterward\nhe should die. What would be left her then? The love of this old dotard,\nthe hollow pageantry, the empty pleasures, the heavy magnificence of a\ncourt. How she loathed them all! And what good would it do her even to\nattain supreme power if she must rule alone, without companionship,\nwithout sympathy, without love?\n\nShe had wavered in her purpose a hundred times ere she stepped as many\npaces. She was inflexible when she bade Sarchedon come forward from the\nline of his comrades, irresolute while he advanced and pitiless once\nmore as he prostrated himself at her feet.\n\n\"You are entitled to ask a request,\" said she, very coldly and\nhaughtily, \"as having borne hither the signet of my lord the king. It is\nmy part to intercede with him in your favour, and the old custom in our\nland of Shinar bids him grant your desire, even to the half of his\nkingdom.\"\n\nHis eyes lightened with pleasure, and her heart turned to stone. Yet\neven in that moment she marked that he still wore her amulet round his\nneck.\n\nThe name of Ishtar was on his lips, but some instinct of the palace--it\nmay be something in the queen's face--forbade him to pronounce it. He\nhad wit enough to bow his forehead in the dust, and to answer,\n\n\"I do but desire the light of her countenance, and permission to abide\nin the service of the Great Queen.\"\n\nShe was not deceived by his submission, though her eyes shone with a\nsofter lustre while she continued, \"Is there no treasure you covet, no\npost of honour you desire, no maiden in the whole land of Shinar you\nwould fain take home with you to your tent?\"\n\n\"I may not lift mine eyes to Ashtaroth,\" was his cautious reply. \"If I\nmust needs choose from among the flowers of earth, I would beg of the\nGreat Queen to give me Ishtar, the daughter of Arbaces.\"\n\nShe was ready with her blow. Looking him full in the face, with the calm\npitiless smile of one who puts some wounded reptile out of pain--\n\n\"It is too late,\" she said, in hard cutting accents. \"The damsel has\nbeen promised to my son. Even now the prince is lifting her veil to\nsalute his bride!\"\n\nIn his agony he fell forward, grasping the queen's robe wildly in his\nhand.\n\nThe Great King sprang to his feet, his beard bristling, his very\neyebrows shaking with ungovernable anger. For a space he could not even\nfind voice to speak. Then he burst out,\n\n\"By the blood of Nisroch, it is too much! He has laid hands on the queen\nbefore my very face! Were he flesh of my loins and bone of my body, he\nshould be consumed to ashes. Ho, guards, away with him! Cover his face\nand lead him forth!\"\n\nA score of hands grasped the offender, a score of spears were pointed at\nhis breast. Though it was her own act, nay, _because_ it was her own\nact, a strong revulsion of feeling caused the queen's stately form to\nshake from head to foot: and in that supreme moment she swore to her own\nturbulent heart that, come what might, even to the fall of the Assyrian\nempire, Sarchedon should _not_ die!\n\nShe passed swiftly to the throne, and lifting the king's sceptre, laid\none end of it against her forehead, while she placed the other in his\nhand.\n\n\"My lord,\" she said, \"this is the feast of Baal. It is not lawful to\nslay an Assyrian born during the worship of the great Assyrian god.\"\n\nThere shone a red light in the king's eyes that meant death, and the\nfoam stood on his lip. When he looked thus, it was in vain to sue for\npardon. Nevertheless, he passed his wrinkled hand over the fair brow of\nthe woman kneeling at his feet.\n\n\"Be it so,\" said Ninus. \"To-morrow he shall die at sunrise. The king\nhath spoken.\"\n\nThen the guards looked furtively in each other's faces; for all men knew\nfrom such a judgment there was no appeal, in such a sentence no hope of\nmercy or reprieve.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE QUEEN'S PETITION\n\n\nSarchedon was hurried away in the custody of his former comrades, who,\npitying the fate their experience taught them was inevitable, had yet\ndiscretion to take him from the presence of Ninus ere some hideous\ncruelty or mutilation should be added to his punishment. They were\nhardly out of the king's sight, however, when a priest of Baal, arriving\nin breathless haste, brought an order from Assarac to deliver up their\nprisoner in the temple of the god. On the festival of that national\ndeity, unusual respect was paid to the sacerdotal character; and as,\neven amongst the guards of the Great King, Assarac's policy had taught\nhim to cultivate friendship and acquire influence, the high priest's\nbehest was obeyed readily, as if it had emanated from Arbaces or even\nNinus himself.\n\nSarchedon therefore became only so far a prisoner that he was not\npermitted to pass the guards at any point of egress from the sacred\nbuilding, but might roam at large through its spacious chambers,\nspeculating on his chances of escape when night should fall, and he\ncould take advantage of such secret communications as his knowledge of\nits votaries taught him must surely exist between the temple and the\ntown.\n\nMeantime, however, he was a caged bird, yearning wildly for freedom\nbecause of her whom he dearly loved. The queen's shaft was shot deftly\nhome, and the poison with which it had been tipped did its work as\ncruelly as the pitiless archer could have desired. It was madness to\nthink of Ishtar in the arms of Ninyas; to feel that, whilst he was a\nprisoner here, she might even be struggling for personal freedom,\nperhaps calling on _him_ to save her in vain.\n\nBut men trained to warfare acquire the habit of reviewing calmly all\nsides of a dilemma, neither undervaluing its difficulties nor despairing\nto vanquish them; especially they take into consideration the bearing of\nprobabilities and the important doctrine of chance. It was not long\nbefore Sarchedon reflected he had himself seen Arbaces under shield and\nhelmet within a brief space of the queen's arrival at her husband's\npalace; that if the espousals of his daughter were really taking place\nwith a prince, the chief captain would hardly be absent from such a\nceremony; and that Semiramis might have thought it not below her dignity\nto tell him an absolute falsehood for reasons of her own--reasons, he\nsuspected, that ought to be flattering to his self-love and conducive to\nthe safety of his person. It was impossible to mistake her avowed\ninterest, her obvious condescension, her changing moods and the\nbitterness with which she accosted him in their late interview under the\nvery eyes of the Great King. If Semiramis loved him, he thought, she\nwould surely provide for his escape; and the first use he would make of\nhis freedom should be to seek Ishtar and urge her to fly with him at\nonce. Merodach could bear them both far beyond pursuit into the desert,\nwhere they would find a hiding-place from the king's merciless hatred\nand the queen's more cruel love.\n\nSarchedon, then, imprisoned in the temple of Baal, was hardly so ill at\nease as the wilful imperious woman whose reckless malice had brought him\nto captivity and shame.\n\nThe old king scowled at her with fierce jealousy and rage as her eyes\nfollowed the retiring form of the culprit, hurried out of the royal\npresence with judicious promptitude by his comrades; but from the first\nmoment Ninus ever looked on that winsome face, he had found in it a\ncharm his heart was powerless to resist, and he was half subdued already\nere she leaned towards him with tender confiding grace, and crossing her\nhands over his gaunt arm, rested her brow on them, while she murmured in\nlow soft accents,\n\n\"I thank my lord that he has turned no deaf ear to the voice of his\nhandmaiden. But enough of this. It is not well that Ninus should be\nmoved by the misconduct of a thoughtless spearman born under an evil\nstar. I have been summoned hastily to his presence. I feared he was ill\nat ease. Is it overbold of his loving servant to ask what ails my lord\nthe king?\"\n\n\"Nothing ails me,\" was the impatient answer; \"nothing but the clamour of\nwomen's voices and the senseless outcries of priests. I sent for the\nqueen,\" he added more gently, \"because she is the light of mine eyes and\nthe priceless jewel of my treasure-house.\"\n\nSemiramis rose erect, and bowing her lovely head, stood with her hands\ncrossed in the prescribed attitude of humility proper for a subject.\n\nShe knew right well that in no position could she show to more\nadvantage; the pride of her bearing softened, the tender graces of her\nwomanhood enhanced, by its expression of shy compliance, of loving\nsubmission to her lord.\n\n\"His servant hasted hither,\" said she, \"on the instant the king's\ncommand reached her palace. I had scarce time to tire my head and smooth\nmy robes. Yet I would fain look my best and proudest in the sight of my\nlord the king.\"\n\nHe gazed on her with a fond admiration that was touching to see in that\nwar-worn old face, softening its rugged outlines and bringing into the\nsunken eyes something of the wistful fidelity with which a dog watches\nfor the smile of its owner.\n\n\"Tired by a score of handmaidens,\" said he, \"blazing in a hundred\njewels, or dishevelled and disrobed, with her free locks floating to her\nknees, not the Queen of Heaven herself is to be compared to my queen,\nfair and matchless to-day as on that bright morning when I saw her ride\nthrough the camp like a vision, bow in hand, and granted her the very\nfirst boon she asked me, for love of her sweet face and her soft\npleading eyes.\"\n\n\"And am I still so fair?\" smiled the queen, while a flush of hope,\ntriumph, and pride in conscious beauty deepened the colour on her cheek.\n\"Nay, I shall scarce be brought to believe he is in earnest unless I can\nprevail on my lord the king to grant me once again the request I lay at\nhis royal feet. If he loves me, surely he will not refuse; and--and I\n_think_ he loves me a little still!\"\n\n\"I will have him flayed alive who gainsays it!\" answered Ninus. \"I have\nceased to love most things now, from the roar of battle to the bubble of\na wine-cup. But may I burn like a log of cedar in the fire of Belus when\nI cease to love my queen!\"\n\nShe shot at him one of those glances she could command at will, in which\nmirth, tenderness, and modesty were blended with the fire of love. \"I\nbelieve it,\" she murmured gently. \"Such an affection as ours is written\nin the stars, and kindles into flame at the first meeting of those who\nare destined for each other. It seems but yesterday that my lord burst\non my sight like Shamash, god of day, rising in splendour on the camp,\nand I turned my head away to bury my blushing face in my hands,\nbecause--because, already I loved him only too well.\"\n\nWith the thrill that vibrated in every fibre of the old king's frame\narose the invariable accompaniment of sincere affection--a sense of\nuncertainty and unworthiness.\n\n\"I was a stout warrior then,\" said he, \"and not so uncomely, for one\nwhose life had been spent in saddle and war-chariot; but the colour has\nfaded on my cheek now, and worse, the fire has gone from my spirit like\nthe strength from my limbs.\"\n\nThere was a plaintive ring in the deep hoarse voice, that must have\ntouched any heart, save that of a woman with a purpose in view.\n\n\"Not so!\" she exclaimed, hanging fondly about him. \"Not so, my lord, my\nlove, my hero! I swear by the host of heaven, that to me you are more\nnoble, more kingly, more beautiful now, in the dignity of your past\ndeeds and mature fame, than in all the vehemence and ardour of your\nimpetuous manhood. Nay, my beloved,\" she added, half playfully, half\nsadly, while clinging yet closer to his side, \"it is not I alone who\nthink so; there were looks shot at my lord as he rode through the\nstreets from the brightest eyes in Babylon, that had I not known full\nsurely I was his only queen and love, would have made me so miserable I\nhad fled straightway to the desert, and never looked on the face of man\nagain.\"\n\nIs there any age at which the male heart becomes insensible to such\nflattery? With ebbing life and failing vigour, battered and out-worn by\na hundred battles, glorious in the splendour of a hundred victories, the\nGreat King might surely have been above that boyish vanity, which counts\nfor a triumph the empty gain of a woman's fancy; yet Ninus smiled well\npleased, and Semiramis felt that her petition was already more than half\ngranted, her game more than half won.\n\n\"They know a stout spearman when they see one still,\" said the old hero\nproudly, \"and they judge by the ruin, doubtless, what the tower must\nhave been in its prime. Well, well, it stood many an assault in its day,\nand from hosts of many nations, nor thought once of surrender, till my\nqueen here marched in and took possession, with all the honours of war.\"\n\n\"And she has held it since against every woman in the world!\" murmured\nhis wife, with another of those resistless glances, and a bright flush.\n\"Is it not so? Keep me not in the agony of suspense. Let me have the\nking's word for my great happiness, and swear, by the head of Nisroch,\nto grant me my desire!\"\n\n\"I must hear first what it is,\" said the old warrior playfully; but\nobserving the tears start to her eyes, he added in fond haste, \"Nay,\nnay, beloved, the queen's petition shall be granted, whatever it be,\neven to the half of mine empire.\"\n\n\"It is more than that!\" exclaimed Semiramis, with a smile as ready as\nher tears. \"It is the whole empire I desire! I would fain sit in the\nseat of my lord the king, but only for a day.\"\n\nNinus shook his head. \"You are like your boy,\" said he fondly. \"Do you\nnot remember when we took Ninyas for the first time to hunt the lion\noutside the walls, and the lad must needs ride Samiel, the wild\nwar-horse, that bent to no hand but mine? By the blood of Merodach, he\nwept like a maid, and I had not the heart to refuse him; but when he was\nfairly in the saddle the tears soon dried on his cheek, for the horse\nbroke away with him like the wind of the desert, from which he took his\nname. I tell you, while I stood there dismounted, I must have felt what\nmen call fear! I never knew how I prized the boy, till my horse brought\nhim back to me unhurt. Samiel loved not to be far distant from his\nlord; and now Samiel is dead, and his rider worn-out, and the\nqueen--what was it the queen asked? That she too should ride a steed she\ncannot control? Does she know the pride of the Assyrian people, the\nturbulence of the crowd, the daily clamour for sluices to be opened and\ngranaries unbarred, the craft of the priests, the false witness borne at\nthe seat of judgment, and the weight of the royal word, which may not be\nrecalled?\"\n\nBut for the last consideration, the heart of Semiramis might have been\nsoftened towards one who, with all his crimes and cruelties, had yet\nbeen tender and loving in his home. The thought, however, of Sarchedon's\ndoom, ratified and rendered inevitable by those fatal words, \"The king\nhath spoken,\" swept all other considerations to the winds, and she never\nlooked truer, fairer, fonder than now, while she answered in a tender\nwhisper:\n\n\"My lord granted his request to our son at the sight of his wet eyes.\nShall he withhold from the mother her soul's desire, because she cannot\nweep save when she fears to lose her place in the heart of the Great\nKing?\"\n\nHis head sank on his breast; he was soon weary now, withering, as it\nseemed, more hopelessly in the confinement of a palace than in the freer\natmosphere of a camp. \"Name it,\" said he--\"it is granted: the king hath\nspoken.\"\n\nHer eyes blazed with triumph, and the rich crimson mantled in her cheek.\n\"I have in my possession the signet of the Great King. I ask to keep it\nuntil to-morrow at noon.\"\n\n\"I have said it,\" was the reply. \"But what use will my queen make of a\ntoy that has often cumbered my hand more wearily than ever did bridle,\nspear, or shield?\"\n\n\"I will but use it to my lord's advantage,\" answered Semiramis calmly.\n\"Is not to-day the feast of Baal, and shall not the Great King go up at\nnightfall into the cedar house on the roof to burn sacrifices, and pour\nout drink-offerings before his god? There will be long procession of\npriests, much leaping, howling, and gashing of themselves at the altars;\nthe prophets of the groves too must pass before my lord, bearing earth\nand water, fir-cones, caskets, gold, frankincense, and gifts. My lord is\nweary even now. Let him take his rest undisturbed to strengthen him for\nthe tedious labours of the night. Meanwhile I hold the signet of the\nGreat King and his authority. I will provide for the safety of the\nnation, and for our own.\"\n\nHe was getting drowsy, and his eyes were already half-closed.\n\n\"You have my signet,\" he murmured. \"Send to Arbaces, and advise with the\nchief captain for setting of the watch. And that presumptuous\nspearman\"--here he blazed up with an expiring flame--\"see that he be led\nforth at dawn. I have spoken, and he who dared to cross the queen's path\nmust die before the rise of another day.\"\n\n\"Before the rise of another day!\" she repeated mechanically; adding, as\nshe gathered her robes about her to depart, \"I thank him that his\nhandmaiden hath found favour in his sight. I cover the feet of my lord\nthe king, and I take my leave.\"\n\nBut she turned at the great gate for one last look at the sleeping form,\nmighty even in its ruin, and formidable in the abandonment of its\nrepose.\n\nProceeding from the palace, Semiramis paused to whisper a few words in\nthe ear of Arbaces. The chief captain seemed surprised, and even\ndiscomposed by the purport of her communication; but there was no appeal\nfrom a command backed by the royal signet, and placing her hand, with\nthe jewel in it, against his forehead, he prostrated himself and\nwithdrew. Had he remained, his discomfiture might have been even greater\nto observe the queen in deep consultation with Assarac, while Sargon,\nthe king's shield-bearer, remained, as if in waiting, a few paces off.\nThe eunuch's head was erect and his face bright with triumph; he wore\nthe air of a man on the eve of some great enterprise requiring skill,\ncourage, and intellect, but having at the same time perfect confidence\nin his own power to carry it through.\n\n\"Is all ready?\" asked Semiramis in a hollow whisper, while her cheek\npaled, and a strange fire shone in her dark eyes.\n\n\"All is ready,\" answered the priest, in composed and measured accents,\nas of one who states the details of a duty satisfactorily fulfilled.\n\"Double guards have been placed at the city gates; fifty thousand\narchers, and as many spearmen, are mustered under arms. Not a strained\nshaft nor a frayed bowstring amongst them, and every man with his hand\non his weapon, devoted to the queen's interest for life and death!\"\n\n\"We shall scarcely need them,\" was her reply. \"I have commanded Arbaces\nto remove his own especial power without the walls. Has my son gone\nforth, and have you taken order for bestowing him in safety to-night?\"\n\n\"A company of spearmen will escort him,\" said the eunuch, \"and will\nguard the child and its new toy on the road to his refuge at Ascalon.\nThe king's signet will insure the obedience of such warriors as are\nrequired to force the palace of Arbaces, and if the chief captain\nresists with the strong hand, his blood be on his own head!\"\n\n\"More slaughter!\" exclaimed the queen sorrowfully. \"O that the road to\npower were not mired so deep with blood! But it is too late to turn back\nnow. Your life, my own, that poor condemned spearman of the guard--all\nare at stake to-night; and we must not, we _dare_ not, stop. Is Sargon\nto be trusted? Yonder he stands, waiting for his orders even now.\"\n\n\"Assarac glanced to where that warrior was stationed, a few paces off,\nsilent, erect, immovable, with the scowl of undying hatred on his brow.\nThe priest smiled--and the queen thought his smile more fearful than the\nshield-bearer's frown--while he replied:\n\n\"A captive in the dungeon longs for light, and a gourd in the garden for\nwater; but what is their desire to a father's thirst for vengeance on\none who has shed the blood of his child?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nCRUEL AS THE GRAVE\n\n\nThe queen passed on a few paces without speaking, yet glanced towards\nAssarac, who walked respectfully at her side, as though she had\nsomething of importance on her mind. At last she observed carelessly,\n\"That spearman who has incurred the displeasure of my lord the king. Is\nit not the messenger who brought me the royal signet from the camp?\nThese guards are all somewhat alike; yet I seemed to recognise his face\nas he fell so untowardly at my feet.\"\n\n\"The same,\" answered Assarac, in his calm unmeaning tones. \"A goodly\nyouth, and a stout warrior enough, by name Sarchedon. He has been\nbestowed in the temple of Baal under my authority, safe at least till\nnightfall. Nor can he escape, though guard and priest are out of call;\nfor there is no egress from the last chamber in the painted gallery on\nthe upper story where I have placed him, and whence he could scarcely\nfly were he to borrow all the wings of Nisroch, whose image stands over\nagainst the entrance to his stronghold. But it is not of him I would\nspeak,\" continued the priest, keenly noting, though he never seemed to\nraise his eyes above the hem of her garment, the queen's burning cheeks\nand air of breathless interest. \"From sunset to sunrise have I watched\nand waited for the decree of the Seven Stars, poring over the scroll of\nfire they unrolled for me, till my brain was giddy and mine eyes were\ndim. Great Queen, there are no secrets in the future for him who has\nlearned to read the book of heaven. It teaches me that in the darkness\nof this night shall dawn unclouded glory for the land of Shinar, and\nsupreme empire for her who is fairest and bravest among women. As the\ngoddess Ashtaroth is Queen of Heaven above, so shall the great Semiramis\nbe Queen of Earth below. The Seven Stars have spoken it, and they cannot\nlie!\"\n\nHe wondered at her preoccupation, contrasting with the attention she had\nlately shown her present listlessness and apparent indifference to the\nsplendid destiny thus prophesied. Something almost of scorn passed over\nhis brow, while he reflected, that if the mighty engine of ambition\nfailed to move her intellect, he had yet a subtler instrument with which\nto touch her heart.\n\nPresently she roused herself to ask, \"Did the stars promise only that I\nshould be great, or will they permit me also to be happy?\"\n\n\"The queen's greatness,\" answered Assarac, \"like her beauty, is\ninseparable from her very being. Her happiness, like the robe that\ncovers it, can be put on or off at will.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" she exclaimed, while the resolute look he knew so well\npassed over her beautiful face down to the very chin. \"And she who\nstands panting at a fountain were indeed a fool not to stoop and drink.\nTell me, then, their behests. What the stars bid me, that will I do.\"\n\n\"The Great Queen cannot read from the book of heaven so readily as a\nhumble priest, the lowest of her slaves, though this lore, too, will I\naspire to teach her at some future time; but there lies in the temple,\nfairly writ out in the Assyrian character and plain as the flight of an\narrow through the air, a scroll that teaches us poor servants of Baal\nthe rudiments of those mysteries into which the ruler of a mighty empire\nmust needs inquire. It is to be found in a secure chamber of the painted\ngallery under the winged image of Nisroch our god.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, not the slightest curl of his lip, the faintest\ninflection of his voice, betrayed a hidden motive, another meaning from\nthat which the plain straightforward words seemed to convey. Yet the\nqueen glanced very keenly in his face, while she stopped short in her\nwalk and turned towards the temple, observing only--\n\n\"It is not yet near sunset. I shall have light to read the scroll.\"\n\nThen she dismissed Kalmim and her women, desiring that she might be\nattended only by the priest of Baal, in whose steps, nevertheless,\nSargon followed like his shadow.\n\nArrived within the porch of the temple, she gave a great sigh of relief,\nas though she luxuriated in the refreshing coolness of those spacious\nhalls, with their smooth shining floors, their countless columns, their\nvast shadowy recesses, that spoke of calm and secrecy and repose. She\nhad not gone far, ere Assarac stopped and prostrated himself at her\nfeet.\n\n\"Let not the queen be wroth with the lowest of her servants,\" said the\nwily eunuch, \"if he ask permission to be relieved for a brief space from\nattendance on her person. There is so much to be prepared for the feast\nof Baal, so many details to arrange for the sacrifice of to-night, that\nI must neglect my duties no longer. The scroll lies where all who pass\nmay read, and when the Great Queen has studied it enough, if, standing\nin this spot, she will but clap her hands thus, those shall be within\ncall who can summon me to her presence without delay.\"\n\nSemiramis frowned, though the frown did but mask a smile.\n\n\"It is scarce a royal reception,\" said she; \"nevertheless, be it so. I\nam content to breathe this cool and grateful air for a space, ere I\nreturn with Kalmim and the women to my palace across the river. You are\ndismissed.\"\n\nHe rose and retired, making a sign to Sargon, who watched his every\nmovement, that caused the shield-bearer to follow him forthwith.\n\nClear of the queen's presence, Assarac pointed to a table on which stood\na golden flagon and drinking-cups of the same metal.\n\n\"Not even to-day?\" said he, while the other shook his head in token of\ndissent. \"Trust me, Sargon, you will be faint and athirst before all is\ndone.\"\n\n\"Not a drop of wine shall cross my lips,\" answered the shield-bearer in\na fierce determined whisper, \"till I have dipped my hands in the blood\nof him who has injured me. I have sworn it by the splendour of Nisroch.\nIt is the oath of the Great King!\"\n\n\"Is your vengeance, then, so deadly?\" asked the eunuch, in a tone of\npity that obviously chafed and aggravated the passion it seemed to\ncommiserate. \"Surely ten score of sheep, five yoke of oxen, a hundred\ncamel-loads of barley, or a talent of gold should absolve the shedder of\nblood from farther reparation. In our land of Shinar the laws are\nmerciful, and do not exact life for life.\"\n\n\"There is a law in man's heart,\" replied Sargon, still in the same low\nconcentrated accents, \"that sets aside the law of nations and the\nartificial ordinances of priests. See here,\" he continued, plucking from\nhis girdle a knotted bowstring, limp and frayed, which he put in the\nother's hand; \"a reader of the stars should be able to tell a simple\nspearman how many knots on that bit of twisted silk go to the score.\"\n\n\"It needs no great study to perceive that but one is left here now,\"\nanswered Assarac with an inquiring look into the other's face.\n\n\"The bow from which I took that string had been bent many a time in the\nGreat King's service,\" was the reply; \"and a shaft it sped but seldom\nmissed its mark. I have covered Ninus under shield, and defended him\nwith my body, when arrows and javelins were flying thick as the sands of\nthe desert before a south wind. I have waged my life, poured out my\nblood freely for my lord, and he has rewarded me with his own royal\nhand.\"\n\n\"He is lavish enough,\" observed Assarac, \"be it gold or stripes, honours\nor death, that he awards. May the king live for ever!\"\n\n\"May the king live for ever!\" repeated his shield-bearer, \"a god among\ngods, a star in the host of heaven. If an empty throne be waiting for\nhim up yonder, may it soon be filled! When I saw my boy fall stark dead,\nthe blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils, I prostrated myself and\ndid obeisance to the Great King; but I drew that string from my bow, and\nin it I tied a score of knots, swearing with each a deadly oath, that by\nthe splendour of Nisroch I would be avenged ere the twentieth was\nundone. Since then I have loosed a knot with every sunrise; and lo, a\npriest of Baal counts, and tells me there is but one left!\"\n\nBeneath its sallow skin a terrible smile rounded the fleshy outlines of\nthe eunuch's face. His voice, however, remained firm while he\nwhispered--\n\n\"We understand each other, and there must be no wavering--no escape--no\nmercy!\"\n\nBetween his clenched teeth the shield-bearer's answer came in single\nsyllables, hissing like drops of blood on a burning hearth--\n\n\"Such wavering as stayed the cruel hand, the deadly bow! Such escape as\nwas afforded that light-footed youth, whom only an arrow's flight could\novertake! Such mercy as he showed my boy!\"\n\n\"Come with me,\" was the high-priest's reply; and the two ascended a\nspiral staircase of carved and polished wood-work, leading to the Talar\nor cedar-chamber on the roof of the temple, where at nightfall sacrifice\nwas to be offered, and drink-offerings poured out in person by the Great\nKing to his Assyrian god. Here they drew from a store-chamber within the\nwall several bundles of reeds, which they strewed in profusion over the\nwooden floor of the cedar-house, and which Assarac sprinkled assiduously\nwith a certain fluid from a phial he had kept hidden beneath his gown.\n\n\"Every precaution must be taken,\" observed the priest with another\nhideous smile. \"But if it be the will of his ancestor Ashur to descend\nfor him in a chariot of fire, and these reeds thus saturated should\ncatch the flame, then must the Great King, if he be not overcome with\nwine and sleep, escape by yonder narrow staircase. His shield-bearer\nwill lie in wait there to help him down.\"\n\nSargon nodded, and his white teeth gleamed between the curls of his\njetty beard.\n\n\"It is a faithful servant who thus risks life with his master,\"\ncontinued the priest. \"When a subject approaches the king in his sacred\noffice, the punishment is death.\"\n\n\"Death!\" repeated Sargon, and his hand stole to the haft of his\ntwo-edged sword, while he burst into a mocking laugh.\n\nSemiramis meantime, left to her own devices, strolled through the long\ncorridors and lofty halls of the temple with wavering steps and slow,\nthat yet bore her nearer and nearer the chamber at the end of the\npainted gallery, where Sarchedon was lodged. Opposite its entrance stood\nan eagle-headed figure of Nisroch, with beak and wings of gold. On this\nthe prisoner's eyes were fixed, as he watched the lapse of time by the\nfading sunlight on its burnished edges, and, looking only for\ndeliverance in the carelessness of the priests, longed for darkness,\nthat he might explore the temple and find for himself some secret\npassage through which to gain the town. Thus gazing, it was with no\nassumed start of surprise that he marked the queen's beautiful figure\nand shining raiment emerge like a vision from under the very shadow of\nthe god; and while he prostrated himself at her feet, he could not\nforbear covering his eyes with his hands in honest doubt whether he were\nface to face with a woman of real flesh and blood, or with some illusive\ncreation of his own excited fancy. Perhaps no intentional flattery could\nhave been so grateful to the queen, whose daring nature was yet\nsufficiently feminine to be tempered with a certain reserve and\nrestraint in the presence of a man she loved.\n\nSemiramis looked tenderly down on the kneeling form at her feet, leaning\ntowards it with the graceful pliancy of the palm-tree as she bends in\nthe evening breeze.\n\n\"Rise, Sarchedon,\" she whispered, dwelling fondly on every syllable of\nhis name as it passed her trembling lips; \"this is no time for empty\nhomage and unmeaning form. Know you not that you are to die with\nto-morrow's dawn?\"\n\nEven that hideous prospect, even love for another woman burning at his\nheart, could not veil the passionate admiration that blazed from his\neyes while he looked up in the fairest face beneath the sky.\n\nMeeting his glances, her own kindled into fire. She laid her white hand\non his shoulder with a gesture that was almost a caress. But the hand,\nso firm to draw a bow, to grasp a sceptre, to record a doom, shook like\na leaf of the great tamarisk-tree in her own gardens.\n\n\"I have come to save you,\" she continued in a voice that sank lower and\nlower with her failing breath. \"Was I not the cause of your offence? Do\nI not share your crime? I cannot let you die!\"\n\nHe scarcely believed his senses. Could this be the royal lady who had\nruled so calmly half the nations of the East--this panting, trembling,\neager woman, changing colour, mood, and bearing with every throb of her\nbeating heart? It was hard to find voice for the conventional\ndeclaration, that \"he was the lowest of her servants, and his life lay\nin the hand of the Great Queen!\"\n\n\"Your life, Sarchedon,\" she murmured. \"If your life be indeed mine, what\nmore can I desire? See, you shall take it back. It is a free gift; and\nagain I am all alone. A queen, forsooth! Who would be a queen, to burn\nlike Ashtaroth in heaven with fire kindled in her own heart, having none\nto counsel, none to cherish, none to love?\"\n\nHe had sprung to his feet. He looked on the beautiful woman standing\nbeside him, and every manly instinct of his nature rose to answer her\nappeal, so touching, so bewildering, and so fond. The very contrast of\nher flushed temples and disordered looks with those royal robes of state\nmight have turned a cooler brain, and no consideration of danger or\nduty could have caused him to forbear exclaiming,\n\n\"I have but one desire on earth--to live and die at the queen's feet!\"\n\nNever had she bestowed on Ninus, perhaps never even on Menon, the\nhusband of her youth, such a smile as now beamed from eyes and lips and\nbrow on the impulsive warrior, who had scarcely spoken ere something in\nhis inmost heart bade him wish his words unsaid. Her lithe and shapely\nfigure swayed towards him, as if, but for his outstretched arms, it must\nhave fallen. The perfume of her hair surrounded and intoxicated his\nsenses; her breath was on his cheek, her sweet lips scarce a palm's\nbreath from his ear, while in gasping broken syllables she murmured,\n\n\"Not at her feet, Sarchedon, but at her heart! Nay, more, you shall----\"\n\n[Illustration: \"NOT AT HER FEET, SARCHEDON, BUT AT HER HEART!\"]\n\nHad Nisroch descended bodily from his pedestal, or Ninus started up like\na ghost from the gaping floor, Semiramis could scarcely have changed so\nsuddenly to the cold impassive rigidity of marble. Following the\ndirection of her stony gaze, Sarchedon beheld, emerging, as it were,\nfrom the very pannelling of the chamber, a dark face and armed figure he\nrecognised as those of the shield-bearer. Sargon, returning by a secret\npassage from strewing reeds on the floor above, had thus unwillingly\ninterrupted an interview which his own instincts told him it was very\ndangerous to have witnessed. With oriental readiness, indeed, his\ncountenance assumed an expression of unconscious stolidity; but in his\nheart he knew that the queen's eye had identified him. And it was too\nlate. Sarchedon, though without a weapon, would have sprung at the\nintruder, but the queen laid her hand, firm enough now, on his arm.\n\n\"It is not time,\" she said in accents so unmoved, so pitiless, that they\nmade his blood run cold. \"To-morrow, Sarchedon, we meet again here, at\nthe same hour.\" Then changing her tone to one of the deepest tenderness,\nadded, \"I will claim that amulet you wear before the whole of Babylon;\"\nand so, whispering \"farewell,\" was gone.\n\nWhen she vanished from his sight, Sarchedon could almost have believed\nhe was mocked by the illusions of a dream.\n\nEre she left the temple, Semiramis did not fail to clap her hands, and\nsummon Assarac to her presence. With more than usual graciousness, she\nbade him attend her to the gate, and when beyond the hearing of certain\npriests who were busied about their usual offices, asked with a smile,\n\"that shield-bearer, Sargon, is a stout warrior, I have heard. Can you\ndepend on him?\"\n\n\"To the death!\" answered the eunuch. \"Less will not serve him. He\nrequires blood for blood.\"\n\n\"If the flames do their work, there need be no bloodshed,\" was the\nreply. \"But of course he must never leave the temple alive.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" assented Assarac; and so the Great Queen passed calmly on\nto her own royal dwelling beyond the river.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE DIVINING CUP\n\n\nHis queen's command, backed by the signet of the Great King himself, was\na matter that brooked neither hesitation nor delay; and Arbaces,\nretiring from the royal presence, reflected with considerable\napprehension on the order he had received from Semiramis. Like many\nother veterans in the Assyrian army, he was devoted, body and soul, to\nNinus, reverencing him perhaps less as a monarch than as the famous\nwarrior, who had led armies to victory again and again. There is no bond\nso close as that which is drawn by companionship in privation, danger\nand adventure--by a share, however small, in that military glory, before\nwhich all other fame pales to a wan and feeble light. But between his\ntried captains and a despotic leader of whose authority there can be no\njealousy, as there can be no cavil at his command, exists the community\nof interests, the mutual and reciprocal confidence of hounds with their\nhuntsman, the wild deer in the mountain with the broad-fronted\nmaster-stag of the herd.\n\nArbaces, riding slowly towards his palace, while a score of bearded\nretainers paced beside his steed, shook his head in grievous doubt and\nperplexity as to his duty in the present crisis.\n\n\"To move without the wall at an hour's notice,\" thought the old warrior,\n\"that tried host, which has even now marched in, triumphant and\nwell-found in every detail, from a successful campaign; the veterans of\nNinus, trained under his own eye in the field, on every man of whom I\ncould depend as on myself, that he would shed his last drop of blood for\nthe glory of the Great King--to leave Babylon at the mercy of the\npriests and that gilded army, which professes allegiance only to the\nqueen--thus to place ourselves, weakened and defenceless, in the hands\nof such men as Assarac and Beladon, crafty intriguers who would shrink\nfrom no secret crime, though they would tremble like girls to set a\ncompany in array against an open foe--is it right? Is it wise? Is it for\nthe safety of the Great King? It is on my head. I must obey. Yet will I\nmake one effort to save him from himself, even though he consume me in\nhis wrath while I speak with him face to face.\"\n\nDrawing rein as he came to this conclusion, Arbaces dispatched\nmessengers to the captains of the host, summoning them to meet at his\nown dwelling with the utmost promptitude; and, turning his horse, rode\noff at speed towards the palace of the Great King.\n\nAs he galloped through the wide streets, sitting erect and fair, his\ngolden armour gleaming in the sun, his long beard waving in the wind,\nmany an eye looked after him with glances of respect, admiration, and\neven regard for the successful warrior, the noted captain, the right\nhand and counsellor of Ninus himself. Stalwart water-carriers staggering\nbetween their jars--tawny fruit-sellers sitting amongst their gourds\nunder booths at the street side--the very leper, grovelling and scraping\nhimself in the dust, had heard of his achievements, and envied rather\nthan grudged him his horses, his wealth, his splendour, his beautiful\ndaughter, and his warlike fame.\n\nHow could they tell he was risking all these with every stride of his\ngood steed, from a sense of unquestioning loyalty to the grim old\nmonarch, who might put him to death on the spot for entering his\npresence unrequired?\n\nNinus in the camp was to be accosted by the meanest soldier; Ninus on\nthe seat of judgment turned a willing ear to the lowest of his subjects;\nbut to intrude on Ninus in the palace was a capital offence by royal\ndecree, by the custom of the olden time, and by the laws of the land of\nShinar.\n\nNevertheless, Arbaces waited for no announcement, but flinging his\nhorse's rein to be held by a captain of ten thousand on duty at the\ngate, strode swiftly through vast halls and shining corridors till he\nreached the summer chamber of the old monarch's privacy. Two stalwart\nspearmen at the entrance, guards of his own selection, made way for him\nwith looks of wonder and awe, while the chief captain, desperate as\nthough leaping with lowered point and raised buckler to the breach of a\nfenced city, dashed headlong into the presence of the Great King.\n\nNinus sprang to his feet, and once again the light of battle gleamed in\nhis eyes.\n\n\"Welcome,\" he exclaimed, \"my trusty servant!--welcome, as the sound of\ntrumpets that bids Assyria charge with chariots and horsemen along the\nwhole line! It can be no light matter, by the beard of Ashur, that\nbrings you thus into my presence. Reach your hand to the sceptre, and\nout with it, man. Is the city in revolt? Hath Armenia sent us a\ndefiance? Are the rebels of Philistia swarming at the gate? O, I am\nweary, weary to madness of this drowsy inaction! Tell me it is something\nthat shall force me to saddle and war-chariot. Bid me shake a spear\nunder shield once again, or you had better have leaped into the air from\nthe tower of Belus, rather than flown here thus, quivering and aimless,\nlike a random shaft from a wet bowstring!\"\n\nLittle reassured by the alternative, Arbaces hastened at least to take\nhold of the royal sceptre, and thus secure himself against the worst\nconsequences of his indiscretion; for pardon was invariably accorded to\nhim for whom the king extended that emblem of sovereignty with his own\nhand; but he dreaded the old warrior's disappointment to learn there\nseemed no excuse for a recommencement of the game he loved so well, and\nit was only because he was a brave man to the core that he looked his\nlord steadily in the face while he said firmly, but respectfully, \"O\nking, live for ever! I speak not as the lowest of slaves to the highest\nof masters; I speak as warrior to warrior, as man to man. Arbaces asks\nNinus if he has ever deceived him in council, or failed him in the\nfield.\"\n\n\"Never!\" exclaimed the king, on whose kindred spirit the other's manly\nbearing produced such an effect as might have been expected. \"Never,\" he\nrepeated, sitting down again, while the weary look crept over his gray\nold face. \"You have been true to me as the buckle of my belt, the handle\nof my blade. Old servant, old friend, old comrade, something tells me I\nshall never tighten one nor draw the other again.\"\n\nArbaces burst into tears. The practised warrior, who had seen towns\nsacked, foes slain, and captives flayed alive without a quiver of\nsympathy, a throb of pity, was not proof against this unaccustomed mood\nin his stern old master. Slave as he really was, slave in presence of a\nfierce and irresponsible despot, his heart filled with a painful,\npiteous sympathy that unmanned him, and he wept.\n\nThe king's harsh laugh, covering, it may be, some kinder sentiment than\nderision, and hoarse with other weakness besides the cough of age,\nrecalled him to himself.\n\n\"Go, get a spindle!\" exclaimed Ninus. \"Surely, but for that rugged face\nand grizzled beard, I had believed it was an old woman standing at my\nfootstool with wet eyes to pray for her son's release out of the\nclutches of Arbaces, rather than the Tartan himself, whom I have seen\nmany a time in haste, anger, and perplexity, but never in sorrow nor in\nfear.\"\n\nThe other's face brightened with joy and pride; but he had a duty to\nperform, and neither exultation in his lord's approval, nor dread of his\ndispleasure, would prevent his carrying it out to the end.\n\nAssuming the usual attitude of respect, and thus dropping, as it were,\nto his proper level of humility, the chief captain demanded meekly,\n\n\"Is it the king's pleasure to hearken, while the lowest of his servants\nmakes report concerning the ordering of the host, and setting of the\nnight-watches as in the day of battle?\"\n\n\"What have I to do with the day of battle?\" answered the king testily.\n\"This is the day of priests and prophets, sacrifice and drink-offering,\nwaste of time, treasure, and good wine. May Nisroch consume them all to\nashes! Day of battle!--by the beard of Nimrod, day of folly rather, and\nweariness and shame! Thou too must needs come prating about it. Well,\nsay on.\"\n\n\"The whole army of Egypt has been commanded to encamp without the\nwalls,\" observed the other curtly. \"Is this the pleasure of my lord the\nking?\"\n\n\"Without the walls!\" repeated his angry master. \"Who dared give such a\nfool's order at such a time? And you too: have you thus disposed the\nhost, scattered from their centre, and incapable of concentration or\nmovement? By the belt of Ashur, you are a bolder man than I thought, to\ncome and tell me this!\"\n\n\"I took my orders from the Great Queen,\" answered Arbaces, \"and she\ndelivered them with the royal signet in her hand.\"\n\nNinus calmed down at once, while on his face came the smile that was\nnever seen there, but in the presence of Semiramis, or at the mention of\nher name.\n\n\"It is well,\" he said. \"Had it been any other man in the host but\nyourself, who came here unbidden to question such an authority, his face\nhad been covered and his place should have known him no more. The king\nhath spoken.\"\n\nHis old heart thrilled while he thought how this unmilitary disposition\nof his army was but another instance of the queen's love and care;\nanother proof of her confidence and affection. She would spare him all\nincitement to exertion by thus withdrawing for a time his favourite\noccupation, would exact a proof of his trust in thus confiding his\npersonal safety and his kingdom to those who were avowedly at her own\ndisposal. Well, he might not have many more opportunities to please her.\nLet the queen's fancy be indulged unquestioned, and her commands obeyed.\n\nWhile he dismissed Arbaces, rudely enough it may be, according to his\nwont, there was yet a rough kindliness underlying the haughty manner and\nfierce peremptory tones, that caused the chief captain's heart to sink\nwith a sense of depression, a vague foreshadowing of evil he had never\nfelt before. As the subject raised his head, after the usual\nprostration on leaving his king's presence, the eyes of master and\nservant met. At the same moment, the same thought seemed to fall like\nice on the heart of each, that henceforth neither should look in the\nother's face again.\n\nWearily and slowly the chief captain paced back towards his home, the\ngood horse under him partaking, as it seemed, in his rider's\ndiscomfiture. It was a sore and saddened heart, contrasting painfully\nwith his elation on the day of triumph, when he rode so proudly beneath\nits walls, that he now carried through the lofty portals of his palace.\nHe had, however, one consolation left in the presence of his daughter.\nSo long as she remained under his roof, it seemed to her father there\nwas still peace and rest and tranquil happiness at home.\n\n\"The girl,\" said he, with his Oriental turn of thought and expression,\n\"is like a light in the dwelling, a lily in the garden, a fountain in\nthe court.\"\n\nBut his apprehensions were not destined to be relieved by the return of\nthose whom he had sent to summon the principal captains of the host.\nWith the first who prostrated himself before the Tartan while he\ndismounted came evil tidings, which each successive messenger arrived\nonly to aggravate and confirm.\n\nIspabara, chief of the spearmen, a tried warrior and leader of repute,\nhad been removed from his command, and cast into prison. Even now the\nforce that hitherto acknowledged his authority was defiling through the\ngreat gate to quit the town under another captain. Scarcely was this\nstartling announcement digested when a second breathless runner appeared\nto say that Sabacon, the captain of the chariots, had been summoned\nhastily to the presence of the Great Queen, and had not since been heard\nof. Meantime, the whole strength of the chariots of iron were already\nmassed in the plain by the Well of Palms.\n\n\"What of Belasys and his trusty bowmen?\" exclaimed Arbaces in deep\nconcern and perplexity, while a third light-footed youth laid his\nforehead to the ground ere he made his ill-omened report.\n\n\"Let not my lord be wroth,\" was the deprecating reply. \"Belasys cannot\nbe found. The bowmen are in confusion, but Taracus has received orders\nto command them under the signet of my lord the king, and has marched\nthem out by companies through the different gates of the city. The men\nof Nineveh refused to move, and were scattered like chaff before the\nwind by the horsemen of the Great Queen. Dagon! how the blue mantles\nrode through and through their ranks, piercing, hewing, trampling them\ndown and sparing none! Men say their bowstrings had been cut when they\nencamped last night by the temple of Baal. The women of Nineveh shall\nlook from their walls in vain, for by the Thirteen Gods I think not a\nscore of that northern band can have escaped alive!\"\n\n\"And all this on the feast-day,\" muttered Arbaces, turning into his\nhouse with a heavy heart.\n\nIt was obvious that some deadly plot had been contrived--some fearful\ncatastrophe was imminent. It needed but little of his warlike experience\nto remind him that an army thus scattered, while disorganised by a\nchange of leaders, would be useless for all purposes of resistance or\noffence.\n\nOf the queen's object he could form but vague speculations; for the\nmeans she had employed to carry it out, he could not repress a sentiment\nof admiration, considerably dashed with fear. That the authority which\ndevolved on her with the royal signet had been employed to place the\ncity of Babylon, and with it the great Assyrian empire, at her mercy was\ntoo apparent; but he hesitated to believe she would use the power she\nthus owed to his affection, for the destruction of her husband and her\nking.\n\nArbaces was a man of energy and action, accustomed to sudden peril,\nfertile in the resources by which it should be met. But he was also\nsuperstitious and a fatalist. It is possible that he might have\norganised some scheme for the defence of his old master, made some\neffort to avert the storm that was gathering over the royal head, had it\nnot been for one of those trifling events on which the fate of an empire\nhas sometimes been known to turn.\n\nExhausted and perplexed, he called for wine almost as he left the\nsaddle. Ishtar, who had been watching for her father's arrival, sprang\njoyfully forward and ministered to his wants, bringing him the restoring\ndraught in a golden cup, beautifully carved, chased, and set with\nprecious stones.\n\nThe girl's step was free and buoyant; her bearing joyous, her sweet face\nradiant in the light that once in a lifetime glorifies every child of\nearth with a ray direct from heaven.\n\nThe sun was setting, and a stream of crimson from its level beams\ncrossed the shining floor beneath her feet. Suddenly she stopped, and\nlooking wildly into the cup, turned pale--pale even in that rich glow of\nevening, tinging hands and robe and hair with red.\n\n\"O, father!\" she said, \"do not drink. It looks like blood!\"\n\nHe set the wine down untasted, and covered his eyes with his hands.\n\n\"Enough!\" he muttered. \"Who shall strive against Nisroch, or flee from\nhim who hath the four winds of heaven for his wings? The Seven Stars\nhave spoken, and it is well!\"\n\nThen there came on him a great trembling and fear; for he looked on his\ndaughter, and wondered who should protect her when he was gone. His own\nhead, the life of the Great King, the fate of the empire, seemed as\nnothing compared to the safety of that beloved being--the child of his\nbosom--the one ewe lamb of his fold!\n\nIt was the divining cup of his race from which Ishtar had unwittingly\nbeen about to give him to drink, and he would have been as loath to\ndefile his father's tomb, or question his father's honour, as to doubt\nits gift of prophecy, or make light of the warning it proclaimed.\n\nHe believed firmly enough that a pure maiden, looking into this\nmysterious vessel at any crisis of her fate, would there behold\nreflected, as in a mirror, a presentiment of that good or evil which the\nfuture held for her in store. And what had she seen now? By her own\nconfession, to her obvious dismay, a hideous sea of blood!\n\nHe dismissed her from his presence gently, kindly, yet with a stern\nsorrow that forbade her to remonstrate or disobey. Then, alone at last,\nin the hall of his stately palace, he rent his mantle from hem to hem\nwith a great cry of anguish, and sat down on the bare floor, unnerved,\nunmanned, in a paroxysm of horror and despair.\n\nAbove him, grand and imposing in the shadows of coming night, loomed his\nown sculptured image on the wall--proud, erect, triumphant--driving at\nspeed in his war-chariot over a field of slain.\n\nSo darkness gathered round original and likeness: the fierce conqueror\nhelmed and plated, bow in hand--the prostrate figure, with rent\ngarments, bowed in misery to the dust. And the stars came out in golden\nlustre--mellow, benignant, radiant--smiling down, as it would seem, in\npeace and good-will on the sleep of Babylon the Great.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nA LYING SPIRIT\n\n\nIn the meantime, not only to his temple had been confined the\npreparations of his servants for celebrating the festival of the great\nAssyrian god. Throughout the city, wherever shrine was sculptured or\naltar reared, garlands had been woven, drink-offerings prepared, droves\nof animals made ready for sacrifice, and trenches even dug to carry off\nthe blood that was to flow like water with the fall of night. The\npriests of Baal swarmed in every open space, singing, shouting,\ngesticulating with frantic leaps, and bare knives brandished to threaten\ntheir own naked breasts. Nothing was left undone that could excite the\nfanaticism of the multitude, and their hot Assyrian blood soon rose to\nboiling pitch under the wild excitement of the hour. Men's eyes flashed,\ntheir cheeks glowed, while they rent the air with cries in honour of\ntheir deity, and troops of women, with dishevelled hair and unveiled\nfaces, might be seen beating their breasts, waving their arms, even\ndancing in grotesque unison with the mystic transports of the priests.\n\nThe prophets of the grove, too, had taken possession of every eminence\nthat might boast a leaf of verdure, every green and wooded spot, both\nwithin and without the walls, for their comprehensive worship of the\nhost of heaven, figured as it would seem by the countless blossoms and\nperennial vitality of their sacred tree--typical, it may be, of that\nwhich long ago in Eden \"stood in the midst of the garden, good for food,\npleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise;\" or\nthat of which he must eat who would live for ever, and which seemed to\nhave promised, far back in the buried ages, yet another tree of\nexpiation and suffering, on which the Great Sacrifice was to be\noffered--the Great Sacrifice of immeasurable love and pity, that the\nsense of man cannot fathom, nor his words describe, nor his narrow heart\nconceive.\n\nIn all idolatry, in the darkness of every superstition, however foul and\ndebasing, is there not some faint reflection of that true dawn which\nshall hereafter brighten into perfect day?\n\nAmongst the crowds that surged and swayed in the main streets of the\ncity, carried away by present enthusiasm, and agape for fresh\nexcitement, might be seen many a proud dark face, with black curled\nbeard and hair, looking calmly, triumphantly, it may be even scornfully,\non the seething shifting throng. These faces all bore the same impress\nof quiet daring and prompt resolve, satisfied to bide the right time\npatiently, yet ready at any moment to strike the fatal blow. Their\nhaughty looks and stern self-confidence disclosed the temper of that\narmy which, having been left at home to protect the empire during the\nlast campaign, had assumed to itself the title of the Great Queen's\nhost, affecting to take its orders directly from Semiramis, to be at her\nespecial service, and devoted primarily to her interest or person,\nrather than to the empire or the king.\n\nIt needed less knowledge of human nature than was possessed by Assarac\nto foresee that such a distinction between two such forces, as had now\nentitled themselves respectively the armies of Egypt and Assyria, was\nlikely to produce feelings of jealousy and rancour, ready at any moment\nto break out in open hostility. The eunuch, despite attentive study of\nthe stars, had not failed to read that book diligently which closes\nevery page with every passing day, sealed to the curiosity that is fain\nto anticipate its coming chapters, but standing fairly open for those\nwho would learn the probabilities of the future from the records of the\npast. He judged men's thoughts less by their deeds than their\ninclinations, and calculated their future conduct rather from their\npassions than their interests. It was through his advice that the army\nof Egypt had been scattered over the surrounding country, and that of\nAssyria, or the queen's host, concentrated in the city, by timely use of\nthe Great King's signet. With military decision, unexpected perhaps in\none whose avocations seemed unwarlike, as his character might have been\nthought unmanly, he had seized, and caused to be securely guarded, the\nprincipal gates of the city, the sluices that dammed its stream, even\nthe tunnel under the great river, which afforded communication between\nthe palaces of the king and queen. He had neglected no precaution; had\nprovided for every emergency; had corrupted one army, disorganised\nanother, maddened the priests, inflamed the multitude, set his snares in\nthe very path of the noble prey he had determined to destroy; and calmly\nawaited the result.\n\nBeladon looked on his chief with the admiration of a neophyte for some\ngrand professor of his art. It seemed strange to see one on whom the\nfate of an empire depended, whose slightest hesitation might involve\nwith his own the ruin of all his supporters, so calm, so confident, so\nunmoved. Not the careless, pleasure-seeking Sethos, whose only business\nin life was to fill the king's cup, as his chief recreation was to sun\nhimself in Kalmim's eyes, could have seemed less interested in the\nmighty preparations going forward than was the prime mover and origin of\nall. Nay, that thoughtless youth _did_ wear some slight air of\nperplexity on his brow while he crossed the open space between the\ntemple and the royal palace, on his way from the apartments of the\nprince.\n\n\"What is this cloud coming up from the desert now?\" said the cup-bearer\nto the priest, as they met under shadow of the sacred building, and\nobserved, by such of its graduated steps as were still exposed to the\nscorching glare, that not many hours had yet to pass before night. \"The\nGreat King covers his feet in his summer-chamber; the queen tans her\nfair face and heats her Southern blood hurrying to and fro, from palace\nto temple, from hall to gallery, from the prince's apartments to the\nroyal judgment-seat. Kalmim keeps silence, which is in itself a marvel,\nshaking her head, as if she knew more than she would tell; while in the\nmidst of these signs and wonders, Ninyas sends and bids me ride with him\ninto the desert in this stifling heat, as a man would say to his friend,\n'Brother, you are athirst and an hungered. Here is a melon and a\nwater-jar. I pray you eat and drink.' What does it all mean, I say? The\ndesert forsooth! By the light of Ashtaroth, I never wish to travel the\ndesert again, after the toil and thirst and suffocation of that endless\ncampaign!\"\n\n\"The prince means to hunt the lion, no doubt,\" answered Beladon, \"under\nthe eyes of Ishtar, or to speak plain, in the light of the rising moon.\"\n\nSethos pondered.\n\n\"A lion at bay is no pleasant companion,\" said he, \"by moonlight or\ndaylight either. It is not the smile of a fair woman he puts on, I can\ntell you, when your horse comes up with him, and he begins to look you\nin the face.\"\n\n\"I know which is most dangerous,\" replied the priest; \"but I doubt if\nNinyas feels a wise man's fear for either one or other. Nevertheless,\nthe hunter at night may be a prey before dawn; and the child that cries\nto its mother for the moon must be pacified ere it wake the household.\"\n\n\"You speak in parables,\" answered Sethos, yawning, \"and during the heat\nof the day too! I cannot interpret parables, nor do I believe much in\npriests. Well, at least I am free of the palace for to-night, and have\ndone with the Great King till to-morrow at dawn.\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow at dawn,\" repeated the other, adding, in a tone of light\nyet meaning banter: \"When the lion turns to bay, Sethos, what is the\nhunter to do then?\"\n\n\"He must drive an arrow through the wild beast's heart,\" was the reply,\n\"unless he likes to sleep in the desert with nothing on but his bones.\nThere is no compromise with the lion; if you slay not _him_, he will\nsurely slay _you_.\"\n\n\"He will surely slay _you_,\" repeated the other in the same tone. \"It is\na wise saying, though spoken by the king's cup-bearer. Nay, be not\nwroth with me, Sethos. I love you well, partly, I think, because you are\nnot over-wise nor thoughtful, and a man may speak with _you_ freely, not\nstopping to pick his words as if the plain truth would burn his lips.\nTake my advice: ride your best horse to-day, and water him freely before\nyou mount. When Ninyas comes back from hunting, turn into the desert and\ngallop for your life.\"\n\n\"Where must I gallop?\" asked Sethos, in some natural anxiety and alarm.\n\n\"Where?\" repeated the priest. \"Anywhere but back to Babylon. Ascalon,\"\nhe added thoughtfully, \"perhaps it would be the safest refuge, after\nall. If you go by the way of the Dark Valley and the Bitter Waters, you\nmight reach it well enough.\"\n\n\"And the Great King's draught at sunrise?\" said the cup-bearer,\nreverting to the first duty of his daily life.\n\n\"The Great King's draught is provided for,\" was the answer. \"See,\nAssarac ascends the steps of the temple. I must prate here no longer. Do\nas I warned you. Farewell, I am loath to part, for I think we shall\nnever meet again.\"\n\nLittle reassured by so ominous a leave-taking, Sethos hastened to make\nready for the expedition to which he had been summoned by the prince.\nThough greatly perplexed and at a loss how to act, he decided so far to\nfollow his friend's counsel as to select a true-bred steed of the plains\non which to accompany Ninyas, permitting the good horse to drink its\nfill ere the bridle was put in its mouth. He slung also a little bag,\ncontaining a handful or two of dates, to his saddle-cloth, and might\nhave completed farther preparations but that he was sent for to attend\non his future monarch without delay.\n\nNinyas was already mounted and impatient to be off. His beautiful young\nface glowed with excitement, and a fever of longing shone in his eager\neyes. Somewhat to the cup-bearer's dismay, he found that he alone was to\naccompany the prince, though the latter muttered a few indistinct\nsentences about attendants on foot and horseback, who had been directed\nto meet them outside the walls; but it struck Sethos, himself no\ninexperienced hunter, that for one who intended to make war on the king\nof beasts in his native fastnesses, it would have been well to carry a\nfew more arrows in the quiver, a somewhat stiffer and heavier javelin in\nthe hand.\n\nWith his unusual comeliness and graceful bearing, the person of Ninyas\nwas as well known in the streets of Babylon as that of the mother to\nwhom he bore so marvellous a likeness. Recognised and greeted with\nenthusiastic acclamations as he passed on, his progress through the city\nwas one continued ovation. And Sethos wondered more and more to observe\nthat his young lord selected the most public thoroughfares for their\nride, although the absence of his usual guards, the waiving of all state\nor ceremony, seemed to infer that he wished to depart unnoticed and\nunknown.\n\nMore thoughtful than he had ever been in his life, the cup-bearer\nfollowed close on the prince's heels, anxious, silent, and sadly\nembarrassed by the warning he had lately received. Ninyas, on the\ncontrary, laughed and jested with the crowd, breaking through the\nhabitual reserve that existed between his father's subjects and the\nroyal descendant of the gods with a joyous freedom that sat gracefully\nenough on one so young, so renowned, and, above all, so fair.\n\nIn an open space not a furlong from the gate by which they were about to\nleave the city, the multitude seemed at its thickest. The prince's horse\ncould scarcely move in a foot's pace, although those against whom it\npressed prostrated themselves to the ground, kissing the body or\ntrappings of the animal, and even the feet of its rider. Much excitement\nhad been caused here by a huge altar of turf raised to Baal, gay in a\nprofusion of flowers, girt with the usual trench, and surrounded by a\nnumerous circle of priests, leaping, shouting, waving their arms in\nparoxysms of an excitement too unbridled to be wholly feigned. As Ninyas\ncame to a halt almost in their midst, one of these, springing\nfrantically in the air, caught hold of the prince's bridle, and\nbrandishing a broad curved knife, laid his own breast open with a wild\nflourish that cut, however, little more than skin-deep.\n\nIt was a startling figure, standing there so tall and lean, naked to\nthe waist, and bleeding freely from its tawny sinewy chest. The thick\nblack hair and beard were matted together in foul disorder, the piercing\neyes rolled and glittered with the light of madness, while a long-drawn\nhowl of mingled agony and triumph denoted that the votary was under the\ninspiration of his god.\n\nSethos trembled, the horse of Ninyas pawed and snorted while his rider\nsmiled in scorn; but the crowd, swaying to and fro, caught the\nexcitement of the moment, and a whisper running from lip to lip like\nwildfire rose to a shout of \"Prophesy, prophesy! He foams, he writhes!\nBaal has come down on him! Prophesy, prophesy!\"\n\nAnother gash, a hideous laugh, a long-drawn dismal wail, and that\nunearthly figure, towering above the rest, hovering as it were with arms\nextended towards the prince, took up its parable in raving incoherent\nutterances, while the gleaming teeth and restless features worked in\nfrightful jerks, like the contortions of a man in a fit.\n\n\"I am Nerig! I am Zachiah! I am Abitur of the Mountains! I have fought\nwith Merodach, and lain with Ashtaroth, and spoken with Baal face to\nface! Mine eyes are opened, and I, even I, behold the things of earth\nand heaven. I am no man, not I, to be born of woman, scorched with fire,\nslain with steel. I am three devils in one--Nerig, Zachiah, and Abitur\nof the Mountains--three devils, and yet I cannot lie, for it is not I\nwho speak, but Baal! Baal has come down on me, and cast out the devils,\nand hereafter will I write them a bill of divorce, that they know me no\nmore; and the voice of Baal cries, 'O king, live for ever!' and the\nfinger of Baal points to this goodly youth, and bids him reach his hand\nto take the sceptre, draw his girdle to wear the sword; and the fire of\nBaal falls on my heart and consumes me, constraining me to cry without\nceasing, 'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and yet to-morrow!' It is spoke\nbelow; it is writ above! O king, live for ever!\"\n\nThen the foam flew from his mouth, and he fell on his face, stark and\nsenseless, under the very feet of the prince's horse. Swerving aside in\nterror, the animal's hoof struck sharp on his defenceless head, and he\nlay there to all appearance a dead man.\n\nBut neither amongst his comrades nor the bystanders was an eye turned on\nhim in pity, nor an arm stretched to raise him from the earth. The looks\nof all were bent on their future monarch and favourite, now hastening to\ndepart.\n\nAs Ninyas disappeared through the city gate, once more a shout went up\ninto the sky; and like the countless birds of morning, with their\nvarious notes of welcome to the rising sun, all these voices had but one\nburden, one chorus, and thus it ran:\n\n\"The gods cannot lie! Baal hath spoken. O king, live for ever!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE FEAST OF BAAL\n\n\nWith the last rays of the sinking sun, as its crimson disk went down\ninto the desert, there rose from the echoing temple such a clang of\ncymbals, such a bray of trumpets, such a wild burst of loud triumphant\nmusic, as caused to ring again her hundred brazen gates, and warned\nGreat Babylon, through all her countless palaces, that the sacrifice by\nfire was now to be perfected before their god, and the sacred feast of\nBaal consummated with the close of day.\n\nAt this given signal, thousands of torches flared out on balcony and\nterrace, innumerable lamps gleamed and twinkled in bower, grove, and\ngarden; while from the beacon-fire that crowned the tower of Belus a\nthin red flame shot up into the night, like the tongue of an angry\nserpent reared on end to strike. Far below, in street and square, were\nmassed the eager expectant multitude, their white garments and dark\nfaces brought into strong relief under that fitful glare; while above\nthem, in grand imposing perspective, loomed long avenues of the mighty\nbulls of granite, with wings unfurled and stately human mien, calm,\nstern, colossal, types of majesty and strength.\n\nNot a warrior was to be seen; not a bow nor spear, nor so much as the\nglitter of a headpiece; but every tower at every gate, every stronghold\nand place of concealment within the walls, swarmed with armed men; while\nin the paradise that surrounded the palace of the Great Queen was\narrayed such a force as would have sufficed to sack the whole city in an\nhour.\n\nSemiramis, dressed in royal robes, with the royal tiara on her head, saw\nthem served with food and wine ere she went down their ranks in person;\nwhile every captain of a thousand, for himself and his command, swore\nfidelity to the queen, to Ninus, to the dynasty of Nimrod, especially to\nthe young prince, who was destined hereafter for the throne of the Great\nKing.\n\nIn all her varying moods, the present seemed to suit her best; and many\na fierce bowman remembered afterwards how lovely the queen had looked\nunder the shade, as of coming sorrow, that clouded her gentle brow--with\nhow tender a grace she seemed to take leave of each man individually, as\nif something warned her she was bidding them a last farewell. When she\nretired into her palace, not one but looked on its walls with something\nof that sweet sad longing which thrills a lover's heart who gazes on the\ndwelling of his mistress, on the casket that contains his priceless\npearl.\n\nBut it was whispered in the rank that she had been seen afterwards in\nthe direction of the temple, disguised and unattended, desirous perhaps\nof witnessing unrecognised the procession and ceremonies in which her\nsex forbade her to take part.\n\nThe pageant began on the very threshold of the Great King's palace, from\nwhich Ninus emerged at sundown, arrayed in his royal robes, with the\nroyal tiara round his brows, the royal parasol held above his head. He\nwore a long flowing garment of silk reaching to his ankles, embroidered\nin mystic characters, edged with fringes and tassels of gold. Over this\na second robe or mantle, trailing behind him, of the sacred violet\ncolour, open in front, and bordered, a palm's-breadth deep, with an\nedging of gold. His long gaunt arms were bare, save for the shining\nbracelets that twined like serpents round his mighty wrists. He wore his\nsword also and two daggers, being the only man armed in the whole\nprocession, except his shield-hearer, who, on the present occasion, in\nright of his office, bore the state parasol even at night, and was bound\nto attend his king as far as the upper story of the temple, on which the\nTalar was reared, but not a step farther for his life.\n\nThose of his friends who were near enough to observe Sargon's face\nhardly recognised him. Usually so swarthy, he had now turned deadly\npale, and the strong warrior's limbs dragged under him, as if he too,\nlike his worn old master, were closely approaching the end.\n\nThough men cast down their eyes before his splendour, appearing only to\nstudy the hem of his garment, they yet knew that the Great King looked\nvery sad and weary; that his feet bore with difficulty that towering\nframe, which was still so massive a ruin; that the brave old face had\ngrown wofully livid and sunken, the fierce eyes dull and tame and dim.\nEven the martial spirit of his race seemed to have died within him.\n\nBut it blazed up yet once more ere it went out for ever. When Assarac,\nat the head of twenty thousand priests, prostrated himself in the\nentrance of the temple, with a welcome, as it were, to his royal\nvisitor, there passed over the Great King's face a light of sudden wrath\nand scorn.\n\n\"To-morrow!\" he muttered. \"To-morrow! When a fire hath licked up the\nlocusts, mine oxen shall tread out the corn!\"\n\nAnd Assarac, bending low in deepest reverence, heard the implacable\nthreat, accepting it calmly, without a quiver of pity, remorse, or fear.\n\nShouts louder than any that had preceded them rose from his people as\nthe Assyrian king went up into the temple of his god. He never turned to\nmark it. The dull listless apathy had come over him again, as if some\ninstinct told him that not thus, amongst odours of incense and oblation,\nsounds of harp and tabor, lute and viol, in the mellow lustre of festive\nlamps, gaudy with blazing gems and robes of shining silk, bearing\npeaceful offerings, surrounded by white-robed priests, should a\nwarrior-king look his last on the nation of warriors he had ruled!\n\nAt this point the cymbals clashed in a yet wilder burst of melody; a\nchant, sweet, measured, and monotonous, was taken up by a thousand\npractised voices; while in every part of Babylon, where shrine had been\nadorned or altar raised, torch was laid to fagot, steel to victim;\nstreams of blood filled the new-cut trenches, fumes of sacrifice rose on\nthe evening breeze, loud shrieks and yells went up from his maddened\nworshippers, while, leaping like demons in the fire and smoke, naked\npriests of Baal raved and writhed and cut themselves with knives in\nhonour of their god.\n\nOne man alone stood looking on unmoved. He was dressed as if for a\njourney, with a long staff in his hand. His attendants, much interested\nin the proceedings, held a few asses, large powerful animals of their\nkind, at a short distance off. It was the Israelite out of the land of\nEgypt, whom Assarac had released from his bonds, at liberty, and about\nto depart. He looked very sad and thoughtful; there was less of scorn\nand pity in his eye, though once, roused, as it appeared, by some\nunusually intemperate outbreak, a cloud of resentment passed over his\nface, and he muttered--\n\n\"Infinite mercy! Infinite patience! How long, Lord, how long?\"\n\nThen he withdrew from the crowd to place himself in the centre of his\nlittle band, where, formally and solemnly, he shook the dust from off\nhis feet ere he mounted an ass; and so, followed by his handful of\ncountrymen, proceeded gravely through the Southern Gate, outward to the\ndesert.\n\nWithin the wide area that encircled the temple of Baal, his priests,\nthough so numerous, were drawn out in orderly array that must have\ngratified the military eye of the Great King. Terrace by terrace the\nlong lines of white stretched in endless perspective, every votary, from\nbearded patriarch to boy-faced eunuch, with a lotus-flower in his hand.\nTo the image of each deity in turn, as it was borne before the monarch,\nthey prostrated themselves with devout obeisance; while at every\nprostration clouds of smoke ascended from the altars, golden cups were\nemptied in drink-offerings, and blood spouted from the throats of fresh\nvictims as sheep and oxen fell prostrate at the propitious moment under\none well-directed blow.\n\nShamash passed on--the god of light, with his burnished disk\nrepresenting the sun's dazzling surface, and identifying that statue of\nsolid gold, under the weight of which its bearers, tall stalwart\npriests, seemed to fail and labour; Ishtar too, with her pale reflected\nbeauty, like the moon she typified, gentle sister to the Lord of Day;\nand Bar and Nebo, versatile, pliant, representations of progress,\nimprovement, human intelligence and skill; Merodach, king of battles,\nbold, defiant, standing on the lion's back bending his bow; and\nAshtaroth, spirit of beauty, love, and light, peerless, radiant,\nalluring, with the bright star on her forehead and the serpent in her\nhand. Other images followed, of different minor influences: winged\nmonsters threatening man, or coerced in turn by some superior\nspirit--the beetle, the scorpion, lions with human faces, wild bulls\nfighting head to head, or flying from each other heel to heel; Dagon,\nwith more than human beauty to the girdle, foul, hideous in fins and\nscales below; Ashur too, monarch of the godlike circle; and Baal\nhimself; Nisroch with the eagle's head, the burnished pinions, supreme,\nall-powerful, immutable, the Destiny from whose award there was no\nappeal, from whose vengeance no escape. Lastly, the symbolical and\nmystic representation of some power that must yet be superior even to\nFate, some abstract essence, some intelligence infinite, inconceivable,\nexpressed, vaguely enough, by a circle of gold encompassing a wheel of\nwings.\n\nOnly on such solemn occasions as the present was this emblem carried in\nthe place of honour, immediately preceding the monarch, when he\nofficiated in the sacred capacity of priest as well as king. It seemed\nto be regarded with an awe-struck reverence by all; and even Ninus,\nimpatient as he was of such ceremonies, believing in little but his\nqueen and his sword, could not forbear a gesture of respect while he\npassed beneath it, at the lowest of the steps he was about to ascend\ninto the secluded precincts of the Talar.\n\nHere Assarac, with another prostration, laid at the royal feet a square\ncasket of gold, and a representation of the fir-cone, worked in the same\nmetal, emblematic, as it were, of the two elements, fire and water; the\ninflammable properties of the fir-cone, with its reproductive vitality,\nrepresenting the generative powers of heat; while the golden vessel\nseemed suggestive of that fluid which, pervading all nature and\nembracing the whole earth, tempering and allaying the ardour of its\nopposite, may be considered as the feminine influence in creation.\n\nThus flung down before him, these offerings signified that the Great\nKing in his present capacity assumed vicariously the attributes of\nAshur, or even Baal himself. Assarac, with considerable ceremony, now\npresented a cup of wine, for his sovereign to pour out in drink-offering\nto the host of heaven so soon as he should have reached the summit of\nthe temple. While Ninus took it from the high-priest's hand another look\nof immeasureable scorn passed over the old lion face--a look that seemed\nlost on the eunuch, whose final prostration expressed the deepest\nhomage, the utmost devotion, that could be rendered by a subject to his\nking.\n\nThe Southern night had fallen; the stars came out by countless thousands\nin the calm fathomless sky. Once more, high above trumpet-peal and clash\nof cymbal, lute and viol, harp and tabor, rose a deafening\nheart-stirring shout--irrepressible tribute of honour and admiration for\nthe greatest warrior of a great warlike line. It was the farewell of his\nAssyrian people to their Assyrian king.\n\nWhile it rang in his dull old ears, and brought the light back to his\ndim old eyes, the heavy folds of a curtain hanging at the foot of that\nsacred staircase he alone was privileged to ascend, parted, to close\nagain for ever on the grand old form, noble even in its last decline,\nand majestic in the very ruin of its decay.\n\nAssarac drew a long breath of relief; and Beladon, at the extremity of\none of the lower terraces, whispered to the priest standing next him,\n\n\"What think you, brother--will they come down for him to-night in\nchariots of fire, as it is written in the stars?\"\n\nTo which the other replied:\n\n\"Sacrifices and drink-offerings have been rendered, enough to propitiate\na thousand gods; and surely brother, the stars cannot lie.\"\n\nBut on the face of his people, from which he had never turned in fear\nnor scorn, it was the Great King's destiny to look no more. Ascending\ninto the seclusion of the Talar, he had no sooner entered its\ncedar-house than a strange lethargy and drowsiness enwrapped his senses.\nEre he could pour out his drink-offering to the four quarters of heaven,\nhis eyes grew heavy, his perceptions failed, his feet seemed glued\namidst the rushes, strewed ankle-deep on the wooden floor, and he sank\nwearily into the throne prepared for him, like a man overcome with\nsleep.\n\nHe must have been dreaming surely, when in a corner of that chamber, at\nthe level of his feet, he saw a dark face, brought out by a sudden glare\nof light--a face of which the stern lineaments, familiar surely, yet now\nso distorted as to be unrecognised, denoted some set purpose\ninassailable by pity or remorse. In the gleaming eyes, fixed steadfastly\non his own, he read a horror that seemed to freeze his blood; but even\nthen in his ghastly trance the stout old heart laughed within him, to\nacknowledge no sense of fear.\n\nYes; he must be dreaming. What else could mean these gathering shadows\nthat oppressed his lungs, that smarted in his eyes, that numbed his\nfaculties? He was in a glow of torpid warmth now, conscious but of a\nheavy drowsiness, broken by leaping flashes of light; while there passed\nbefore him, like a spirit floating across a sea of fire, the delicate\nhead, the pale proud face, the matchless beauty of his queen. He\nstretched his gaunt old arms, he strove to rise, to cry out; but his\nlimbs failed him, his head drooped, his tongue clove to his mouth.\n\n\"A dream,\" he thought again; \"surely a dream.\"\n\nBut it was the last dream of the Great King, fallen into that sleep from\nwhich he never woke on earth again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nGONE TO THE STARS\n\n\nBowed in the dust, his heart torn with anguish, as his mantle was rent\nfrom hem to hem, Arbaces grovelled on his chamber floor, blind to the\nshades of coming night, deaf to the sounds of sacred riot and religious\nfestivity that rang through all the city round. He was like a man in a\ntrance; and yet, though such noises were powerless to rouse his\nfaculties, they woke at once to a distant echo, that his practised ear\nknew for the tramp of an armed party, to a faint familiar music his\nfighting instincts warned him was the clink of steel.\n\nWith one spring he leaped to his feet, snatched spear and shield from\nthe wall, drew his sword-belt tighter round his loins; and so, with\nprospect of danger and necessity for action, felt he was a man again.\n\nBrave and wary, he ran on to a terrace of his palace which overlooked\nthe court. His heart sank to perceive that it was already filled with\nspearmen, amongst whom two or three white-robed priests of Baal were\nconspicuous. Something told him then that his enemies were upon him.\nRemembering his fidelity to his old warrior lord, and the hostility he\nhad never shrunk from provoking in that monarch's service, he knew, even\nwhile he recognised the spearmen as belonging to the queen's army, that\nsome powerful conspiracy was in the ascendant, and he must die. At the\nsame instant came across him the warning that Ishtar had read in his\ndivining cup, under the semblance of blood.\n\nThey were in the court; they were crowding to the staircase. The only\nchance of saving his daughter was to make such a desperate stand before\nthe women's apartments as should give her time to escape by the terrace\non the roof to an adjoining dwelling, and thence fly to take refuge.\nWhere? Not in the temple of Baal; not in the palace of Semiramis. No,\nthe last hope of safety must lie under the roof of the Great King.\n\nMost of the retainers were absent, partaking in the festivities of the\nnight. Half a score or so gathered round him on the stairs, and of these\nhe must dispatch one to warn Ishtar that they were assailed.\n\nEven in that anxious moment he remembered how, long ago, he had held a\npass in Bactria, though sore out-numbered, and the Great King said it\nwas well and bravely done.\n\nThey called on him to surrender. They must search his palace, said\ntheir leader--one who had formerly been under his own command, whom he\nrecognised as a bold, remorseless, and desperate man.\n\n\"You have no authority,\" replied Arbaces, eager but to gain time, minute\nby minute. \"I am chief captain of all his hosts, under my lord the\nking.\"\n\nThe other was prompt and resolute enough.\n\n\"May the king live for ever!\" said he mechanically; adding, in short\nsharp tones, \"Open out, spearmen! Advance, archers, and bend your bows!\"\n\nThe front rank of spears stepped aside, unmasking a line of bowmen, with\nevery weapon drawn to the arrow's head.\n\nTo pause was instant death. Arbaces raised his buckler, leaped down the\nstaircase, and dashed into their midst.\n\nAt first, archers and spearmen gave way before the assault of that\npractised warrior; but what was one in the midst of scores who had sworn\nto put him to death? With a gash from temple to chin, with a spear-head\nin his body, a javelin through his thigh, he fell where he had been\nlying when they roused him, under the very feet of his own image,\nsculptured on the wall to celebrate his fame.\n\nAn arm was raised to strike, the angry steel quivered above his head;\nnevertheless that threatening spearman had followed Arbaces to victory\nmore than once, and he would have forborne to slay his old leader, had\nhe dared. But a hoarse voice rose, fierce and savage, above the din.\n\"Strike,\" it said, \"and spare not! Baal hath spoken, and the stars\ncannot lie!\"\n\nThe pitiless words came from a priest whose white robes hovered on the\nskirts of the encounter. They were followed by a downward thrust, a gush\nof blood, and a hollow groan. Turning on his face to die, Arbaces gasped\na few broken syllables. The spearman who slew him, less remorseful now,\nlike a wild-beast that has tasted blood, heard them many a night\nafterwards in his dreams, though they only murmured, \"The king hath\nspoken. O king, live for ever!\"\n\nPanting, pale, beside herself with fear, Ishtar had taken refuge, as her\nfather bade, on the roof of the palace, with the intention of escaping\nthence into the street. At the very spot where she had met Sarchedon,\nwatched a cloaked figure, and her heart leapt for one wild moment with\nthe thought that the man she loved had dropped from the skies to save\nher at her need. Ere she could perceive he was not unattended, almost\nbefore she was conscious of her illusion, she found her arms pinioned, a\nshawl cast over her head, and herself borne forcibly away on stalwart\nshoulders, while a sweet soft voice whispering terms of passionate\nendearment in her ears, left no doubt as to the object and results of\nthe outrage to which she was exposed.\n\nBlindfold, gagged, half-stifled, she scarcely felt she was carried\nrapidly down several steps into the street ere she became unconscious.\nWith the fresh air outside the walls, her senses returned, and she knew\nby its sidelong pace and the rate at which it travelled that she was\nriding a powerful dromedary, docile as an ox, swift as a courser, and to\nall appearance no more sensible of fatigue than a boat.\n\nThen a horror of despair came over her; for she felt that those two she\nloved best in the world must be lost to her for ever. Had Arbaces been\nalive he would have rescued her. In such a captivity as seemed imminent,\nhow was she ever to set eyes on Sarchedon again? The shawl was still\nround her head; but its folds had been loosened, so that she might\nbreathe more freely; and she could perceive the soft surface of the\ndesert sand passing beneath her, as she glided on smooth and noiseless\nlike a ghost. Utterly broken down, she bowed her head on her knees in an\nagony of despair; and still that whisper stole into her ear at\nintervals, with its hateful protestations of a love she loathed and an\nadmiration she despised.\n\nSo she journeyed into the desert, while her father lay dead in the court\nof his palace, and her lover sought her wildly, hurrying to and fro in a\nparoxysm of grief and fear.\n\nOnce, in an early stage of her fearful journey, she was conscious that\nthe dromedary had been urged to its utmost speed. She fancied, too, that\nshe could distinguish shouts, and other sounds of strife. Muffled and\nconfused, it was fortunate for her that she did not know their cause.\n\nWith the first shades of evening, Sarchedon had taken advantage of the\ndarkness to escape. He had no difficulty in finding an egress from the\ntemple of Baal; nor did he meet with any interruption from the priests,\nwho, busied in their several offices, bore without exception an air of\nconsiderable excitement and preoccupation. One figure indeed he passed,\nwrapped in a mantle that completely shrouded face and form, of which\nthere was something feminine in the graceful outlines, though the height\nwas as the height of a man. It never moved, nor seemed aware of his\npresence, when he glided by, remaining in an attitude of profound\nmeditation, conscious only of its own engrossing train of thought. Could\nhe have seen the beautiful face, so fixed and rigid, behind that veil,\ncould he have read the purpose burning under that gentle brow, he would\nhave fled from the Great Queen in horror and loathing, faster even than\nhe hurried towards Ishtar in anxiety and hope. No sooner was he clear of\nthe temple than his spirits rose, his energy returned, and his project\nof escaping from Babylon with her he loved while there was yet time grew\nto a fierce over-mastering desire, like that of a man who is suffocating\nfor the air which is his life.\n\nHastening to his home, he made ready Merodach for a journey, and bridled\nthe good horse with his own hands; then took his way through the city,\nnow ablaze with innumerable torches and ringing with sounds of festival,\ntowards the palace of Arbaces.\n\nBut the streets swarmed with revellers, and his progress was necessarily\nslow. When he arrived at the well-known dwelling, it was too late.\n\nThe dead body of the chief captain lay stark and grim where it had\nfallen. The servants had fled, the place was empty, and Ishtar nowhere\nto be found.\n\nIn such a catastrophe the first impulse of a brave man seems to be one\nof resistance and defiance, as though his combative instincts were\naroused, and he could face his fate more calmly because he feels the\nworst has come at last. Cool and collected, Sarchedon soon satisfied\nhimself that the woman he loved had been carried away by force from her\nfather's dwelling; and a few cautious questions in the streets enabled\nhim to discover the gate by which she had left the town.\n\nLittle by little he learned the maddening truth, and traced her through\nthe gardens and vineyards that surrounded the city walls into the\ndesert. Once on the sand, with a rising moon to help him, he could track\nthe footmarks of her dromedary surely as the bloodhound tracks a wounded\ndeer. He had not travelled many furlongs ere he came up with a small\nband of wayfarers, plodding on their patient asses into the wilderness,\nand recognised the Israelite whom Assarac had released, and to whom,\nduring his captivity in the camp of the Assyrians, Sarchedon had himself\ndone more than one slight service.\n\nHe reined in his horse, and learnt that a party such as he was in search\nof had passed them not long before. There were scarce half a score; they\nwere armed; they travelled fast; their horses were of the noblest breed,\nand the dromedary in their midst seemed to have the wings of the desert\nwind. Had he not better tarry with his informants where they meant to\nencamp till morning? He would never overtake those whom he pursued.\n\nFor the first time that night he smiled while he patted Merodach's neck,\nand put the good horse into a gallop once more.\n\nStretching on with that long untiring stride, he was aware of a solitary\nhorseman wandering aimlessly towards him, and riding at a foot's pace.\nFor all ages it has been a true saying, that he whom one meets in the\ndesert must be friend or foe. Sarchedon bore down on the other, and\nhalting in front of him, discovered, to his great surprise, that it was\nSethos.\n\nThe cup-bearer, who accompanied Ninyas on his fictitious lion-hunt\noutside the walls, had taken the earliest opportunity of leaving his\nyoung prince, when the latter rode back at sundown to the city.\nImpressed by the vague warning of Beladon, he had followed as far as he\ncould the advice it accompanied, and turned his horse's head towards the\ndesert, as directed by his friend.\n\nBut it was not in the nature of Sethos to persevere for any length of\ntime in a course requiring sustained energy or self-denial. The fatigue\nof the long ride before him soon suggested itself painfully to his mind.\nBabylon with all her charms allured him irresistibly, now that he had\nreally turned his back on her temptations; Kalmim's dark eyes seemed to\nplead with his own inclinations against an abandonment of courtly life,\nan exchange of luxury and pleasure for hardship and privation.\n\nIt was not long before he guided his willing horse back towards the\ncity, and so, pacing leisurely through the cool night air, came against\nhis friend, galloping in fiery haste on his errand of life and death.\n\n\"Have you seen them?\" exclaimed Sarchedon, pale, fierce, and breathless.\n\"Shall I catch them? How long have they gone past?\"\n\n\"Seen what?\" asked Sethos in turn, marvelling at the other's disturbed\nlooks and wild imploring eyes.\n\nIn a hoarse whisper, in the low quick accents of a desperate man,\nSarchedon briefly described the party of which he was in pursuit.\n\n\"If it was daylight, they would be in sight even, now,\" replied the\nother; and was entering into a long description of the dromedary's\nextraordinary speed and powers, which he had not failed to observe,\nalthough the little band had passed him at a pace which forbade his\nidentifying those who composed it, when Sarchedon, giving his\nbridle-reins a shake, went away again in more furious haste than before,\nneither wishing him farewell, nor thanking him for tidings that seemed\nso welcome and yet so sad.\n\n\"A woman,\" thought Sethos, nodding sagely, and thinking he would be back\nwith Kalmim by to-morrow's dawn--\"a woman must needs be the cause of all\nthis turmoil. Surely there is wormwood with the honey, and a two-edged\nsword in the scabbard of velvet and gold.\"\n\nBut when did such pithy saws ever preserve a man from foolish deeds? Or\nwhere is the armour of proof to fence his heart from a pair of soft\neyes, the mantle of wisdom that is not shrivelled to shreds in the\nbreath of a burning sigh? Sethos rode steadily back to Babylon, and\nSarchedon galloped on into the desert, like a falcon stooping for its\nprey.\n\nPiercing as were his eager eyes, sharpened of love and hate and fear, he\nwas aware, by the swelling of Merodach's proud neck and the horse's\nvoluntary increase of speed, that they were nearing the object of\npursuit long ere his sight could distinguish certain dusky shadows\nflying like vapours before him, but looming larger as his gallant\nwar-horse gained on them with every stride.\n\n\"Merodach,\" he muttered, \"king of horses, you are worthy of your name!\"\nThen, in husky frantic tones he shrieked out: \"Stand, cowards, stand!\"\n\nThey were within ear-shot, and the dromedary was forced to its utmost\nspeed; but a horseman wheeled round, and halted not a bowshot from his\napproaching enemy, supported by a follower, who bore his shield.\n\n\"It is a spirit,\" said the latter; \"it is Abitur of the Mountains!\"\n\n\"Fool, keep your arm down and cover me,\" replied the other, while,\nbending his bow behind the buckler, he took a long steady aim.\n\nSwift and straight as Sarchedon dashed in, the arrow flew swifter,\nstraighter yet. It pierced through steel and silk and gold embroidered\nbaldrick; the very feathers that winged it were draggled red in blood.\n\nFaint, sick, and dizzy, the strickened man lowered himself on his\nhorse's neck, while stars and moon and desert sand spun round him like a\nwheel. Had not Merodach's instincts taught him to obey its movements,\nbalancing himself as it were under the swaying body, his rider must have\nfallen headlong to the earth.\n\nSo while the successful archer and his shield-bearer followed their\nparty well pleased, Sarchedon, helpless, senseless, yet cleaving still\nto the saddle, was carried back at a gallop towards Babylon, over the\nsame ground that he had traversed so gallantly when he bore the signet\nof Ninus to his queen.\n\nOnce more the good horse snorted at an object in his path--snorted and\nswerved aside, casting his rider heavily to the sand, where lay a\nframework of gaunt white ribs, with a strip or two of putrid flesh,\nblack and festering on the bones.\n\nFor a moment the shock brought him to life. While his horse scoured away\nriderless, Sarchedon was aware, as if in a trance, that he had fallen\nacross a splintered arrow bearing the same mark as that which was\ndrinking his own life-blood: a royal tiara, and the symbol of Semiramis\nthe queen.\n\nEre he closed his eyes again, he saw a sheet of flame quiver in the sky.\nIt flared above the city where his gods had come down in chariots of\nfire to take back with them the person of the Great King.\n\n\n\n\nAshtaroth, Queen of Heaven\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nWHO IS MY BROTHER?\n\n\nSarchedon, stretched senseless in the desert, bled so freely, that he\nmust have bled to death but for the sand on which he lay. Its fine\nparticles served to stanch the wound ere life was quite extinct; and\nthough very faint and feeble, the mysterious spark was not so wholly\nquenched but that a tender hand might nurse it into flame once more.\n\nSadoc and his little band of Israelites, journeying peaceably on, so\nlong as their asses seemed to travel without fatigue, and finding their\ncourse through the wilderness by the stars, were about to halt for the\nnight, when they came across the prostrate form of the Assyrian, very\nwhite and death-like in the moonlight, lying near the lion's skeleton in\ntheir path. Those were patriarchal times, and it was not the nature of a\nson of Abraham, witnessing such a calamity, to \"pass by on the other\nside.\" Sadoc was down by the helpless figure in an instant with his hand\non its breast, rejoiced to trace the feeble flutterings of its heart.\nWhat little skill of surgery he possessed came into practice forthwith.\nHe forced some drops of wine between the clenched teeth; he drew the\narrow, and poured oil into the gaping wound; he tore his linen garment\ninto strips for a bandage; and lifting the wounded man on his own beast,\nwalked patiently by its side, until they reached a fitting spot of\nencampment for the night.\n\nThat Sadoc should have been thus journeying in freedom and honour, while\nhis Egyptian fellow-captives were bewailing their bondage in the heart\nof Babylon, was due to one of those strokes of policy in which Assarac\nthe eunuch took especial pride.\n\nEver since her subjection under an Eastern people of wandering and\nwarlike habits, counting their possessions by their flocks, but showing\nrather the rapacious instincts of the wolf than the meek and gentle\nnature of those creatures they loved to tend, Egypt had learned to hate,\neven more than she feared, all races of mankind that lay nearer the land\nof Morning than herself. She had not long shaken off the loathed\nsupremacy of the Shepherd Kings ere she employed her new-found strength\nin making war on the nations of her eastern border--the formidable\nPhilistines, the terrible sons of Anak, and the mighty empire of which\nNimrod was the founder, ruled in succession by a line of heroic kings.\nAs her victories increased, so she enlarged her territories, until she\nbecame powerful enough to contest with her Assyrian rival the supremacy\nof the Eastern world.\n\nPerhaps that protracted famine, which wasted other countries, and for\nwhich the wise and high-minded stranger whom Pharaoh had made his regent\nprovided so skilfully, may have enhanced her relative resources as it\nweakened her neighbours; perhaps the balance in which nations are\nweighed was so adjusted by that Supreme Power, to whom worlds are but as\ngrains of sand, through other means; but it came to pass that the more\nSouthern and less warlike people contended with varying success against\ntheir ancient enemy; and to proud Assyria the very name of Egypt was as\nan offence that stunk in her nostrils, a wound that spread and festered\nin her flesh.\n\nIt was a day of triumph, therefore, in great Babylon when her fiery old\nmonarch returned victorious from his Egyptian campaign, and the common\nmultitude rejoiced to tell each other how their hereditary foes had been\nhumbled, how Memphis and Thebes had seen the banners of Ashur flaunting\ndefiance at their gates, his horsemen encompassing their walls; but\nwiser heads reflected on the small amount of real gain represented by\nall this glory, of real damage inflicted on the enemy by an invasion\nthat had obtained no concession of dominion, no increase of national\npower. What were a few herds of cattle, a drove of captives, a heap or\ntwo of gold, garments, armour, and common spoil. Like the subsiding of\ntheir own river, this ebbing wave of war left, perhaps, increased\nfertility where it had passed, in the stern lessons of experience\nlearned by those who were honourably worsted in hard-won fight. Egypt\nwas little weaker in numerical force than when the Great King entered\nher territories; in skill, confidence, and spirit, she was actually\nstronger than before.\n\nThese considerations were not overlooked by the wisdom of Semiramis;\nwhile to Assarac's far-seeing eye, the sapping of Egyptian strength, by\nevery means at home and abroad, seemed the surest and safest policy for\nthe attainment of his one paramount object--the aggrandisement of his\ncountry, and through her supremacy, his own.\n\nIt did not escape his penetration, that Assyria's great rival was vexed\nwith a sore at her very heart, to prove a constant drain on her\nresources, an object of daily anxiety and alarm. By a flagrant breach of\nfaith, an unscrupulous desecration of the rites of hospitality, she had\nconverted a race of exiles into a nation of slaves. Those who came to\nher for bread had indeed received a stone, and the hand she once\nstretched to them in friendship was now clenched in menace, or fell\nheavily in blows of tyranny and oppression. As the Israelites increased\nin numbers, like certain herbs that spring into growth and vitality more\nprofusely, the more they are trampled under foot, the wiser Pharaohs\nbegan to realise the danger they incurred. No state, however powerful,\ncould be safe having a numerous race of aliens mixed, yet not mingling,\nwith its native population, strangers in thought, feelings, usages,\nabove all, in creed and worship. They might be tamed with hard work,\ndisheartened by ill-usage, coerced and kept down in every mode that a\nremorseless policy could suggest, still nothing less than their\nabsorption or extinction could give security to their conquerors; and\nProvidence permitted neither the one nor the other.\n\nThey lived, a people apart, dogged, unresisting, suffering with but\nlittle complaint, yet preserving, apparently for consolation under the\nbitterest hardships, some strange confidence in their future, some\nmysterious trust in a Power before which Pharaoh and his bowmen should\nbe swept away like locusts in an east wind. They worked in sad\nsuggestive silence, they earned their morsel of bread with sweat and\nblood and tears; but they had no voluntary dealings with their\ntask-masters--neither ate nor drank with them, married nor gave in\nmarriage, bought nor sold.\n\nMuch of this Assarac had already learned from intercourse with the many\nstrangers who crowded to the great mart of Babylon out of the South;\nmuch from his conversation with Sadoc, whom he had liberated, not\nwithout a purpose. By the Israelite's narrative, he verified his own\ninformation concerning the captive people, and won the other's\nconfidence in his sympathy with their sufferings, his desire to right\nthem by the unanswerable arguments of sword and spear. His plan, he\nthought, was not unworthy of his own intellect and the glory of the\nGreat Queen.\n\nTo send back this venerable Israelite, as an emissary to his countrymen,\npromising them the powerful aid of Assyria at the time when they should\nsee fit to cast off the Egyptian yoke; exhorting them to rise\nunanimously from within, while all the force of Ashur pressed on the\nenemy from without; thus to obtain complete conquest, to extend\nunbounded dominion over the land of the South; and, finally, when the\nsway of the Great Queen should extend from the sands of the Libyan\ndesert to the farthest mountains of Armenia, to place this strange\npeople in some district suited to their habits, there to become hewers\nof wood and drawers of water for the Assyrian nation. What matter? They\nwould have served his purpose, and might be cast aside like a frayed\nbowstring or the shaft of a broken spear.\n\nBut the wily eunuch was perplexed by the coldness with which the\nIsraelite received, while he accepted, these warlike overtures. Sadoc\nseemed to have but little confidence even in the mighty resources of\nAssyria; little faith in chariots of iron, and horsemen countless as the\nsands by the Red Sea.\n\n\"Our fathers,\" said he, \"came down into Egypt, directed by the finger of\nour God. When he thinks fit, he will lead us out of the house of our\ncaptivity into a land of corn and wine and oil, where we shall worship\nhim in freedom, teaching our children, and our children's children,\nthat he only is mighty, and that the gods of the nations are in his\nsight but as chaff winnowed from the threshing-floor, as smoke from a\nburnt-offering, that melts into empty air.\"\n\nNevertheless, he was satisfied to take with him to his captive people\nthe good tidings of promised assistance at their need, and journeyed\nback to Egypt, pondering deeply on the prospect of a path to freedom\nthus opened out by the assurances of a priest of Baal.\n\nIt was characteristic of the man and of his national habits, that he\nrefused all guard or escort for his long and toilsome journey. His own\nservants, taken captive at the same time with himself, and a few asses\nbearing a slender store of water and provisions, formed the whole troop.\nThus scarcely half a score of wayfarers gathered round Sarchedon, to\npreserve him from a lonely death on the desert sand.\n\nLong days the little company plodded on, taking by choice the most\nfrequented route, in order to avoid those wandering and predatory tribes\nof the Philistines, whose hand was already against every man, as \"every\nman's hand was against them.\" But the domestic policy of Semiramis had\nmade her name a terror to these pitiless spoilers; and many a swarthy\nrobber, who would have scorned to quail before the face of Ninus\nhimself, trembled at the ghastly punishments inflicted on his kindred by\norder of the Great Queen. They believed her--and not entirely without\nreason--to be omnipotent, omnipresent, beautiful as morning, terrible as\nthe lightning, pitiless as fate.\n\nWide tracts of desert, therefore, stretching between the different wells\nand stations that enabled travellers to proceed in a direct course to\nEgypt, though lonely, were as secure as the main streets of Babylon\nitself, especially since they had been so recently trodden by the\nreturning army of the Great King. Sadoc's only anxiety was the\ninsufficiency of water on their way; his only apprehension, lest his\npatient should die ere he could bring him into the land of strangers he\nwas forced to call his home.\n\nIt was weary work for the sick man in the wilderness, after he had\nrecovered consciousness and began to regain strength day by day. He had\nnever known before with what force that merciless sun could pour down on\nhis face and hands, with what a glare it could be refracted on his\naching eyes. How he sickened for the bright translucent waters of the\nmirage, though he knew them false and illusive as a dream! How he\nloathed the protracted crawl, the unbroken sky-line, the palms that\npromised rest and refreshment, but seemed never a furlong nearer, as he\njourneyed sadly on! The ass's patient step, the monotonous jingle of its\nbell, the heat, the thirst, the unvarying interminable sea of sand, the\nlonging for something green, were it but a leaf, a blade of grass, a\nsingle bulrush, became almost maddening; and when at noon they halted to\nfling themselves gladly down in any cubit's-breadth of shade they could\nfind, no palace had ever seemed so commodious, no hangings of silk or\nvelvet so grateful, as the dark lines cast by a clump of slender\npalm-trees, the protection of some uncovered boulder jutting from the\nsurface to offer repose and shelter--the \"shadow of a great rock in a\nweary land.\"\n\nThe Assyrian's constitution, however, was sound, as his frame was strong\nand agile. Ere he reached the confines of Egypt, his health was\nre\u00ebstablished, he had strength to look his destiny firmly in the face.\n\nThe wayfarers rose from their encampment before dawn. With the first\nstreaks of morning the summits of the mighty Pyramids--already\ntime-honoured records of long-past ages and exhausted dynasties--peered\ndaily above the horizon. Crossing the frontier, Sadoc pointed them out\nto his companions, while over his usually gentle brow swept an\nexpression of fierce anger and hate.\n\n\"Behold them!\" said he--\"the monuments and the archives of our masters,\ndetailing like a scroll the history of their cruelties, their\niniquities, and their oppressions. I tell you, the mortar that daubs\nthem has been tempered with human blood. Every brick is cemented with\ntears of women and children, every slab founded on the body and bones of\na murdered man. I know their cruelties; for is not my own nation crushed\nand tortured every hour to complete their like? I know that the Egyptian\nis without compunction or remorse; that in life he would shrink from no\ncrime, as he would accept any privation, but to secure a palace for his\nresting-place after death. Vain, frivolous, pleasure-seeking, this\npeople--living but for the empty gratification of the hour, jesting,\ndancing, posture-making, revelling in wine and flowers--can yet erect\nfor the vile body they are so loath to leave tombs that might contain an\narmy, that shall outlast countless generations of their slavish,\ntyrannous, blood-thirsty, and luxurious race.\"\n\n\"They are skilful warriors,\" answered Sarchedon, whose only experience\nof the Egyptian was under shield; \"but they cannot stand against the\nchariots of Assyria. Why do not your people rise and cast off their\nyoke?\"\n\nThe Israelite shook his head.\n\n\"Who is to lead us?\" said he, \"and whither are we to go? Shall we take\nour little ones in our hand, and wander forth to the wilderness without\nfood, without arms, without flocks and herds, skins of water, beasts of\nburden, and means of daily life? How shall you conduct a multitude like\nours through the desert? Where shall we encamp at night, and whither\nbend our steps at dawn? If we fled to the South, we should arrive at\nfathomless rivers, impassable mountains, troops of evil spirits and\ndemons, the servants of Seth and Abitur, if indeed, our task-masters\ntell us truth, that the hideous square-eared offspring of the Great\nSerpent has been expelled to the confines of Ethiopia. Shall we move\neastward to be a spoil to the terrible children of Anak and the fierce\ntribes of Philistia, who live but to slay, ravage, and destroy? Should\nwe seek the land of our fathers, to find it occupied by our own\nnation--a race of warriors, men of fierce countenance, worshippers of\nmany gods? No, my son, no. While we remain in Egypt, we have bread,\nthough it be moistened with tears; we have safety of life and limb,\nthough we are subject to outrage, insult, and ignominy; we have a home\nlike the weary ox in the stall, and food like the ass at his master's\ncrib.\"\n\n\"And you can bear it!\" exclaimed the fiery Assyrian. \"I had rather go\nout afoot in the desert to die of hunger and thirst with my bow in my\nhand!\"\n\n\"We bear it,\" answered the other gravely, \"because of the promise to our\nfather Abraham, in which we believe. We shall _not_ bear it a day\nlonger, when the time comes and the man!\"\n\nThey were approaching a small cavalcade of Egyptians, journeying in an\nopposite direction. It consisted of a nobleman and his attendants on\nsome party of pleasure or business. The two principal figures were\nseated in a light fanciful chariot, gaudily painted, drawn by a pair of\ndesert-born steeds, chestnut and grey. Contrary to the custom of the\nAssyrians, who usually drove at a gallop, these proceeded in an airy,\nlofty, trotting pace, their heads borne up, their yoke highly\nornamented, and their trappings heavily fringed with scarlet, blue, and\ngold. In the car sat its lord, accompanied by his charioteer, who held\nthe reins, and attended by some score of servants on foot and\nhorseback--lithe, slender, laughing varlets, fancifully dressed and\ngarlanded with flowers. As this noisy throng approached, the Israelites\ndrew aside to let them pass, halting respectfully, and saluting their\npresent masters with deep humility. The Egyptian lord whirled by with no\nmore notice than a scornful smile; but his people laughed and jeered at\nthe way-worn travellers, mocking their speech and gestures with flippant\ninsolence and scorn.\n\n\"Go to,\" said they, \"shepherds and sons of shepherds! Go, seek your\nstraw and burn your bricks! So shall ye build houses and tombs for your\nmasters, and temples for your master's gods. Shepherds and sons of\nshepherds, go to!\"\n\nSarchedon's grasp tightened round the tent-pole he carried in his hand.\nThe fiery temper illness had not subdued would soon have broken in on\ntheir mirth; but Sadoc's restraining touch was on his shoulder, while\nthe Israelite's grave accents whispered in his ear,\n\n\"And these be our masters. Better, indeed, the gripe of the demons or\nthe sword of the Anakim. Better, far better, the iron yoke of Assyria\nthan such degradation as this! How long must we endure--how long?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE HOUSE OF BONDAGE\n\n\nAdvancing into Egypt step by step, the slavery of the captive people\nbecame more obvious, the tyranny of their task-masters more offensive.\nThe fierce Assyrian could not patiently brook scoff and insult levelled\nat his companions; but he controlled himself in deference to the wishes\nof his preserver, and they reached Sadoc's home without any such overt\nact of violence as would have brought the whole party into trouble.\n\nIt was but a miserable hut of mud and reeds, standing a few leagues\nwithout the walls of a city which Sarchedon had heretofore visited as a\nconqueror--a city of palms and palaces, stately in its long avenues of\nsphinxes, gaudy in the variegated paintings of its brick-built walls,\nthronged with a dense population, glittering in a profusion of luxury,\ndedicated to its tutelary deity the Cat.\n\nSomewhat removed from the bounteous river, on the rise and fall of which\ndepended their fertility and even their existence, the adjacent fields\nwere irrigated with all the skill that science and experience could\nsuggest. Their surface--moistened judiciously by canals, ditches, and\nwater-furrows--was alive with a thousand husbandmen. Hoes were plying,\nbuckets swinging, shrill voices rose on the serene air, and lean arms\ngesticulated with a vehemence ill-proportioned to the amount of labour\naccomplished or the importance of the subject discussed. All seemed\nbustle, plenty, and prosperity, save in the huts of these poor\nIsraelites, that stood apart, types of the loathing in which their\ninhabitants were held by a people with whom, in the days of famine long\nago, their fathers had come to dwell.\n\nLighting down from his beast, Sadoc bade his guest welcome, somewhat\nmournfully, to so squalid a home. Then turning to the dark-eyed youth\nwho had run out to take the ass's bridle in his hand, he asked eagerly,\n\n\"And the river, my son--how many cubits hath it risen?\"\n\n\"Fifteen cubits, O my father!\" replied the other, bowing himself in\nreverence, and kissing the hem of the old man's dusty travel-worn skirt.\n\n\"Praise be to our God!\" ejaculated Sadoc; \"we shall not then suffer\nfamine added to hard labour and heavy blows. And thy mother, thy\nbrethren? Is it well with them? Bid them fetch water for his feet, and a\nmorsel of bread to comfort the heart of this stranger, who hath come to\nabide within our gates.\"\n\nWhatever might have been wanting in luxuries, Sarchedon found amply made\nup for by the good-will with which his host's family applied themselves\nto promote the comfort of their guest. The daughter of the house, a\ntender little maiden yet far off womanhood, brought water for his feet,\nand was not to be dissuaded from washing, drying, and chafing them with\nher own hands. The young men lost no time in choosing from the fold a\nkid to kill, dress, and set on the table forthwith. Barley-bread was\nfurnished by the mother, with butter, dried locusts, and a piece of wild\nhoney-comb. Fresh water stood to cool in jars of Egyptian earthenware;\nnor was a skin of good wine wanting to crown the humble meal; for Sadoc\nwas an elder of his people, and a man of mark, even amongst the haughty\nconquerors by whom they were oppressed.\n\nWhen it had somewhat warmed his heart, the old man seemed to brace\nhimself for a confession that had weighed on his mind ever since he\nlifted the wounded Assyrian on his own beast, and resolved to bring him\nhome with him into the land of his captivity. Filling his guest's cup,\nhe bade him observe the shadows of declining day and the crimson of\nsunset, tinging the solemn face of a gigantic sphinx in marble, visible\nfrom the window of their hut.\n\n\"My son,\" said he, \"our people will be called to their tasks at dawn.\nNot a male of the Israelites must be absent, when the servant of Pharaoh\nbeckons with his whip to count us, family by family, and man by man. Our\ndwellings are searched, our very sick are summoned. There is but one\nmaster who claims precedence of the Egyptian, and his name is Death. My\nson, it is out of my power to conceal you here. Look around, and satisfy\nyourself. You must cast in your lot with us, as though you belonged to\nour people; and I will account for you as an Israelite who has made his\nescape with me from our captivity in Babylon the Great.\"\n\n\"I would not willingly bring danger on your household,\" answered\nSarchedon, \"but I pray you remember that I am wont to handle bow and\nspear. My fingers are not skilled to use mattock, hoe, and trowel; my\nnature, too, does not calmly brook chiding, and refuses altogether to\nabide blows.\"\n\n\"It is not for long,\" urged Sadoc. \"I beseech you be patient for a\nlittle space. The time may come when you shall return to Assyria with\nthe good wishes of a whole nation to speed you on the way.\"\n\n\"It cannot come too soon,\" answered the other, whose heart was with\nIshtar, and whose only hope of recovering some traces of her lay in a\nspeedy return to his own country. \"I owe you my life, indeed; and but\nfor you, should have been bleaching in the desert, stripped to the bones\nby jackal and bird of prey; yet what is life without honour, without\nliberty, without love?\"\n\n\"Without faith rather,\" said Sadoc, grave, sorrowful, and dignified.\n\"The only possession the greedy Egyptian cannot ravish, the only jewel\nPharaoh's arm is not long enough to seize--too lofty for his reach, too\npure for his diadem, too precious for his throne. My son, there is a\nsomething even in the weeping captive's breast that may be greater,\nnobler, more enduring than the glory of warriors and the pride of\nkings.\"\n\n\"There are but two motives,\" answered Sarchedon, \"to stir a brave man's\nheart: the hope of warlike fame, the desire of woman's love.\"\n\nSadoc smiled sadly.\n\n\"And when the warrior is down in battle,\" he replied, \"or pining in the\ndungeon--when the woman turns false and cold, or her fair face is fixed\nin death--what is left then to him whose arm has striven but for his own\nvain glory, whose worship has turned from the God of his fathers to a\ncreature weaker and lower than himself?\"\n\n\"A man can always die,\" answered the Assyrian, \"when there is nothing\nleft to live for, as he falls asleep when the sun has gone down into the\nwilderness. How shall you compel _him_ who has no fear of death?\"\n\n\"Death!\" repeated Sadoc. \"And is it, then, so much more dreadful to die\nthan to live? Is rest more terrible than labour, fulness than want,\npeace than strife? Which is nobler, the courage of resistance or of\nattack? Which best fulfils the purpose of creation?--the ox, plodding\nobedient to the goad, or the wild ass, spurning control beneath her\nhoof? I will show you to-morrow a whole people displaying such calm and\npatient fortitude as shames the proudest triumphs of Assyria, with her\nline of kings from Nimrod the Great down to that fierce old warrior\nwhose chariots rolled here, as it seems, but yesterday over a heap of\nslain, and whose name to-day bids the false Egyptian tremble and turn\npale. My son, the hour may yet come when Pharaoh shall be humbled to the\ndust, and we shall live like brethren with our kindred once more in the\nland of Shinar--the land of our fathers, the land of our inheritance,\nand of our hope. In the meantime, though the night has seemed long and\nweary, morning may be close at hand.\"\n\nWith these words, he spread a couch for his guest, and betook himself to\nslumber. Sarchedon, looking round the hut, remembered it was of such a\nshelter he had dreamed, sleeping beneath the tower of Belus, in the\ntemple of the Assyrian god.\n\nIt was to hard reality, though, that he woke under the gray morning sky.\nCompany by company, as his host had warned him, family by family, and\nman by man, the Israelites were summoned to their tasks. As he marched\nto the scene of labour, between two sons of Sadoc, one a tender\nstripling, the other a stalwart broad-shouldered youth, shame crimsoned\nthe cheek of the practised warrior, thus to find himself identified with\na nation of slaves.\n\nAn Egyptian task-master, daintily attired, and mounted on a pure-bred\nsteed of the desert, pranced to and fro, marshalling the band of\nworkmen, threatening, and indeed striking hard with his whip, such as\nfailed to obey his orders, either from weakness of body or inability to\ncomprehend them. The sun was not a palm's-breadth above the horizon ere\nmore than one pair of naked shoulders were already scored with blood.\nThe lash was even raised for an instant over Sarchedon's head, but\nsomething in the Assyrian's eye must have altered its direction; for it\ncurled round the massive neck and deep chest of Sadoc's elder son\ninstead, who accepted his stripes with a sullen patience, that denoted\nsome set purpose, some hope of vengeance at no distant date.\n\n\"Go to! ye are idle, ye are idle!\" was the unceasing reproach of the\npitiless Egyptian, while he hurried his gang forward at such a pace as\ndisordered even the light-armed bowmen who formed their guard.\n\nThese Sarchedon recognised, by their shields and head-pieces, for a\ncompany which had fled before a handful of his own comrades, at the\npassage of the Nile by the Great King.\n\nHow strangely the past came back to him!--the fierce excitement, the\nrestless variety, of war; the royal signet; the ride through the desert;\nIshtar's loving face; and the Great Queen's maddening smile. It seemed\nimpossible that he should be trudging on foot a peasant, a prisoner, a\nslave. O for an hour of Merodach!--a bowshot's start, with the horse's\nhead turned towards home! He would have time, he thought, for one blow\nat that painted task-master, and so, hurling him to the dust, swing\nfairly into the saddle, and away!\n\nHe was roused from his dreams by the back of his companion's hand\nsignificantly touching his own, while it passed a rope into his grasp;\nand at the same moment a monotonous chorus broke on his ear, to which,\nwhile an Egyptian beat time with his hands, each Israelitish labourer\nlent as much voice as his lungs could spare from the severity of his\ntoil.\n\nTheir day's work was to move a few cubits on its way the colossal image\nof Pharaoh, cut from a block of granite, destined to form at some future\nperiod the ornament of a tomb, grander, costlier, and more spacious than\nthe palace in which he reigned. Sarchedon, looking upward at the\nponderous image, with its long cunning eyes, its grave cruel face, its\nshapely limbs designed in the harmony of true proportion, could not but\nadmire the resources that had thus hewn a mountain into a statue, and\nbrought it inch by inch over many a weary furlong, to gratify the pride\nand enhance the glory of a king. Firm, erect, sedentary, its hands\nspread calmly on its knees, there was something in the very attitude of\nthe giant that suggested power unquestioned, irresponsible, without\npity, and without fear.\n\nLevers were employed at every step to raise the weighty mass\nsufficiently for the insertion of rollers, on which it proceeded\nwearily, slowly, painfully, yet surely propelled by the efforts of a\ncaptive nation, whose straining muscles quivered under the labour, whose\nblistered hands burned over the cable, whose spirits were broken by\nslavery, as their backs were torn with stripes, yet whose voices,\nkeeping time with their exertions, swelled a mournful cry in honour of\ntheir oppressor:\n\n    \"Work, my brother, rest is nigh--\n          Pharaoh lives for ever!\n    Beast and bird of earth and sky,\n    Things that creep and things that fly--\n    All must labour, all must die;\n          But Pharaoh lives for ever!\n\n    Work, my brother, while 'tis day--\n          Pharaoh lives for ever;\n    Rivers waste and wane away,\n    Marble crumbles down like clay,\n    Nations dwindle to decay;\n          But Pharaoh lives for ever!\n\n    Work--it is thy mortal doom--\n          Pharaoh lives for ever!\n    Shadows passing through the gloom,\n    Age to age gives place and room,\n    Kings go down into the tomb;\n          But Pharaoh lives for ever!\"\n\nThe task-master on his spirited little steed was here, there,\neverywhere; now giving out the words of the chant, to which, dropping\nhis bridle, he clapped his hands in time; now directing a broken lever\nto be replaced, the position of a roller altered, a hook secured, a rope\ngreased, or a fainting labourer revived by smart application of the\nlash. The sun was high, the heat suffocating; even Sarchedon, inured to\nthe toils of war, longed for any catastrophe, however dangerous, that\nmight release him from the insupportable hardships of his task.\n\nThe sand became softer, the men more fatigued, the ponderous image\nrocked, wavered, and stood still. In terror of the lash, a simultaneous\neffort was made, a cable snapped, and some score of Israelites were\nhurled panting to the earth.\n\nAmongst them fell the younger son of Sadoc, a weakly stripling, whose\nlabour Sarchedon, working between him and his brother, had endeavoured\nto spare by his own exertions. When the others scrambled to their feet,\nthis lad lay prostrate, too faint to rise.\n\nThe task-master arrived at the scene of disorder almost as quickly as\nthe casualty took place. His eye glared fiercely on the boy's slender\nshoulders, bare to the waist; his hand went up to strike; but even while\nthe lash whistled round his head, the Egyptian's wrist was clasped by an\niron grip, that shook him in the saddle where he sat. Sarchedon's eye\nlooked very fierce and resolute, his arms seemed powerful enough to have\ntorn the threatening horseman limb from limb.\n\nThe latter foamed with rage while he struggled to release himself from\nthe Assyrian's grasp. The Israelites gathered round, the guard of bowmen\nwere fairly shut out by the crowd, a thousand tongues clamoured, a\nthousand eyes glared vengeance, and the mocking colossus looked down on\nall that turmoil with its eternal inscrutable smile.\n\n\"By the Queen of Heaven, if you move a finger, or speak a syllable, I\nwill strangle you on the spot!\" said Sarchedon, in those low distinct\ntones men use when they mean to waste little more breath on words.\n\nThere was enough similitude in their languages for the Egyptian to\nunderstand his meaning; but had it not been so, he could scarce have\nmistaken the other's attitude and bearing. The oath too, and the man's\ndetermined face so close to his own, warned him that this was no\nIsraelitish slave, but one of those formidable enemies from the North,\nbefore whom he had seen the choicest of Pharaoh's bowmen turn and flee.\n\nWhat could it mean? What did this stranger in the land of Egypt,\nnaturalised, it would seem, amongst her slaves? This was no time to\ninquire while those slaves crowded round so wildly, as though eager for\nan outbreak, of which his life would too surely be the prey. Men learned\ndiscretion in the service of the Pharaoh's, and though he trembled and\nturned pale, he did not lose his presence of mind.\n\n\"Lift the youth from the ground,\" said he earnestly, \"and take care of\nhim if you be indeed his brother. Bring here water!\" he added, raising\nhis voice--\"wine, if you have it. Stand off from him, Israelites, and\ngive him air! Make way, there, for the bowmen to bring him help!\"\n\nThus craftily summoning the guards to his assistance, he extricated\nhimself from the perplexity of his position, and ordering the youth's\nbrother to take him home, excused from farther labour, resumed the\ndirection of affairs; but during the rest of the day blows fell less\nthickly among the Israelites, and the solemn senseless image made a\nshorter journey than usual towards its final resting-place.\n\nReturning at nightfall to his hut, Sadoc found it surrounded by a\ncompany of bowmen. The tale of bricks his family were required to\nprovide for the king's use had been increased one-tenth, and Sarchedon\nwas to be carried into the presence of Pharaoh without delay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nPHARAOH ON THE THRONE\n\n\nTo be carried into the presence of Pharaoh!--words of significant\nimport, suggesting speedy condemnation and summary punishment. With arms\nstrapped tight to his body, with feet bound together under his horse's\ngirth, guarded on either side by mounted bowmen, surrounded by scores of\ntheir comrades on horseback and on foot, Sarchedon rode slowly on\nthrough the night, and at dawn found himself before the portals of a\nflourishing town dedicated to the worship of Bubastis, as revealed in\nthe outward semblance of the cat.\n\nHere, in one of the noblest cities of his dominions, Pharaoh was\nadministering justice, according to custom. At sunrise the Egyptian king\nascended his judgment-seat to dispose without appeal of all cases laid\nat the royal feet. Therefore had Sarchedon been conducted hither,\nthrough the hours of darkness, to receive the award of his crime.\n\nAs they neared their destination, the adjacent country began to teem\nwith life. Cows and oxen, speckled, spotted, and ring-streaked, dragged\nthe plough through a lately-irrigated soil, the former doing their work\nfar more nimbly than their weightier brothers. Playful calves leaped and\nfrisked behind, marked, like their dams, with the brand of their\nrespective owners. Slender husbandmen, naked to the waist, followed in\npairs, scattering seed over that rich and generous surface. Scores of\nbirds from the banks of the neighbouring river followed their movements;\nwhile a steward or overseer in every field directed the toil of the\nlabourers, taking account of their expenditure and their stores. Peace\nand plenty seemed to reign throughout the land, and Sarchedon could not\nbut reflect he might be looking his last on a world of light, life,\nlabour, and prosperity.\n\nUnlike his own Assyrian cities, there were no bowmen on these walls, no\nguard in this capacious gate, through which all seemed free to pass at\nwill. Two gigantic sphinxes, indeed, couched half-a-bowshot apart, kept\nwatch in majestic gravity on either side. Two colossal idols, cat-headed\nand of compound form, half man, half monster, faced each other at the\nentrance; but within, a crowded market, swarming with peasants, glowed\nin gaudy luscious fragrance of fruit and flowers. A thousand tongues\nchattered, a thousand arms gesticulated; the ass munched its provender;\nthe sacred stork pushed its long beak at will into woven basket or\nwicker pannier. Merry faces and broad smiles gleamed in the morning sun.\nA burst of cymbals rose in the warm serene air, and Pharaoh went up to\nhis golden judgment-seat, the birthplace of those unanswerable decrees\nthat signified life and death.\n\nAs his guards hurried Sarchedon along the streets, much interest and\ncuriosity seemed excited by the personal appearance of the prisoner;\nwhile comments flew from lip to lip on his stature, his bearing, and the\nprobable punishment of his crime.\n\n\"Stately as a sycamore,\" said one, apparently a carpenter by trade, \"and\nhard as a tamarisk; he will bear impalement as seasoned wood stands\nsoaking, without a warp. If they keep water from him, my friends, we\nshall find him alive on the fourth day.\"\n\n\"Impalement!\" interrupted an old hag, grandmother to the first speaker;\n\"Pharaoh will never order such a goodly youth to the stake. No, no. Let\nhim be carefully disembowelled; give me a measure of myrrh, a pound or\ntwo of cassia, and a handful of spice--I wouldn't ask you for cinnamon,\noil of cedar, nor palm-wine--and if he look not as tall and comely a\nthousand years hence as at this moment, may I never touch salt or\nnatron, iron probe or linen swaddlers, again.\"\n\n\"Fie, mother!\" said a good-humoured peasant, emptying a basketful of\nonions and lentils at the feet of a purchaser. \"Pharaoh is merciful,\nthough he lives for ever. The youth may escape with the loss of his\nshapely nose, or at worst a thousand blows on the soles of his feet. By\nthe talons of our Cat, 'tis a goodly measure of manhood; 'twere pity to\nmake a mummy of it before its time. Why, what hath he done?\"\n\n\"Ay, what hath he done?\" echoed a score of voices, to be answered by a\nscore of extravagant surmises.\n\nHe had slain an Israelite! Bah! they would fine him a quarter of wheat,\nand let him go. He had murdered an Egyptian! It was a hanging matter;\nbut here at Bubastis their dams and banks were raised by working gangs\nof such criminals. He would escape with hard labour for life. Not much\nworse than their own peasant lot, after all. Better, forsooth, in so far\nthat such miscreants paid no taxes, and Pharaoh found them enough to\neat. No, it was a blacker business than this. He had insulted a priest;\nhe had blasphemed Athor; he had put his finger in his mouth to ridicule\nHorus; he had said openly that Osiris was a falsehood and Isis a harlot;\nhe smote Anubis in the muzzle, mocked with feline sounds the majesty of\nBubastis; outrage of outrages, spat on the sacred bull itself! He was a\nspy, a stranger disguised as an Israelite, a Philistine--nay, a child of\nSeth, with square ears--a worshipper of Abitur in the mountains, a\ndevil, and a son of devils! Away with him! down with him! slay him! tear\nhim limb from limb!\n\nThe wave gathered force as it advanced; the popular indignation swelled\ninto ferocity. Instead of merry good-morrows and happy laughter, the\nair was filled with yell and shriek and wild revengeful howl. Faces, but\nnow smiling in content, were distorted with brutal hate and cruel lust\nfor blood. The crowd surged and swayed through the market-place,\nleaping, bristling, closing in like wolves about their prey. Could they\nhave reached the Assyrian, he must have been torn to pieces ere he\nlifted a finger in self-defence. But for those whose trade is war there\nexists a professional instinct of brotherhood stronger than any\nprejudices of nationality, any credulity of fanaticism. The bowmen who\nguarded him recognised in Sarchedon one of their own calling, and made\ncommon cause with a warrior, even against their kindred and countrymen\nvociferating for his blood. With the unerring rapidity of discipline,\nthey formed round their charge in double rank, forcing their way at a\nsteady even tramp through the wavering crowd, and so opening a space on\nevery side, kept it clear by bending their formidable bows.\n\nAdvancing thus in a long avenue of colossal sphinxes brightened by the\nmorning sun, they arrived at the entrance of the royal palace. Here,\nwith an infuriated yell, the populace made a final rush; but were beaten\nback by the archers, at the cost of a few broken heads and bloody faces,\nthough, fortunately for the prisoner, without loss of life or injury to\nlimb.\n\nThe judgment-seat of Pharaoh--a throne of solid gold, elevated on\ntwenty-four steps of the same metal above the raised floor on which\naccusers and accused were stationed face to face--seemed to blaze in a\nflood of sunlight, that bathed it from the open sky above.\n\nThe palace, Sarchedon observed, was built, like those of his own\ncountry, round an unroofed court. It differed but little from the\ndwelling of an Assyrian king in architecture and general plan, but was\neven more profusely decorated, in a greater variety of sculptures,\nminutely designed, gaudily-coloured, and representing many of the lowest\nreptiles and animals with a fidelity not entirely pleasing to the eye.\n\nHere, besides the fox, the jackal, the porcupine, the lizard, the\nlocust, and the asp, were an infinity of compound monsters, the produce\nof a theology which persisted in embodying every attribute of its ideal\nunder a form, however grotesque, that should give tangible expression\nto its idolatry. Such were the winged goat, the serpent-headed lion, the\ngriffin with pinions spread and feathered crest striding over its\nmysterious triad of flowers, the bitch, dragging her homely chain,\nhanging her heavy teats, canine in all her properties but her sleek\nbird's head and delicate beak. Things that creep and things that fly,\nfrom the stork and the raven, the crocodile and the ichneumon, to the\nserpent, the beetle, and the bat, filled every interstice on the\nvariegated walls; while between the crowded figures closely-packed\nhieroglyphics recorded for initiated readers the history, the nature,\nand the occult signification of each. Deeds of arms too and field\nsports, from taking of towns and spearing of the river-horse to\nnumbering of captives and snaring of song-birds, were handed down to\nfuture ages in imperishable carving; while, at stately intervals, solemn\nand majestic, here in the palace of the Pharaohs, towered the statues of\nthose numerous gods in whom Egypt had ever trusted for succour at her\nneed.\n\nOsiris, the great benefactor and founder of their nation, the inventor\nof agriculture, mechanics, all arts necessary to life; who taught men\nhow to plough the earth and train the vine; who, in his contest with\nTyphon, the principle of evil, was cut asunder into six-and-twenty\npieces; and who, as every true Egyptian firmly believed, would return in\nhis original form at some future epoch to judge and regenerate mankind.\n\nHad not Isis yonder, his wife and sister, collected the fragments of his\ndismembered body to put together and embalm the whole ere, summoning the\nhigh-priest from each of all her temples, she confided to him, and him\nalone, as she caused him to think, the sacred deposit, so that each\ncarried away what he believed to be the body of his god, under solemn\noath that he would never divulge to living man the place of its\nsepulture, persuaded that his own temple was the revered and sacred\nspot? This mighty deity of the future and the past here revealed himself\nfor his worshippers to adore in the massive statue of a bull!\n\nIsis, too, with her ten thousand names, sat in a place of honour over\nagainst her lord; and near her Horus, their son, with finger on his lip,\nemblem of princely modesty and discretion, supported by his\nhalf-brother, Anubis, the wise and faithful, with human form and a dog's\nsagacious head. Multiplied too in many a niche and along many a lofty\ncorridor, stood erect and threatening the figure of that deity to whom\nthe city was especially sacred, worshipped under the semblance of a cat.\nAvenues of cat-headed monsters kept watch in hall and passage; while\npresiding, as it were, in the very entrance of the court, stood a\ngigantic image of granite, wearing the short ears of the sacred animal,\nits sleek round head, and cruel feline smile.\n\nImmediately behind this dazzling throne, constituting it indeed the very\ntribunal of the Pharaohs, watching, as men believed, over sentence and\nacquittal, accuser and accused, might be seen the statue of a female\nfigure, with blinded eyes, serene impassive face, and wings spread out\nin front, as though grasping and embracing all within their sweep. This\nwas Thmei, emblematic goddess of truth and justice, whose essential\nattributes were thus typified in her outward form: the blinded eyes\nsignifying her impartiality, the calm visage her indifference to\nconsequences, the wings instead of hands her incorruptible nature,\ninaccessible to the bribes it was impossible for her to accept.\n\nStanding between his guards, still pinioned and secured, Sarchedon's eye\ntook in all these details of Pharaoh's sumptuous palace ere the glare of\nburnished gold permitted him to observe the judgment-seat and its\noccupant. After a time, however, he was able to distinguish the person\nof a pale slender sallow man, showing like the wick of a lighted candle\nthrough a blaze of shining raiment, dazzling jewels, and royal Egyptian\nstate. Pharaoh's attitude was one of extreme exhaustion and fatigue; his\nface looked very sad and weary, but in its long narrow eyes, low brow,\nand prominent chin there lurked a strange resemblance to the pitiless\nfeatures of that colossal figure which was destined hereafter to keep\nwatch over his tomb.\n\nA case had just been disposed of, trifling, indeed, in its details, and\nscarcely worth the intervention of a monarch; but it was the custom of\nEgypt, that wherever Pharaoh held his court, he should administer\njustice in person, from the pilfering of a handful of lentils to\ndesecration of an idol, blasphemy against a god, or resistance to the\nauthority of the king. A dozen strokes of the bastinado had been\nawarded for the first offence. Sarchedon, accused of the last, was\nbrought forward by the archers, and placed at the lowest step of the\nthrone.\n\n\"Unbind him,\" said Pharaoh, looking round on his men of war with\nsomething of scorn. Then, in the prisoner's own dialect, he addressed\nhim shortly and sternly: \"You are an Assyrian. What do you here?\"\n\nThe tone was of one who had never known opposition, and the keen dark\neye wandered over Sarchedon from head to foot with something of the\ncat's expression, pausing carelessly before she makes up her mind to\npounce.\n\n\"My life is in the hand of Pharaoh,\" answered the prisoner. \"I will not\ndeny my nation nor my name.\"\n\n\"What brought you into Egypt?\" continued the king, still in the same\nscornful indifferent accents. \"Have you any knowledge of my country and\nits customs?\"\n\n\"I came here first as a conqueror,\" answered the haughty Assyrian. \"It\nwas not for _us_ to learn the manners and customs of the Egyptians, but\nto impose on them our own.\"\n\nThe guards, who understood him passably well, exchanged looks of\nconsternation at this imprudent reply; but something like a smile\ncrossed Pharaoh's face, and sinking back into the throne, he observed\ncarelessly,\n\n\"Let his accusation be read out.\"\n\nIt was the law of Egypt that, even in the presence of the supreme\nauthority, all judicial proceedings should be reduced to a written\nstatement, comprising the charge, the evidence on both sides, and the\ndefence. It was believed that thus only could be avoided the bias of\nskilful oratory and impassioned eloquence, where an offender was\npleading for his life.\n\nA priest--distinguished by gravity of demeanour and wisdom of aspect no\nless than by the purity of his linen garments and the reverence he\nseemed to command from the bystanders--now read from a roll of papyrus\nthe terms of the accusation with which the prisoner stood charged. It\nset forth in simple language that \"he this Assyrian stranger, having\ncome surreptitiously into the land of Egypt, had there consorted, of his\nown free will, with their slaves the Israelites, tampering with their\npatriarchs, and inciting that stiff-necked people to revolt; that he\nhad even headed the outbreak of a gang during a temporary respite from\ntheir labours--an indulgence, it added, which ought never to have been\npermitted by the task-master; had hurled that functionary from the\nsaddle, and well-nigh slain him while bleeding and helpless on the\nground; that such an enormity was in itself an insult to the majesty of\nthe king, an outrage on the Egyptian nation, and a crime only to be\nexpiated by death. He laid his charge at the feet of Pharaoh, who, like\nThmei, was the embodiment of truth, justice, and wisdom, and would live\nin power and glory for ever.\"\n\nFrom out the blaze of splendour flaming round the throne came again that\ncalm and scornful voice, wearily enunciating the usual formula,\n\n\"Produce your witnesses.\"\n\nTwo or three archers belonging to the force that had guarded the working\ngang of Israelites here stepped forward, and with them, to the\nprisoner's consternation, the younger son of Sadoc--that fragile boy, in\nwhose defence he had brought down the wrath of Egypt on his own head.\n\nThe poor youth had been on horseback since nightfall. Unaccustomed, like\nhis nation in general, to the exercise of riding, he was a pitiable\nobject of soreness, fatigue, perplexity, and alarm. The archers gave\ntheir evidence clearly enough. It amounted to little more than the bare\nfacts of the case. Then they dragged the young Israelite into the\nterrible presence of Pharaoh, pale and faint with mortal fear.\n\n\"What needs all this weight of testimony?\" exclaimed the prisoner in a\nloud bold voice. \"It is but heaping weariness and vexation on the head\nof my lord the king. I deny that I have urged a nation to rebel against\nits rulers. I admit that I opposed by force the violence that would have\nscourged a helpless child lying in the dust. If this be deadly crime by\nthe laws of Egypt, would that we had given you a milder code when the\nchildren of Ashur came of late to seek you with bow and spear. I have\nspoken. My life is in Pharaoh's hands. Let him take it how and when he\nwill.\"\n\nThe king looked round on his captains and counsellors with a passing\ngleam of animation in his eyes.\n\n\"This is a bold fellow,\" said he. \"Which of you would dare speak thus,\nwhile looking death in the face so close?\"\n\nNobody answered; but a murmur went round the circle, to the effect that\n\"Pharaoh lived for ever!\"\n\nThe king turned to a venerable man who, with the exception of that\nindispensable official the fan-bearer, stood nearest the throne, and\nasked him,\n\n\"Have these sons of shepherds been numbered according to the royal\ndecree?\"\n\n\"The king hath spoken,\" was the subservient reply, while with a low\nobeisance a roll of papyrus was laid at the royal feet.\n\nThe fan-bearer handed it to his lord, who scanned it with an angry\nfrown. \"So many!\" muttered Pharaoh; \"and so poor a tale of work!\nIncreasing, multiplying, swarming over the land, while they lay it waste\nlike locusts! Sleeping more than they labour, devouring more than they\nproduce, hoarding substance, no doubt, and having children at their\ndesire. Is Pharaoh's arm shortened, or has my hand waxed faint? I must\ntake order with this scum of nations, lest at last they outnumber us,\nspreading through the land to eat it away like a sore. I have reached to\nthem the sceptre of my protection; it is time they should feel the edge\nof my wrath!\"\n\nRound the king's neck hung a small image in gold of Thmei, goddess of\nTruth, corresponding in every respect with the statue that towered above\nhis throne. A similar ornament glittered on the breast of the old man\nwhom he addressed, denoting the regent of his kingdom, a magnate second\nonly in power to Pharaoh himself. When such an official possessed the\nwisdom and courage to oppose the royal decree, for the king's own\nwelfare and that of his people, his granaries were full, his subjects\nprospered, and, to use their own expression, \"the land sung for joy.\"\nToo often, however, he was only the echo of his lord.\n\n\"The breath of Pharaoh's nostrils shall consume them,\" was his answer to\nthe king's outbreak, \"even as the wind sweepeth a plague of locusts into\nthe sea.\"\n\nAgain the evil smile passed across that weary sallow face. Sensual,\nselfish, and indolent as was the great ruler of the South, he had yet\nthe political wisdom that foresees a crisis, the subtlety that prevents\nit, and the resolution that opposes it when it comes. His smile, while\nit boded no good to the children of Israel, indicated at the same time\nthat he considered his regent an imbecile old man. The facts of the case\nnow laid before him had been detailed to his private ear long before he\nascended the judgment-seat, and had been discussed with one of his\nconfidential advisers; a magician of no mean repute, whose keen\nintellect and scientific knowledge influenced his lord no less than did\nthe startling resources of his art.\n\nThis trusted counsellor had pointed out to Pharaoh the impolicy of\npermitting one of the Assyrian nation to remain amongst a\npeople--situated in their very midst--whose increasing prosperity\ntyranny and oppression seemed powerless to keep down; and the king\nrecognised in the bold out-spoken prisoner now before him such a leader\nas the Israelites might be glad to obey, should they determine on a\ngeneral rising to cast off the Egyptian yoke. True, they had neither\narms nor horses nor war-chariots of iron; but they were formidable\nnevertheless in their numbers, their organisation, and their dogged\npersistence in some strange inscrutable belief. Pharaoh resolved to find\nout more of this stranger from the enemy's country ere he let him slip\nthrough his grasp either by acquittal or condemnation to death.\n\nAssuming, therefore, an air of rigid impartiality, the king turned to\nthe Israelitish lad, whose terror caused him, as it were, to wither and\nshrink under the royal eye.\n\n\"You have resisted authority,\" said Pharaoh, \"and created a tumult; but\nyou are young, and the king is merciful. Take him back to his\ndwelling-place,\" he added sternly to the archers; \"scourge him, and let\nhim go.\"\n\nThen, while the lad, more dead than alive--dreading, perhaps, his weary\nride homeward fully as much as the subsequent punishment--was led away\nbetween two bowmen, the king once more addressed himself to Sarchedon,\n\n\"Assyrian,\" said he, \"your crime, according to our law, must be punished\nby impalement. Nevertheless, while I inquire farther into your case, I\ngrant you a few days' respite before you die. Remove him, and put him in\nsafe ward. Pharaoh has spoken.\"\n\nThe deep response, \"Pharaoh lives for ever!\" rose from every quarter of\nthe court, and Sarchedon was hurried out of the royal presence, even as\na ragged old peasant hobbled into it to demand justice on his neighbour,\nwho had robbed him of a string of onions and a half-emptied gourd.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTHE CAPTIVE IN THE DUNGEON\n\n\nA certain rough sympathy for his impending fate seemed elicited from his\nguards, as they forced Sarchedon through the palace, down a dark\npassage, bricked and vaulted, that led to some remote place of security,\nunvisited by the light of day.\n\n\"You should have held your peace, man,\" said one, easing a little the\nbelt that bound the prisoner's arms. \"To bandy words with Pharaoh is to\nthrow scalding broth in the air, and stand under where it falls. Had you\nfeigned to be stricken dumb with fear, now, not daring to raise your\neyes in the face of my lord the king, you might have escaped with the\nloss of your nose and tenscore stripes on the soles of your feet. But\nthat long tongue of yours has made it a hanging matter, believe me, no\nless, if not impalement, which is worse.\"\n\n\"Tush, brother!\" interrupted his comrade, a comely archer, not\nunconscious of his sleek dark locks, marked brows, and other personal\nadvantages; \"a man can die but once. Better be stuffed and swathed\ndecently in a large cool resting-place, with plenty of room and shade,\nthan limp about in the heat a hideous object, crippled and disfigured\nfor life.\"\n\n\"A man can die but once,\" repeated Sarchedon stoutly, repressing the\nshudder that, in this dark downward passage, chilled him to the bone. \"I\nhad hoped, however, to fall honourably from my war-chariot in the\nfore-front of battle, rather than hang by the heels like a trapped\njackal, to rot and blacken, till my bones are stripped by the birds of\nprey.\"\n\n\"What matter?\" observed the first speaker, accepting with resignation\nthe misfortunes of another. \"Men come to the same resting-place, travel\nthe road how they will. Even the Great Sphinxes and the three royal\ntombs must crumble down at last. It is only Pharaoh who lives for ever.\"\n\nThus speaking, he thrust a bunch of onions and a lump of barley-bread\ninto Sarchedon's hands, unbinding them at the same moment while\ndexterously pushing him through a door, which he shut and bolted on the\noutside, leaving his own homely meal with the prisoner, whom he thus\nconsigned to solitude and gloom.\n\nThe Assyrian listened to the retiring footsteps of his escort as a man\nhanging over an abyss marks the last strands parting of a rope that\nlinks him to life and light of day. When they faded into silence, he\nseemed to taste already the bitterness of death. Unlike the Egyptian,\nhowever, that fatalism which sinks without effort to despair was no part\nof the Assyrian's character, and he soon roused himself to examine the\nstrength and quality of his prison-house.\n\nIt was a cell of liberal dimensions, sunk deep into the earth, bricked\nthroughout and with vaulted roof, admitting a feeble glimmer from one\nnarrow loophole, which communicated with the passage he had left. The\nmore minutely he studied it, the more convinced was he that his dungeon\nafforded no chance of escape.\n\nHe felt the walls on each side, not leaving a single brick untouched; he\nsearched the flooring carefully for some inequality that might give hope\nof a subterranean passage or concealed egress; but in vain. The work\nseemed even and level, smooth as granite, and no more to be tampered\nwith than the pitiless rock itself.\n\nWearied at length with his exertions, his ride through the night, and\nthe events of the morning, he made up his mind to die, and in the\nmeantime munched his barley-bread and onions ere he laid him down to\nsleep.\n\nIt seemed that he had scarcely rested an hour before the door of his\ncell was opened, to be shut again ere he could spring to his feet. Food\nand wine, however, of the best quality had been left for his\nrefreshment, and to these he did justice, notwithstanding the\nexigencies of his situation and the prospect of a painful death.\n\nSo the time dragged wearily on, the faint streak of light that stole\ninto his dungeon affording the prisoner no means of calculating the days\nas they passed by. His meals, though served regularly, were brought by a\nshrouded figure that vanished, phantom-like, before he could accost it.\nNo sound from upper earth penetrated these gloomy regions. It seemed to\nSarchedon that he was forgotten of men, and, as he somewhat bitterly\nreflected, deserted by the gods.\n\nCould Baal not see him here, sunk surely but a fathom deep below the\nsurface--Baal, in whose service he had so often drawn bow and brandished\nspear? Nor Ashtaroth, lovely Queen of Light, to whom, young, comely,\ngallant, he had tendered an adoration not unmixed with something of\npoetry and romance? Nor any of the Great Thirteen, wheeling aloft in\ntheir golden cars? Nor one amongst the countless host of heaven? Was\nthis the reward they vouchsafed their worshipper? and would that other\nGod, of whom Sadoc spoke, have left him thus to die? He summoned all his\nmanhood, and it failed him; he drew on his courage, and found it but a\ndogged form of despair. He felt the want of something to lean on,\nsomething to trust in, something to help him from without, like a blind\nman seeking a friendly grasp to guide his steps. He wished he had\nquestioned the Israelite more minutely as to that mysterious creed of\nhis, which taught men they could never be alone nor friendless; that\npresent with them always, but nearest at their greatest need, was a\npower unseen, unheard, tender, compassionate, yet irresistible and\nsuperior to Fate.\n\nAlas, it was too late now! He turned to the wall, with something of\nhopeless apathy, and fell to thinking of Ishtar, fingering the while\nthat amulet round his neck which had clung to him through all his\ntroubles, and in which he put some vague superstitious trust.\n\nHe felt persuaded it was mysteriously interwoven with his destiny; and\nif this charm too had played him false, like all else, it must be time\nto die, since he was indeed ruined and undone.\n\nThus pondering, he started fiercely to his feet; for in an instant the\nwhole cell seemed ablaze with light, not on fire, but glowing in a mild\nyellow lustre, which faded back to gloom ere his dazzled eyes could\ndistinguish more than the outline of a shrouded figure standing in the\nmidst. Some wild hope shot through his heart that it might be the\nphantom of his love come to bid him farewell; but a moment later he\nremembered his sentence, and prepared to confront a messenger from\nPharaoh, sent doubtless for the purpose of leading him forth to die.\n\n\"I am ready,\" said the prisoner sternly. \"I might strangle you where you\nstand, before you could summon help; but what would that avail me? You\nare but doing your duty. Lead on. 'Tis almost worth a life to see\ndaylight once more.\"\n\n\"Life is dear,\" was the answer, \"to the reptile in the mud, no less than\nto the eagle in the sky. It should be doubly dear to a man of war, who\nis the bulwark of a host and the favourite of a prince.\"\n\nSarchedon started, and looked piercingly at the speaker, whose voice,\ncalm, low, and grave, seemed not entirely strange to his ear; but the\ncell had again become so dark, he could make out no more than a cloaked\nform and closely muffled face.\n\n\"What mean you?\" said he. \"Did Pharaoh send you here to jest with me\nbefore I die?\"\n\n\"I am indeed sent by Pharaoh,\" was the answer; \"Pharaoh, who, through my\nlore, can read events passing at Nineveh, at Babylon, at Thebes and\nMemphis, clearly as here in the City of the Cat. Have you never heard,\nmy son, of the magic of the Egyptians?\"\n\n\"I have _heard_ of it,\" replied the out-spoken warrior. \"But my\nexperience of your people is at bowshot distance, and more than once at\npoint of spear. They are skilful marksmen, I tell you fairly, and sturdy\nmen of war enough with push of steel. They needed but little magic to\nhelp them when it came to downright blows. Yet we drove them before us,\nwe sons of Ashur, as the lion drives the wild ass across the plain.\"\n\n\"The wild ass may yet spurn the lion with her hoof,\" answered the other.\n\"But what are sword and spear and human might to those forces we can\nsummon from the world of spirits at our will? Would you not tremble, my\nson, to behold Typhon or Abitur of the mountains standing here on the\nfloor between you and me?\"\n\n\"Seeing is believing,\" was the reply of the stout-hearted Assyrian.\n\n\"I will not test your courage so far,\" said his visitor; \"the more that\nI know it true as the steel you ought to wear on your thigh even now.\nNor would I dare to summon such powerful aid as those I have named\nexcept at utmost need, or by the desire of Pharaoh himself.\nNevertheless, I will show you here on the spot such manifestations of my\npower as will put to shame all the lore acquired from your lofty towers\nor your wide Northern plains. Which of your star-readers will bid this\ndry rod blossom like the almond-tree, or cause a fresh lotus to spring\nup in flower from the arid soil of that cemented brickwork beneath our\nfeet?\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the same glow as before, though somewhat milder in\nlustre, shone through the cell, revealing to the astonished prisoner a\nslender figure draped up to the keen black eyes, that never seemed to\nleave his own. The magician, if such he were, looked imposing neither in\ngravity of age nor majesty of stature; yet Sarchedon felt a strange\nconsciousness that he was in the presence of one superior to himself.\n\nHe watched with eager curiosity every motion of his visitor.\n\nThe latter brought out from beneath his robe a lamp of transparent\nglass, traced with mystic characters in waving lines of gold, and which\nshed the radiance that had so startled the Assyrian. Over the lamp he\nbrandished a rod some two cubits long, apparently of polished ebony; and\nimmediately a cloud of aromatic vapour filled the cell, hiding him for a\nspace from the prisoner's sight. When it cleared away, he reached to\nSarchedon the branch of an almond-tree, equal in length to the rod he\nhad carried in his hand, green, full of sap, and fragrant in a rich\ngrowth of blossoms bursting into flower.\n\n\"The warrior can take life,\" said he gravely, \"and the king can level\nfenced cities with the plain. Is not he greater than king and warrior\nwho can call into existence that which these have only power to\ndestroy?\"\n\nSarchedon gazed on him in mute astonishment and awe. That the magician\nshould have thus appeared in a dungeon of which the walls denoted no\npossibility for secret entrance was of itself surprising enough; but to\ninhale its fragrance, and behold in luxuriant blossom that which his own\neyes had told him was but now a dry rod of ebony, could only be\naccounted for by supernatural influences; and he became a firm believer\nin magic forthwith. He made a last stand, however, for his incredulity,\nexclaiming almost unconsciously,\n\n\"You must have brought it beneath your cloak.\"\n\nThere was something of the kindly patience with which one instructs a\nchild in the other's tone, while he replied,\n\n\"Seeing is indeed believing, as you even now averred. See, then, my son,\nand believe!\"\n\nWith that, he cast his mantle from his shoulders, and stood forth erect,\nletting its folds wind about his feet, and showing in the pure white\nrobe that enveloped his person like a pillar of alabaster on a black\npedestal. His features were still shrouded; but his eyes gleamed with a\nmocking fire.\n\nOnce more, while he passed his hand over the lamp, a cloud obscured the\ndungeon as before, but for a somewhat longer space. When it cleared\naway, he lifted his dark cloak from the floor, and there at the\nprisoner's very feet, springing, as it seemed, from the hard brickwork,\nbloomed a fresh lotus, the flower that every son of Ashur deemed\nspecially sacred to his country and his gods.\n\nSarchedon was a brave man in battle; braver, indeed, than the average of\nhis countrymen, whose courage, perhaps, was their noblest quality. Had a\nscore of Pharaoh's archers been bending bows all round him, he would\nhave died like a lion in their midst, without a sign of weakness or\nfear; but it was no part of his creed to set at defiance the powers of\nanother world, and he fell prostrate before his visitor in abject\nhumility, covering his face with his hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nTHE WISDOM OF THE EGYPTIANS\n\n\nThe magician raised him kindly, tempered to a pale mild light the lamp\nhe had set down, and wrapping his cloak around him as before, fixed his\neyes on the prisoner with that calm scrutinising gaze which had\ndominated the fiery spirit of the warrior from the first.\n\n\"Have no fear,\" said he. \"I came not hither through the solid earth that\nI might destroy you, or I had created but now the greedy monster of the\nriver, the deadly serpent of the brake, rather than a fruitful branch\nfrom our Egyptian orchards and the sacred flower of your own Assyrian\nplains. Is it enough? or shall I show you here in this deep dark cell\ngreater and more terrible examples of my power?\"\n\n\"No more, my lord!\" answered the Assyrian, who felt his courage, though\nbeginning to reassert itself, unequal to farther trials of a like\nnature. \"No more, I entreat you; for although I fear not mortal enemies,\nI have no wish to meet the sons of Seth in all the terrors they bring\nwith them from the South; nor has Baal befriended me so stoutly, that I\nwould trust to his assistance in an encounter with Abitur face to face.\"\n\n\"Blaspheme not Baal!\" was the sarcastic reply. \"Think you that he can\nsee down into the earth from his seat up yonder amongst the stars, or\nthat he would deign to aid you if he could? Has he not votaries by tens\nof thousands in great Babylon, who offer him daily their goods, their\nblood, their lives? Has he ever descended to his temple for one of them,\nor made the least sign that he could taste the savour of their\nsacrifices, could hear their prayers, take note of their outcries and\ntheir wounds? Will Ashtaroth give you light in your dungeon, Nebo come\nto release you from captivity, Dagon bring you to eat and drink, or\nShamash himself show pity while you are writhing under his very eyes on\nthe stake? These are your gods, O Assyrian! And you can venture to\ncompare them with ours--with Thmei, of eternal truth and justice; with\nOsiris, benefactor and regenerator of earth and heaven: with wise\nAnubis, and subtle Thoth, and Isis, fertile, lavish, glorious in her ten\nthousand names!\"\n\n\"There are gods enough in both countries,\" answered Sarchedon; \"and I\nhave heard the Great King swear by them all, that it was strange out of\nso large a host he had never set eyes on a straggler yet. But I have not\nheard of Assyrian priest, I tell you frankly, who can claim such\ndominion over the powers of nature as you showed me even now.\"\n\n\"And you think a man had better force Abitur to do his bidding than\nimplore succour from Baal in vain?\" said the other, with a sneer.\n\n\"Why not?\" was the reply. \"I carried a spear already in his royal guard\nwhen Semiramis persuaded the Great King to rear an altar for the worship\nof Abitur in the mountains beyond old Nineveh. It crossed him sore; for\nhe never endured such ceremonies with patience, complaining that he\ncould feed a score of companies with fewer bullocks than were slain to\nsatisfy one single god. But the queen's eyes have power in them to draw\nmen whither she will, and Ninus would do her bidding readily as the\nhumblest archer in the host. So we marched up into the mountains at\nmidnight, every man with bow and spear, axe and mattock. Plane, cedar,\nand broad-leafed oak fell by scores under so many willing arms, while\nthe stoutest spearmen raised a lofty altar, and dug deep trenches, to\ncarry off the blood, bringing in bullocks and sheep for slaughter, that\nwe had driven up with no small trouble from the plains. Ere long we\nbuilt up such a fire that the watchmen on the walls of Nineveh\nproclaimed the mountain was ablaze; and when the burnt offerings were\nmade ready, there rose such a smoke that the gods could have seen but\nlittle of what we, their servants, were about beneath it. Perhaps it was\ntoo thick even for him to penetrate, whom we went there to honour. I\nknow the Great King's wrath was kindled; for he caught up spear and\nshield, bidding the demon come out if he dared, and speak with him face\nto face.\"\n\n\"Did Abitur make no sign?\" asked the other, with the same covert mockery\nin his tone.\n\n\"There were shrieks heard in the mountain more than once before dawn,\"\nanswered Sarchedon; \"but they seemed too shrill and faint for the voice\nof man or demon. Some of the queen's women, who went up with her,\naffirmed they were cries of lamentation from those daughters of earth\nscorched in the olden time by the embraces of the stars, wailing that\nthey could not die till they had touched their spirit-lovers once again.\nAnd the queen inclined to think so too.\"\n\n\"But you--what did _you_ think?\" inquired the Egyptian, not repressing a\nsmile.\n\n\"I was of the guard,\" replied the Assyrian simply; \"and I thought with\nthe Great King that the women in the mountain were fairer and fresher\nthan in the plain; also that our spearmen were ever somewhat hasty and\neager with those who would be wooed, before they were won. But we\nmarched down again to Nineveh at sunrise, and for my part, I saw no more\nof Abitur than I had seen of Baal.\"\n\nThe other pondered, as if he scarcely listened. Presently he looked up,\nand asked,\n\n\"This queen of yours--is she, then, so beautiful?\"\n\nIt was a topic on which Sarchedon could be eloquent, even in a dungeon.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" he repeated. \"In Assyria all our women are beautiful; but\nby the side of the Great Queen the fairest of them show like pearls\nagainst a diamond. You have seen morning rising, serene and radiant out\nof the east--the brow of Semiramis is purer, calmer, fresher than the\ndawn. When she turns her eyes on you, it is like the golden lustre of\nnoon day; and her smile is brighter and more glorious than sunset in the\ndesert--sweeter, softer, lovelier than the evening breeze amongst the\npalms. To look on her face unveiled is to be the Great Queen's slave for\never more.\"\n\n\"You have looked on it more than once it seems, and to some purpose,\"\nwas the answer.\n\n\"I have seen her in silk and steel,\" replied Sarchedon, \"robe and\ndiadem, helmet and war-harness. Deck her how you will, she rivals\nAshtaroth, Queen of Heaven, herself. There is not her equal on earth.\n'Tis thought, indeed, that she is more than mortal, and will never taste\nof death.\"\n\n\"Like Pharaoh,\" said the other, laughing outright. \"Nevertheless, if she\nhave many guards stout and devoted as yourself, there can be small risk\nfor that fair body of hers from outward foe. Yet I have heard she mounts\na war-chariot and bends a bow with the bravest warriors in your host.\"\n\n\"I was in Bactria,\" answered Sarchedon, \"when the Great Queen surprised\nten thousand spearmen of the enemy with the royal guard alone, and a\nhandful of horsemen she had begged of Ninus to bring in corn from the\nplains the night before. She drove her war-chariot through the thickest\nof the press, ere we could close in on it, and when we came up with her,\nshe had but one arrow left in the quiver, while around her lay a circle\nof slain. Her cheek seemed a little flushed, but the smile was on her\nlip, and her eyes shone softer, lovelier, kinder than ever. The Great\nKing swore that of all the captains in his host, she was the wariest and\nboldest, but he forbade her sternly such ventures of battle for the\nfuture. 'How shall I tarry, when my lord is in front?' was her answer,\ngentle and low as I am speaking to you now. He would have taken her in\nhis arms then and there, before the assembled host. Perhaps he did; but\nshe had scarcely spoken, when the trumpets rang out an alarm that the\nBactrians were upon us, and I was down with an arrow through my ribs,\nalmost ere you could have bent a bow. But for Sargon, the royal\nshield-bearer, who dragged me from under a broken chariot and a dead\nhorse, I had never lifted spear again. The next time I saw the queen she\nwas riding single-handed against a lion, that had slain two of her dogs,\nand put her people to flight.\"\n\n\"Single-handed!\" exclaimed the Egyptian, \"and against a lion! But you\nmade in to help without delay?\"\n\n\"You know not our laws of the land of Shinar,\" replied Sarchedon. \"He\nwho draws bow at the royal quarry loses his right hand; he who takes a\nprey before the prince forfeits his life. I had been safer lying naked\nunder the beast's very jaws than riding in unbidden between the lion and\nthe Great Queen. Yet would I have ventured too, for the sake of her\nmatchless face, but that while I stood watching, she brought her horse\nwithin a spear length of the mighty brute, and drove an arrow right\nthrough his heart from shoulder to shoulder. I turned rein then; for I\nknew Semiramis would like well to stand alone over the dead carcase, and\njeer at her attendants as they came up.\"\n\n\"Brave, wise, politic,\" observed the Egyptian, \"and yet no doubt a very\nwoman to the core. What think you now? Would she rule prudently over the\nland of Shinar, if the Great King were gathered to his fathers amongst\nthe stars?\"\n\n\"No woman may reign over the sons of Ashur,\" was the answer. \"We only\nowe allegiance to a king. It is our privilege and our law.\"\n\n\"But hath she no favourites, this bold and beautiful archer?\" pursued\nthe other, turning his lamp so as to mark every line and shade of the\nprisoner's countenance. \"None that share her sports and influence her\ncounsels? The Great King waxes old; does the queen look kindly on _none_\nof all the fair and noble warriors about the palace or in the host?\"\n\nNot a quiver of his eyelid would have escaped the Egyptian's notice, but\nSarchedon's brow was open and unconcerned, as his tone was loyal, while\nhe replied,\n\n\"I am a prisoner, alone here in a dungeon; you are--what are you? A\npriest, an enchanter, a magician, backed, for all I can tell, by a\ncompany of Pharaoh's archers and a host of spirits from the Southern\nmountains. But were you and I standing two naked men in the\nmarket-place, that question had been answered with a buffet; were we in\nharness on the plain, it were well worth push of spear and clash of\nsteel.\"\n\nThe Egyptian laughed once more--heartily this time, and without\ndisguise.\n\n\"I am your friend,\" said he, \"and you will not believe it. A powerful\nfriend, too, as I have shown you, and one who, while able to crush you\nas a man crushes a locust beneath his hand, would yet lend you all the\nresources of his art for your solace here and your deliverance from\ncaptivity hereafter.\"\n\n\"You cannot set me free!\" exclaimed Sarchedon, a delightful hope\nbreaking in to cheer him like the dawn of day.\n\n\"I can foretell the future,\" answered the magician, \"clearly, certainly,\nas you can relate the past. Behold this lamp: see, I darken it to a\nfaint pale gleam. Look on it, and tell me what it shows.\"\n\nIn vain Sarchedon strained his eyes.\n\n\"A line of waving gold within the crystal,\" said he; \"no more.\"\n\n\"Such is the blindness of him whose sight has not been sharpened by\nlearning,\" replied the magician. \"You are as the rower labouring at the\noar, who can but see the ripple he leaves behind, and the banks on the\nriver-side that he has passed. I am the steersman who scans the coming\nrapids, the rocks in mid-stream, the calm and comely reach of smooth\nwater that sleeps beyond. I look into the crystal, and I behold a youth\nstretching his arms in freedom, rubbing, with unfettered hands, his eyes\ndazzled by the light of day. I follow him into the presence of Pharaoh.\nI behold him on the king's right hand, clad in a dress of honour,\ndrinking costly wine of the South from a cup of gold. He mounts a goodly\nsteed, he talks joyfully with one of dress and bearing like his own, a\ntroop of the sons of Ashur close round him, he rides away into the\ndesert, and I see him no more. That youth bears a strange resemblance to\nhim who stands before me now, with clasped hands and wondering eyes, a\ncaptive in the strongest dungeon ever built at the command of Pharaoh by\na nation of slaves.\"\n\nSarchedon again prostrated himself at his visitor's feet.\n\n\"If you tell me true,\" he exclaimed, \"I am the faithful servant of my\nlord for ever more.\"\n\n\"You will remember me when you are in Babylon,\" returned the other. \"You\nwill recall the wisdom and power of the Egyptians. You will tell your\ncountrymen the wonders that I, the least and lowest amongst their wise\nand great, have shown you without an effort, and you will not forget\nthat I have been your friend, even in your extreme need. Farewell! He\nwho sent me summons me back to his presence, and we shall not meet\nagain!\"\n\nEven while he spoke, a thick cloud of aromatic vapour filled the dungeon\nas before; when it cleared away the visitor was gone, and Sarchedon,\nlooking blankly about him, began to think he had been the sport of his\nown fancy, beguiled by the illusions of a dream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nDELIVERANCE\n\n\nHad his bodily powers been weakened by starvation, his mind, enfeebled\nin proportion, might, he thought, have played him false. But no; food\nand wine had been supplied with constant regularity; and testing his\nfaculties in every way he could think of, he found them equal to any\neffort of observation or reflection he desired to make. Once more he\ntried the walls of his dungeon, and failed to discover the slightest\nsymptoms of an opening through which the visitor could have passed. This\nseemed less surprising, as the blossoming of the ebony rod and sudden\ngrowth of the lotus in flower denoted supernatural powers, which might\nwell penetrate a cubit of brickwork and a fathom or two of solid earth.\nThese wonders he accepted without question as worked by the spells of\nthat magic lore which could compel the gods themselves to do its\nbidding; nor did he see reason to doubt, in his simple credulity, those\nglimpses of the future which, though sealed to his own eyes, seemed\nclear as day to his companion.\n\nAnd that companion--who and what could he be? Sarchedon, whose ideas of\na magician were of the vaguest, had yet some indistinct persuasion that\nsuch a professor must be old and stately, with long gray beard and\nthoughtful wrinkled brow. His late visitor, however, could scarcely yet\nhave reached middle life, and on his countenance, so far as he had\nobserved it, was stamped the wary vigilance, the keen foresight, of the\nman of action, rather than the serene and saddened wisdom that denotes\nthe man of thought. Those eyes, too, haunted him strangely. Where had he\nseen the piercing gaze, half pitiful, half mocking, that seemed to\nmaster a man's inmost feelings, and scorn them while it read? He grew\nvery restless and uneasy now. He paced to and fro in his dungeon,\nclenching his hands, grinding his teeth, longing with wild feverish\ndesire to breathe the desert air, and strike a blow for liberty in the\nlight of day once more.\n\nHe had been calm, quiet, almost resigned when captivity seemed\ninevitable, and death near at hand.\n\nThe time dragged on so, that again he slept, despairing, exhausted,\nheart-sick with hope deferred. As usual in calamity, the darkest hour\nwas that which brought the dawn.\n\nHe was woke by the measured tramp of marching men. The door of his cell\nopened, and a strong light streamed in, showing the passage outside\nfilled with archers. He drew himself together, like a wolf amongst the\nhounds, resolved on fighting to the death; but the captain had fallen at\nhis feet, and was pressing the hem of Sarchedon's garment to his lips.\n\n\"Let my lord look favourably on his servant,\" said the archer, \"whose\nhappy lot it is to conduct him into the presence of Pharaoh, there to be\nclothed in a dress of honour, and to stand at the right hand of my lord\nthe king.\"\n\nConfused, bewildered, all the more that he recalled the magician's\nwords, Sarchedon followed his conductor from the dungeon, gazing about\nhim amongst the guard like a man in a dream. Passing down their ranks,\nhe recognised him who had bestowed on the prisoner his own scanty meal\nat the cell-door. The Assyrian wrenched from his tunic a golden clasp in\nthe form of a serpent--the only ornament save his mysterious amulet left\non his person--and thrust it in the bowman's hand as he went by. The\nlatter kissed it reverently, while he whispered in the next man's ear,\n\n\"A good deed is like a handful of millet cast into the Nile. After many\ndays, lo, the river goes back to its bed, and leaves you a harvest!\"\n\n\"True enough,\" replied his comrade. \"As our proverb runs, 'When the\nwaters wane, then sprouts the grain.' But the harvest of thy good deeds,\nmy friend, would be reaped but once in seven years at best.\"\n\n\"Silence!\" interrupted his captain; and the archers closing in the rear,\nescorted Sarchedon ceremoniously to the palace.\n\nHere he was received by sundry officials gorgeously attired, and\nobviously belonging to the royal household, who vied with each other in\nrendering him every service that could be offered by inferiors to their\nlord. They ushered him into a cool and spacious chamber, rich in\nfantastic decorations, and ornamented with coloured figures of beast,\nbird, and reptile. Here they stripped and rubbed him with fragrant\nointments; conducting him thence to the bath, from which two active\nEthiopians extricated him, grinning from ear to ear as they dried his\nstalwart frame with the finest cloths, kneading and chafing limbs and\njoints till his whole person glowed and tingled from the friction. Then\nthey brought him such a dress of honour as might become the favourite of\na king; and placing before him roast kid, parched locusts, milk, spices,\nhoney, wine, and fruit from Pharaoh's own table, left him to be served\nby half a score of such Egyptian officials as waited on the king\nhimself.\n\nPresently the same captain of archers who had brought him from the\ndungeon appeared at the door of his chamber, prostrating himself with\nextreme humility ere he ventured to advance.\n\n\"When my lord has eaten and drank,\" said he, \"and comforted his heart, I\nam sent to conduct him into the presence of Pharaoh. Thy servant is the\nbearer of good tidings. Let him find favour in the sight of my lord.\"\n\n\"There needs not so much ceremony,\" answered Sarchedon. \"Are we not\nwarriors both?--enemies yesterday, perhaps enemies to-morrow, in the\nmean time friends and comrades to-day?\"\n\n\"My lord speaks good words to the lowest of his servants, out of the\nfulness of his own heart. How shall I answer him whom the king\ndelighteth to honour according to his greatness? What am I but dust\nbeneath the feet of my lord?\"\n\nWhile he spoke thus humbly, it was evident to the Assyrian that his\nconductor did but veil under this affectation of extreme deference a\nstrong professional jealousy and an intense hatred of race. He\nrecognised in the Egyptian warrior's dress and harness the distinctive\nmarks of a certain company, celebrated in Pharaoh's armies for their\nwarlike prowess--a company that the Great King, with a handful of his\nbody-guard, had driven to the very gates of Memphis, during his last\ncampaign. Its captain would fain have been bending a bow to-day against\nthe Assyrian's breast, rather than thus humbling himself at every step\nbefore a national enemy; but his first duty was to Pharaoh, and Pharaoh\nhad commanded that the prisoner should be brought to him with all the\nhonours of a prince.\n\nThey proceeded in silence through the lofty halls and corridors of the\npalace, traversing that well-remembered court, in which stood the royal\njudgment-seat--silent and deserted now but for several cats, arching\ntheir backs and rubbing their sides against the pedestal of their own\nspecial deity, and a pair of storks, each standing on one slender leg,\nwith head tucked back and wary eye, in the places of accuser and\naccused, at the steps of Pharaoh's throne.\n\n\"I little thought to have come here again,\" said the light-hearted\nAssyrian, \"save as a doomed man passing naked to the stake; and, behold,\nI march by in a dress of honour at the head of a hundred archers. Who\nshall say what a day may bring forth?\"\n\nThe well-drilled features of the Egyptian forced themselves to smile.\n\n\"Man is but a vain thing,\" he answered sententiously--\"a strained shaft,\na riven harness, a broken bow! But the king's hand stretches far and\nwide. He giveth or taketh away, setteth up or casteth down, and Pharaoh\nlives for ever!\"\n\nThe last four words he spoke in a loud voice, falling immediately on his\nface; for they were entering the royal banquet-hall, at the extremity of\nwhich the king sat in person, under a canopy of state, attended only by\nhis cup-bearer and the official who carried his fan.\n\nA venerable man, whom Sarchedon recognised as having stood at his right\nhand while the king administered judgment, now stepped forward, and\nconducted the guest to a place of honour provided for him, apart from\nthe great lords and captains, who were ranged all down the hall. Passing\nbefore the royal table with a low obeisance, the Assyrian could not but\nbe gratified by the reception accorded him: Pharaoh even raised the wine\nto his lips in acknowledgment of his guest's salute, while in the dark\neyes that gleamed over his cup, Sarchedon thought he recognised\nsomething of that mocking mirth which had so disturbed him in the\nmagician's gaze, who foretold the term of his captivity. But he was\ndestined to higher honours yet; for no sooner had he taken his seat than\na portion of meat and a cup of wine were served him from the king's own\ntable, by no less a person than the old man who had conducted him\nthither--Phrenes, governor of Egypt, second only in rank and authority\nto Pharaoh himself.\n\nAdopting a tone of confidential intercourse, as with an equal, this\nmagnate now bade Sarchedon look round amongst these lords and captains\nfor the familiar face of a countryman. Had he not been so accustomed to\nwonders of late, he could scarcely have believed his eyes when he\nobserved Sethos, gorgeously attired in the Assyrian fashion, seated like\nhimself in a place of honour, and pouring out a drink-offering to the\ngods of his own land, ere he quenched his thirst with the choicest wine\nof Egypt from a cup of gold.\n\n\"He will scarce recognise you in that dress,\" said Phrenes; \"but it was\nthe command of Pharaoh to make amends for the mishap of your ill-usage\nand imprisonment, by such honours as are paid to the prince who is next\nthe throne. He must needs be a man of mark at home for whose sake an\nAssyrian king sends his own cup-bearer with an embassy to Pharaoh.\"\n\n\"An embassy to Pharaoh!\" In the last stage of astonishment, Sarchedon\ncould only repeat the other's words.\n\n\"No less,\" assented Phrenes. \"And you must not take offence if I tell\nyou it arrived here not a day too soon. Your accusation was a heavy one,\nand the penalty of your crime was death. These sons of shepherds begin\nto overrun the land. Some of our wisest counsellors would rejoice to be\nrid of them once for all; but Pharaoh loves well to see great buildings\ngrowing to the skies, cubit by cubit, and day by day. He would not\nwillingly let this people go. Meanwhile they increase and multiply till\nit seems that ere long they will outnumber their lords. If they had\narms, or could use them, it might come to a bad ending. We keep them\ndown with labour, and tame them with blows; nevertheless, if a leader\nshould rise up amongst them, they have it in their power to vex us sore.\nYou had not crossed into the dominions of Pharaoh a day ere your person\nand character were as well known to us as they are now. When it came out\nthat yours was the daring hand which smote the Egyptian, we did you the\njustice to believe you were a dangerous offender, and condemned you\naccordingly, even before you were accused.\"\n\n\"Your opinion of me far exceeded my merits,\" answered Sarchedon, who did\nnot fail to perceive he had run a very narrow risk. \"To which of the\ngods, then, did I owe my unexpected deliverance?\"\n\n\"Neither to Thmei nor Thoth,\" replied Phrenes. \"Justice and policy alike\ncounselled a short examination and a speedy sentence; but Pharaoh\"--here\nhe dropped his voice with an affectation of extreme caution--\"Pharaoh,\nwhose wisdom is infallible, determined that you should be kept in safe\nward until he had caused you to disclose the inmost secrets of this\ncaptive people with whom you had cast in your lot.\"\n\n\"I could have told him nothing!\" exclaimed Sarchedon; \"nor would I have\nturned traitor to the hand that succoured me for the half of his\nkingdom.\"\n\n\"It is well, then,\" answered the other calmly, \"that the question was\nnever asked. It must be a loud shriek to reach upper earth from those\ndungeons of ours; and in my opinion, though Pharaoh thinks otherwise,\nknowledge is bought too dear even from a criminal at the price of\ntorture.\"\n\nSarchedon shuddered. Glancing across the hall at the king's calm cruel\nface, he could not help thinking how fruitless would have been an appeal\nfor mercy, how hopeless an attempt at escape. \"Had you tortured me to\ndeath,\" said he, \"you would have gained nothing for yourselves but\nshame!\"\n\n\"There was fortunately no need,\" replied the other with exceeding\ncourtesy. \"Ere Pharaoh had leisure to attend to your affairs in person,\nlo, there comes a cloud of horsemen out of Assyria, bearing rich\npresents, speaking honeyed words, yet demanding plainly enough that you\nshould be delivered to them unhurt; threatening vengeance if a single\nhair of your head had fallen while in our charge. And Ninyas, it seems,\nis no more to be trifled with than his father.\"\n\n\"Ninyas!\" repeated Sarchedon. \"Doth the Great King then rule no longer\nin Babylon?\"\n\n\"Have you not heard?\" replied the other. \"Ninus has gone to his gods,\nwherever they may be, and Ninyas his son reigns in his stead. If the new\nking's counsellors be like that gaudy youth who hath ridden here on\nbehalf of his lord, sound wisdom must be less sought after than shining\nraiment about his throne.\"\n\nHe signed with something of contempt towards Sethos, who had now caught\nsight of his countryman, and, being well warmed with wine, was showing\nas much satisfaction as seemed compatible with the dignified presence in\nwhich he found himself. The banquet, according to the custom of the\nEgyptians, was prolonged to a late hour. When the guests could eat and\ndrink no more, singing-women entered the hall, bearing fruit and flowers\nand golden measures of the rarest wines. These were succeeded by dancers\nconspicuous for their beauty, and much appreciated by Sethos, who could\nnot refrain from audible comments on their charms. Wrestlers also, and\ntumblers of the other sex, relieved them at intervals; and if Sarchedon\nin his heart more admired the upright forms and noble proportions of his\ncountrymen, he could not but admit that the pliancy of limb and subtle\ndexterity of those Egyptians were beyond praise.\n\nThe sun had long set, and scores of lamps were flashing their radiance\nover the revellers, ere a slow sad dirge swelled through the palace,\nwhile an image of Osiris, swathed in mummy-clothes, and stretched\ncorpse-like on a bier, was borne to the feet of Pharaoh himself. Then\nPhrenes, who, to his weightier avocations, added that of Master of the\nFeast, raised his hands aloft for silence, and in the hush of voices\nspoke that solemn warning with which it was the custom of Egypt to close\nits richest entertainments:\n\n\"What is man? Nothing. What is life? Nothing. What is death? Nothing.\nFor we are born at an adventure; and when we go hence, it will be as\nthough we had never seen the day. Life, though short, is weary; death,\nthough unwelcome, is not to be escaped. Let us, then, enjoy the good\nthings that are present; let us comfort our hearts with wine, and\ngladden our faces with oil, and crown our locks with flowers: for wine\nhath lees and oil hath dregs, and ere set of sun the lotus herself shall\nhave faded and passed away. Let none go fasting to his bed, nor joyless\nto his grave, because in sleep there is neither mirth nor mourning;\nthere is neither good nor evil in the tomb. What is man, then? Nothing.\nBut Pharaoh lives for ever!\"\n\nThen the strangers passed once more before the king, Sethos and\nSarchedon receiving each a costly present, the other Assyrians being\nalso gladdened with gifts according to their rank. It would have seemed\nbeneath the dignity of Pharaoh to hold converse with strangers in\nperson; but Phrenes, when he bade them farewell, took occasion to\nenlarge on the power and riches of his own country, reminding the\nvisitors of its arts, its fertility, its resources in peace and war.\nLastly, retaining him for a moment behind his companions, he whispered\nin Sarchedon's ear,\n\n\"Forget not how the captive in his dungeon found favour in the sight of\nmy lord the king. He bids you think of Pharaoh when you are exalted in\nyour own country, and above all, he warns you, despise not the wisdom of\nthe Egyptians.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nIN THE DESERT\n\n\nOnce more in the saddle, once more in the light of day, once more in the\nboundless desert, free as the wild ass devouring the plain, the\nlong-winged hawk darting across the sun. Sarchedon set his horse to its\nspeed, and circled round the troop of warriors who accompanied him, in\nsheer ecstasy of liberty and motion. How could he refrain? Was it not\nlife itself to feel beneath his limbs the old familiar swerve, and swing\nand long elastic bound? fingering with light and skilful touch the\nquivering rein, to which every motion answered, like the chord of an\ninstrument responsive to the practised hand of a musician? to borrow\nfrom the animal under him, till each quality seemed his own, the speed\nof a wild deer, the strength of a mountain bull, and the gentle generous\ncourage peculiar to a good horse alone? Yes, it was worth long days and\nnights of captivity, of restless slumber and weary waking, of listless\napathy and dull sickening despair, to back a steed, wear sword on thigh,\nand shake a javelin in the pure still air of the wilderness once again.\nHe said as much to Sethos, while they turned in the saddle to look their\nlast on the great pyramids of Egypt, sinking into the plain behind them.\nThe cup-bearer, moderating his companion's pace, like his own, to the\nspringing walk of their pure-bred steeds, expressed, as usual, his\nearnest desire to behold the walls, pinnacles, and brazen gates of great\nBabylon, with her pleasures and her repose.\n\n\"A place, my friend,\" said Sethos, \"that I was sore afraid you would\nnever see again. A fallen man in the desert is more commonly picked up\nby jackals than Israelites; and it is not every horse that would take\nanother rider back, as did Merodach, to the very spot where he laid his\nmaster on the sand. By the belt of Nimrod, I always said, for camp or\nmarch, charge or chase, I have not found such a steed in the Great\nKing's host as the white horse with the wild eye.\"\n\n\"Brave Merodach!\" answered Sarchedon; \"I would I were across him now.\nBold, gentle, and true, I never saw him frightened, and I never felt him\ntired.\"\n\n\"He was scared that night, nevertheless,\" said Sethos. \"He came by me\nlike a stone out of a sling, even as I reached the middle gate in the\nsouthern wall; but the archers on watch turned him back, and when I\ncaught his bridle, he let me lead him through the crowded streets like a\ndog. By the brows of Ashtaroth, it was a night not to be forgotten in\nBabylon, while the great tower of Belus has one brick standing on\nanother.\"\n\n\"Was there a tumult, then?\" asked Sarchedon. \"Our countrymen need but\nlittle to stir them into action at a festival.\"\n\n\"Not so much a tumult,\" answered the cup-bearer, \"as a great awe and\nhorror over all. The streets were thick with people; but men looked in\neach other's faces, and scarce dared ask what might come next. Some told\nme that the skies were raining fire and brimstone on the temple of Baal,\nand that ere dawn of morning the whole city was to be consumed; some\nthat the Bactrians had vanquished our Great King's host, all scattered\nabout in the plain; that their elephants could be seen from the walls,\nand that even now the fiercest of their mountaineers were advancing to\nthe assault.\"\n\nSarchedon laughed.\n\n\"Such tidings should have vexed you but little,\" said he. \"Did you not\nremember how we put them to flight by the Red Lake, from which our\nwarriors drank so freely, believing it was wine? I slew three of their\nslingers at its very brim with my own hand.\"\n\n\"I remembered nothing,\" answered Sethos, \"but that when they drew the\nsword they smote and spared not, old men and maidens, mothers and\nchildren, the warrior in harness, and the wounded at their feet. If the\nBactrians were in truth over the wall, I bethought me whether it were\nnot best to leap on Merodach, and gallop back into the desert from\nwhence I came.\"\n\n\"It was a stout-hearted resolution,\" laughed Sarchedon, who knew the\ncup-bearer's courage to be beyond suspicion, but had not forgotten the\ndisinclination to hard work, hard fare, and hard blows his friend was\nnever ashamed of owning. \"And what prevented this dignified retreat of\nthe Great King's chief officer before an old woman's fable of an\nimpossible attack?\"\n\n\"Speak not lightly of women, old or young,\" returned Sethos. \"If these\nmake love, those make pottage; and thus two of man's chief needs are\nsatisfied. I repeat, I had begun to think gravely of flight, when I met\none in the crowd who was neither man nor woman precisely, but a priest\nof Baal. He told me that his god descended at nightfall in a chariot of\nfire, and had carried the Great King back with him to the stars. This\nwas the light I saw flaring in the sky over the city, while I approached\nthe gate.\"\n\n\"I saw it too,\" observed Sarchedon. \"When I fell heavily to the ground,\nthere passed before my eyes, as it were, a sheet of flame, and then I\nremember nothing more, till I found myself on an ass's back, faint and\nweak, swaying from side to side, but supported by that good old man who\npicked me off the sand.\"\n\n\"It was true enough,\" continued Sethos, \"though told by a priest. While\nI was riding about on a fool's errand, uncertain where to turn my\nbridle, and you were galloping to and fro, with diverse wild purposes I\ndo not yet clearly understand, but which seem to have cost you somewhat\ndear, our Great King went up into his Talar to pour out a drink-offering\nto Baal. The god must have been thirsty, since he came down to wet his\nbeard with wine in person, and Ninus must have been in milder mood than\nusual to mount the flaming chariot at his desire. Well, the Thirteen\nhave gained a stern comrade, and the land of Shinar has lost the\nstoutest warrior that ever crossed a steed.\"\n\n\"We shall see his like no more,\" answered the other. \"He was the last of\nthose mighty men begotten by Nimrod to rule over the sons of Ashur with\nsword and spear. But it is written in the stars that the Great King\nlives for ever; and though Ninus be gone, doth not Ninyas his son reign\nin his stead?\"\n\n\"Doubtless,\" was the reply. \"So soon as the father set foot in his\nflaming chariot, the diadem of Ashur blazed on the son's bright comely\nbrow. By the glory of Shamash, he shone beautiful as morning when he\nshowed himself to the people with the royal circle over his head, the\nroyal sceptre in his hand. There was a something changed in him too; I\nknow not what--a dignity of bearing, a smoothness of gesture, a quiet\ncourtesy to all--and he looked in his dazzling raiment more like a god\nthan a king.\"\n\n\"Was there, then, no outbreak?\" asked Sarchedon. \"Unlike old Nineveh,\nthe people of Babylon must be reined with the strong hand, in great and\nsudden changes such as these.\"\n\n\"With the strong hand!\" exclaimed Sethos. \"Why, the spearmen of the\nqueen's host were drawn up in battle array by hundreds at the corner of\nevery street, while bowmen clustered on wall and tower like locusts\nabout a fig-tree. No man dared murmer if he would; and I think none who\nlooked in his fair face could have desired a nobler king than Ninyas.\"\n\n\"And the queen?\" said Sarchedon. \"How fares it with Semiramis in her\nwoe?\"\n\n\"The queen remains hidden in her palace,\" replied his friend; \"not to be\nseen of men while she makes her moan, rending her garments and\nscattering ashes on her head. Alas for the pride of her beauty, the pomp\nand power of her dominion! Surely her glory passed away with the smoke\nof the great sacrifice. Ninus ruled half the earth with his frown, and\nshe ruled Ninus with her smile. But all is changed now.\"\n\n\"Has she, then, so little influence over her son?\" asked Sarchedon,\nreining his horse to a halt in his preoccupation, while he pondered on\nhis own future, and how it might be affected by these strange\nunlooked-for events.\n\nNinyas, he had reason to believe, loved him but little; and the\nqueen--he scarcely dared think of the terms on which he stood with the\nqueen. In every direction his path seemed beset with difficulties. But\nfor Ishtar, he could have been satisfied to remain in Egypt for ever,\neven in the dungeon--Ishtar, whom perhaps he was never to see again. He\nrecalled the words of the magician; but their comfort was very vague and\nhollow, compared with the steadfast belief of Sadoc, whom no troubles\nseemed to perplex, no anticipations of evil to overcome. He almost\nenvied the carelessness of his light-hearted comrade, who proceeded with\nhis narrative as though it were but the detail of a lion-hunt or a\nfestival.\n\n\"Ninyas seems resolved to reign in person--a great king, not only in\nname, but in authority, who bears sword as well as sceptre, and tarries\nlonger in the seat of judgment than at the banquet of wine. I could not\nhave believed a man's nature might be thus changed in the putting on of\na tiara. When I prostrated myself in his presence, it seemed as though\nyears had passed since he dismissed me in the desert, and rode back\nunattended into Babylon. Yet the interval was less than a day. And\nMerodach: he sent for the good horse to his royal stables, and caressed\nhim fondly with his own hand.\"\n\n\"Merodach loves not strangers,\" replied Sarchedon. \"But if Ninyas\ndesires him, how shall his servant say him nay? Is not my life in the\nhands of the Great King? Something warns me, nevertheless, that the\nhorse finds more favour in his sight than the rider.\"\n\n\"You speak thus in your ignorance,\" said Sethos. \"Had he lost the great\nruby from the handle of his sword, he could scarce have looked more\nanxious, more concerned. If you find not that you are first in favour\nwhen we return, never believe a king's cup-bearer again. Is it not for\nthis I ride at your right hand so humble even now? Think of us when you\ncome to high honour; but do not forget you owe more to your horse than\nyour friend.\"\n\n\"I can well believe it,\" returned the other, smiling. \"I have always\ntrusted less in the man than the beast. Nevertheless, I am loath to be\nungrateful, and will take care to remember both.\"\n\n\"Had I not been leading Merodach through the streets,\" continued Sethos,\n\"I should not have been seen of Assarac; but the priest, knowing the\nwhite horse afar off, bade some archers clear a passage, and beckoned me\nto his presence. When he learned all I had to tell, how I had left you\nbut a short space before the horse came flying by me riderless through\nthe desert, he seemed unusually thoughtful and concerned: you know how\nrarely his face betrays his thoughts, how good or evil seem powerless to\naffect him, and yet there came a frown on his brow, a wicked fire in his\neyes, while he listened to my tale. I could hardly learn whether he was\npleased or angered, anxious for your safety or eager to know your fate.\nHe tarried but an instant. Leaders and warriors were thronging round him\nfor orders, and you would have thought him captain of a host setting the\nbattle in array, rather than priest and eunuch preparing a sacrifice for\nhis gods. He seemed calm enough while he gave his directions; but the\nsame evil look gleamed in his eyes again when he bade me yield up\nMerodach in charge to his attendants, and return at day break to the\npalace. What more was done in Babylon that night must be related by\nothers; for I was wearied sore, and when I lay down, without so much as\ntaking off my harness, I slept as sound as all the Pharaohs--who live\nfor ever--in their tombs.\"\n\n\"And with daybreak you learned what had befallen Ninus?\" asked\nSarchedon. \"Of a truth, my friend, you must have felt that you woke to a\nnew world.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" replied the other. \"In the city, save that the guards had been\ndoubled, all was orderly and unchanged. The prophets of the grove had\ndiscontinued their leapings and howlings and brandishing of knives. The\npriests of Baal were busy cleaning gore and garbage from their temple.\nIn the royal palace I found the old servants of Ninus, with the queen's\narchers, as usual, keeping their listless watch. When I prostrated\nmyself at the threshold, it seemed as though I must needs fill the\nking's cup, and give him to drink with the first rays of the morning\nsun.\"\n\n\"A good old practice,\" observed Sarchedon, \"and, if I know him, not to\nbe discontinued by Ninyas during his reign.\"\n\n\"You do _not_ know him, it seems,\" replied the other; \"for I came no\nnearer his presence than the golden-winged bull in the middle of the\nGreat Court. Here I was stopped by Assarac, who bade me attend the king\narmed and mounted within an hour at the southern wall. When I tendered\nthe wine-cup, he laughed, and said these old-world practices were to be\ndiscontinued for the future; but I have no fear I shall lose my office,\nnevertheless.\"\n\n\"You are little given to despair,\" said his friend; \"I know that of\nold.\"\n\n\"As chance would have it,\" resumed Sethos, in perfect good faith, \"I\nfell in with Kalmim, wearing her garment rent and her hair about her\nface, but otherwise little vexed with woe; and she found time to bid me\nkeep heart, for that none of my honours, said she, would be taken away,\nbut rather new rewards added thereto; and in this she spoke truth,\nthough I scarce believed her at the time, for I thought Ninyas would\nhave done well to place me on his right hand in sight of all the people.\nSo I got to saddle with a heavy heart, and hastened me to the southern\nwall, where I found the king and but two attendants--mountain-men, well\nskilled to take a prey. Ninyas rode to and fro amongst the vineyards on\nMerodach, turning the beast to his hand as though it had borne him ever\nsince it wore a bridle.\"\n\nSarchedon's face fell.\n\n\"I shall never ride him again,\" said he. \"When a man has once backed a\nhorse like Merodach, he would take him by force from his own brother.\"\n\n\"Ninyas seemed to love him well,\" replied Sethos, \"for his palm was\nnever off neck or shoulder, and I swear by Ashur I saw him once press\nhis lips against the horse's crest. But he seemed strangely hurried and\nrestless, holding little discourse with me, but consulting eagerly the\nmountain-men who accompanied us. One of these bade me point out the\nexact spot at which Merodach passed me in his flight, and of this I\ncould make sure because I remembered how a single palm was growing there\nby a spring. When we reached it, Ninyas laid the rein on Merodach's\nneck, and, lo, the horse broke eagerly into a gallop, stretching away\nover the desert at speed, so that it cost us some trouble to keep him in\nsight. The king never touched his bridle, but let the beast bear him how\nand where it would. My horse was already failing under me, when they\nhalted at a spot where lay a splintered arrow and a few large bones\npicked white and bare. Merodach stood still, snorting and trembling,\nwhile the tears fell from the king's eyes. Then the mountain-men\nalighted, and showed how a human body had lain here the night before,\nand how it had been lifted carefully by one whose footmarks were to be\ntraced, deep and wide, under his burden. Also, how others had gathered\nround, leading their asses; and even boasted they could distinguish the\nprints of that on which the fallen man had been disposed. \"Can you track\nthem?\" asked the king in a hoarse whisper; and he promised a reward of\ncamels and oxen, costly raiment, and a talent of gold each, if they\ncould follow up the chase successfully, and return with good tidings of\nits result.\n\n\"The mountain-men earned their wages fairly. It was not long ere they\nbrought back to Babylon such intelligence as seemed to cause the king no\nlittle concern and anxiety. But that his royal word was passed, I think\nNinyas would have impaled them both, having no better news to tell. They\nhad traced you into Egypt, they said, and had left you lying in prison\nby the decree of Pharaoh, under sentence of death. I would have given\nyou up, my friend, then; but our young king, it seems, abandons not his\nservants at their greatest need. He sent for me to the royal palace, and\nthough I entered not his presence, I was received in the outer chamber\nby Assarac, who clad me in a dress of honour, and threw a chain of gold\nabout my neck. You never saw such workmanship! Had the links been but of\nbronze, they were so wrought as to be worth a score of camels each. They\nprate of their gold and silver down yonder,\" added Sethos, with a\nbackward nod, \"but I would defy the whole of Egypt, with all her\nfurnaces, to produce such a chain as that!\"\n\n\"You were wise not to bring it with you,\" observed Sarchedon. \"They are\nskilful thieves, and would have stolen it from round your very throat\nwhile you slept.\"\n\nThe cup-bearer's swarthy cheek reddened.\n\n\"I gave it away,\" said he, \"for all my haste, ere I laid hand on bridle\nto ride southward. I know not if 'tis so with _you_, Sarchedon, but I\ncan keep nothing from a woman that she desires of me--not even the\nsecret of my dearest friend. They seem to have some strange power over\nour wills, like that by which I turn this good horse under me with the\nrein.\"\n\nSarchedon thought of Ishtar, and held his peace.\n\n\"The eunuch's directions,\" continued Sethos, \"were brief enough. He\nwastes few words, you know, when there is need of action. \"You will\nmount at noon,\" said he, \"and ride without delay to the steps of\nPharaoh's throne, wherever he may be. You will take valuable presents.\nSuch a troop will accompany you as can protect you from violence or\ninsult. To Pharaoh's own face you will deliver the words of the Great\nKing, bidding him the salutation of brotherhood and peace, but demanding\nthe body of his Assyrian prisoner alive and unhurt. If he refuse, or if\na hair of Sarchedon's head have fallen, you will break your bow asunder,\nand cast the fragments at his feet, telling him you will return to claim\nthem with an army of the sons of Ashur, to which the last that entered\nEgypt was but as the lizard in the garden to the mighty monster of the\nNile. Be lavish, peremptory, and bold. The king hath spoken.\" You may\nbelieve, my friend, that I turned my head more than once, thinking I\nmight be taking my last look of beautiful Babylon. To beard Pharaoh on\nhis throne with a handful even of the bravest horsemen in Assyria seemed\nan action savouring little of wisdom or common prudence; but, as the old\nking used to swear, Nisroch strikes with him who trusts his own right\nhand. So, when I _did_ find myself in Pharaoh's presence, I spoke out as\nif the hosts of Assyria stood in array a bowshot from my back. Small\nreason had I to complain of my reception. A king in person could not\nhave been greeted with a nobler welcome. What riches! what luxury! what\nsplendour! I would we had taken their whole country when we fought so\nhard to cross their river under the old king's leadership. Pharaoh must\nhave been weakened to some purpose, or he had scarce listened patiently\nto a demand which seemed well-nigh a defiance. There was delay, indeed,\nere they produced you, and I feared for a time you had been slain in one\nof their secret dungeons; but I took my bow from my back in presence of\nPhrenes, and made as though I would break it across my knee. The old man\nturned white with fear, and that very day I beheld you at the banquet of\nwine, seated in a place of honour and apparelled like a king's son. Then\nmy heart leaped within me; for I knew that we were both safe, and might\nhope to drink the wine of Damascus within the walls of Babylon once\nmore. I would we had a cup of it now!\"\n\nSarchedon was silent. His friend's account of the means by which an\nimprisonment that seemed so hopeless had been cancelled, a decree of\nPharaoh reversed, perplexed him more and more.\n\nThat he should have attained thus suddenly to the favour of Ninyas, on\naccession of the latter to his father's throne, was perhaps to be\naccounted for by one of those caprices to which he had already seen men\nowe great honours and promotion under the authority of a despot; but\nthat the king should have ridden in person to discover his track, should\nhave actually shed tears of pity for his supposed fate, was so strange,\nthat he left to future events the solution of such a riddle, resolving\nfor the present to content himself with the improvement in his\nprospects, and the hope that, when free and amongst his own countrymen,\nhe might succeed in obtaining some traces of the fate of Ishtar, some\nclue to the perpetrators of that outrage by which Arbaces lost his\nlife. Deep in his own heart he swore never to rest until he had\nrecovered his lost love and avenged the slaughter of her father--blood\nfor blood.\n\nThus journeying northward through the plain, at a rate which promised\nere many more furlongs were passed to bring them across the confines of\nEgypt into their own land of Shinar, they observed a cloud of dust\nrising on the sky-line behind them, and extending so far along the\nhorizon that it threatened to encompass their little troop in its\nembrace. Swiftly as they travelled, it seemed to advance more swiftly\nstill. The Assyrian horsemen looked in each other's faces with blank\ndismay, but none liked to be the first in expressing a hideous\napprehension that curdled at each man's heart. Nevertheless, reins were\ninstinctively tightened and horses pressed to increased speed. Presently\nSethos laid his hand on his companion's bridle-arm, and pointed\nominously to the rear.\n\n\"Behold the red simoon!\" he whispered. \"The demon of the desert has\nspread his wings from side to side, and there is no escape. It is the\nwill of Nisroch. When he breathes in our faces, we must die?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nA RIDE FOR LIFE\n\n\nThe little troop had been picked from the boldest horsemen of Assyria.\nNot a man but would have spent life freely under the banner of Ashur,\nand charged home into the host of an enemy, though out-numbered ten to\none. Their warlike traditions, their national character, their pride and\nself-respect, had taught them to shrink from no professional danger, to\nyield before no living foe; but the bold faces were pale now, and the\nproud eyes haggard. They rode in wild disorder, as though flying before\nthe shadow of death; while the pure-bred steeds that bore them snorted,\nand shook their bridles gaily, exulting in the glory of their strength,\nthe easy freedom of their speed.\n\nThe simoon, even in its natural terrors, might well be an object of\ndread to man and beast. No fate seems much more horrible than to be\noverwhelmed and drowned in a storm of sand. But the Assyrian had been\nalso taught to regard this danger as a supernatural foe, a gigantic\ndemon of the desert, hidden in lurid clouds, advancing swift,\ninsatiable, portentous, swallowing furlongs at every stride, to seize\nand stifle him in an inevitable embrace.\n\nEven Sethos caught the infection, and pushed his horse to its speed with\nreckless energy, panic-stricken as the rest.\n\nSarchedon could not forbear a laugh.\n\n\"Hold!\" he exclaimed, while he shot with some difficulty to the front,\nraising his bow horizontally above his head to stop the undisciplined\nflight. \"Hold, fools and faint of heart! Can you not turn for one look\nin your enemy's face, ere you scour away before him like a herd of\nfrightened deer? Stop, I say; lest I drive an arrow through the foremost\nof ye, and leave him to be picked clean by the vultures ere the sun goes\ndown!\"\n\n\"The simoon!\" gasped the leading horseman, pressing wildly onward\nwithout pause.\n\n\"The simoon!\" repeated Sarchedon, seizing the other's bridle, and thus\nbringing him to an involuntary halt. \"Do you call yourself a son of\nAshur, and not know better the arms and apparel of your enemy? Can you\nsee the violet spot that marks the demon's eye, the purple hem that\nborders his garment, the golden spangles that glitter through his veil?\nFor shame, man! And you, too, Sethos; I could not have believed you\nwould turn and fly, with bow and spear in hand, from a bushel of dust\nflung up on the wayside!\"\n\nThus arguing, storming, and gesticulating, he succeeded in pacifying the\nterror of his comrades, who consented to halt for a space and breathe\ntheir horses, while they scanned the appearance that had given rise to\ntheir alarm. The peril, when they examined it more coolly, was none the\nless threatening that its cause seemed in no way supernatural. The\nclouds of sand had indeed increased both in extent and volume; but\nthrough the folds of that dusky curtain gleamed here and there a sparkle\nof steel, while at its skirts an opaque winding line denoted to a\nwarrior's eye the approach of a strong body of horse.\n\nThe Assyrians became somewhat reassured, though Sethos and Sarchedon\nlooked doubtfully from each other's faces to the advancing host. Already\nthey could distinguish fluttering garments, uplifted spears, and the\nbanners of Egypt waving over all.\n\n\"He has sent to fetch us back!\" exclaimed the cup-bearer. \"He has\nrepented him of his counsel, and we have not done with Pharaoh yet!\"\n\nSarchedon burst into a mocking laugh.\n\n\"Have they wings like the south wind,\" said he, \"that they hope to\novertake the horses of Assyria in the open desert with heads turned for\nhome? If, as in good truth it seems, there be too many to fight, let us\nput on at speed, and the hosts of Pharaoh shall toil after us in vain.\"\n\nThey galloped on accordingly at a steady even pace, which, while it\ncould be kept up for a considerable distance, gained surely though\ngradually on their pursuers.\n\nBut the desert, flat, open, and boundless as the sea, has also its ports\nand havens, to which men put in for fresh water and repose, thus\ndiverging from the straight line of their direct course. The Assyrians,\ntherefore, now resuming the shortest way to their own land, found they\nhad described an arc, of which, in order to overtake them, their\npursuers needed only to speed along the chord. And thus it fell out\nthat, nearing a range of rocks, one of the few landmarks in the\nwilderness, they came suddenly on an ambush of Egyptian horsemen, who\nhad pushed forward to post themselves in that hiding-place.\n\nThe little troop now found an enemy in front and rear, the latter\noverwhelming in numbers, the former too strong for so scanty a force to\nbreak through.\n\nThey halted, and took counsel, inclining to dash forward in a desperate\ncharge, when an old man rode out from the ranks of their opponents,\nmaking signs of parley and peace.\n\nEven a bowshot off they recognised Phrenes. Sarchedon and Sethos\nadvanced therefore to meet him, bidding their comrades remain in the\nsaddle with bows bent, watching every movement of the Egyptians.\n\nThe old man broke his spear across, and cast it at their feet in token\nof amity.\n\n\"Your servant has ridden far and fast,\" said he, \"to bid you return into\nEgypt, and look on the light of Pharaoh's countenance once more. Behold,\nmy lords, these also are your servants, sent to bring you in honour to\nhis palace beyond the Nile.\"\n\n\"We have taken our leave of my lord the king,\" returned Sethos\ncourteously, but keeping his horse well in hand under him; \"Pharaoh has\ngiven gifts to his servants, bidding them depart in peace. Why, then,\nshould we return at an untoward season, to the encumbrance of my lord\nthe king?\"\n\nPhrenes cast one glance back amongst his followers, a glance not\nunobserved by those he addressed, while he replied:\n\n\"What am I, that I should interpret between my lords and the king my\nmaster? I pray you, now, return with me of good will. So shall you come\nto great honour, and sit on thrones in the land of Egypt.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, he edged his horse gradually round, showing no slight\nskill in the art of managing it, so as to place himself between the\nAssyrians and their comrades.\n\n\"Not a bowshot will I return,\" answered Sethos, \"until I have fulfilled\nmine embassy, and sought in the land of Shinar a new command from the\nGreat King.\"\n\nThe Egyptians, meanwhile, continued to move their horses imperceptibly\nnearer the two Assyrians, who were now separated from their companions.\nThe cup-bearer, suspecting treachery, held his bow in readiness with an\narrow fitted to the string, while his movements were exactly copied by\nthe Assyrians, narrowly watching and mistrusting the parley. Sarchedon\ntoo grasped a broad-headed javelin, prepared to hurl it at a moment's\nnotice into the ranks of the enemy.\n\n\"I bid you once more in peace,\" said Phrenes, holding up his hand as it\nseemed for a signal to his followers. \"If you think to resist the might\nof Egypt, your blood be on your own head! Pharaoh lives for--\"\n\nHe never finished the sentence, with the conclusion of which it was\ndoubtless intended that the two isolated horsemen should be surrounded\nand taken prisoners. The cup-bearer's bowstring rattled even while he\nspoke, and Phrenes fell heavily to the ground, with a shaft quivering\nin his heart. At the same moment Sarchedon's weapon transfixed the\nnearest Egyptian, and a storm of arrows from the Assyrians created no\nsmall confusion in the rest of the band. Horses reared, men lost their\nseats and weapons, shouting, storming, jostling each other, and looking\nin vain for some one to direct; while the Assyrians turned bridle\nwithout delay, to speed over the plain at a pace which put them many an\narrow's flight from their enemies ere the latter had sufficiently\nrecovered to form line and bend their bows.\n\nIt was a ride for life through the desert. The rest of Pharaoh's army\nhad been advancing rapidly during the parley; their horses were fresher\nthan those they pursued; and it would have been madness for the\nAssyrians to dream of resisting such a force, if it should succeed in\novertaking them. Sarchedon seemed to see the well-remembered gloom of\nhis Egyptian dungeon gathering round him once again. His horse, too,\nbegan to fail, labouring to keep up with its companions. Bitterly did he\nnow regret the childish enthusiasm that had tempted him to waste its\nstrength and mettle at the commencement of their journey.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said he. \"My time is come. I will strive all that one\nman can to delay a host. Peradventure when they have slain or taken me,\nthey will suffer you to escape unhurt.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" replied Sethos, looking anxiously over his shoulder. \"They\ngain on us but little. Nay, take heart, my friend; we may baffle them\nyet. Surely we are in the land of Shinar now. And yonder, by the beard\nof Nimrod and the beauty of Ashtaroth! I see the City of Towers, and the\nSilver Lake glittering in the sun!\"\n\n\"It is but the paradise of the desert,\" answered Sarchedon sadly. \"I\nhave ridden after it many a weary hour, but never reached it yet.\"\n\nIn spite of the enemy's rapid approach, Sethos reined in his horse, and\nshaded his brows with his hand, in sore misgiving that he was the dupe\nof that mirage which is so remarkable an effect of a level surface, a\nrarified atmosphere, and a dazzling sun. Then he observed with the\nutmost calmness:\n\n\"Lofty palms, and shining pinnacles, and golden waters, all these adorn\nthe paradise of the desert; but who hath yet seen the banner of Ashur\nfloating over its walls? If those be not the towers of Ascalon, may I\nnever drink a cup of Damascus wine, nor drive an arrow through a false\nEgyptian heart again! We are safe, my friend. Look yonder at that\nglitter in the sky-line; it is the flash of sunlight on the western\nsea.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nTHE CITY OF REFUGE\n\n\nThe fugitives pressed on apace, Sarchedon's horse, though wavering and\nexhausted, vindicating nobly the purity of its lineage, a race of which\nnone ever failed to answer the rider's hand and voice, ask what he\nwould; but when they stopped, they fell stone dead. Nevertheless, the\nforemost Egyptians gained ground too surely, and ere the Assyrians came\nunder the protection of a friendly city, the swiftest of their pursuers\nhad already halted to bend their bows.\n\nA volley of arrows whistled round Sarchedon's head, who arrived last\nwithin the welcome shelter of the walls, bristling with bowmen, prepared\nto defend it against a host. As the great gate closed behind him, he\nheard the war-cry of Ashur swelling to a shout of triumph; while the\nbaffled Egyptians, making the circuit of the place at a gallop, wheeled\nround and withdrew into the desert, as though content to abandon their\nprey.\n\n\"I never wish to look on Pharaoh's face again,\" said Sethos, drawing a\nlong breath of relief, while leaping nimbly to the ground, he loosened\nthe girths of his panting steed. \"I have fronted the Great King in his\nwrath, and it seemed like passing through a burning fiery furnace, that\nscorches the beard and blisters the skin; but under the cold eye of\nPharaoh, I could feel the chill of death creeping into the marrow of my\nbones.\"\n\nSarchedon did not answer. His heart was beating fast, and all the blood\nin his body seemed surging to his brain; for amongst the spectators\nlooking down from the housetops on the entrance of their countrymen, he\nhad caught sight of a veiled figure, that had in it something of her air\nand gestures who was never absent from his mind--the object of his\nsearch, the desire of his life, the woman he had loved and lost.\n\nIt was but a momentary glimpse. The figure disappeared almost as soon as\nseen. Nevertheless, for Sarchedon there was henceforth but one aim, one\ninterest, in the whole city of Ascalon.\n\nHis progress through the streets reminded Sethos, though on a less\nsplendid scale, of the Great King's return after his successful Egyptian\ncampaign, with its greetings, its enthusiasm, its shouts of welcome, and\ncasting down of flowers on the warriors' heads, though the numbers were\nscanty, compared to the population of imperial Babylon, the height from\nwhich the garlands dropped but mean and humble, measured by the\npinnacles and terraces that crowned the City of Palaces, throned on her\nmighty stream.\n\nLong before it could arrive beneath her walls, the watchman at the gate\nof Ascalon had espied this scanty troop of his countrymen advancing\nthrough the desert, pursued by an enemy from that south on which it was\nhis duty to keep a sleepless eye. Ere Sarchedon became satisfied that he\nwas making for a tangible stronghold, and not an illusion of the sandy\nwilderness, the city had been alarmed, and its Assyrian garrison, tried\nwarriors all, were at their posts. Scores of bowmen therefore lined the\nstreets through which the little party passed. Many a broad hand\ntendered its grasp of welcome and good-fellowship to the comrade who had\nbaffled yet one more danger, foiled the hated Egyptian with bow and\nspear yet once again. Agron, the Captain of the Gate, a young warrior in\nwhose company Sethos had often emptied the wine-cup, spending days and\nnights of revelry amongst the material joys of his beloved Babylon,\nhimself accompanied them to the stronghold of the city, now brightened\nby a certain appearance of luxurious indulgence, added to its usual\naspect of defence and grim security.\n\n\"Here,\" said Agron, \"you shall be brought into the royal presence, with\nthe rising of to-morrow's sun. You shall be sped on your way to Babylon\nunder such a guard as may laugh Pharaoh and all his chariots to scorn,\nif indeed they dare thus pursue their venture into the land of Shinar.\nFear not, my friends; you shall ride out of Ascalon almost as swiftly as\nyou rode in, and I wish it had been the will of Nisroch that I might be\npermitted to accompany you.\"\n\n\"Are you then so weary of the City of Towers?\" asked Sethos, smiling\ngaily on a group of women who were pelting him with flowers from an\nupper story. \"It seems to me that here, as elsewhere, Ashtaroth shines\ndown in light through the eyes of these southern damsels, and that Agron\nmay bask in her beams no less pleasantly than at home.\"\n\n\"Ashtaroth!\" repeated the other scornfully, \"and the City of Towers! Say\nrather Shamash and the City of Fire! Where shall you find a palm's\nbreadth of shade in the whole town at noon, or a green thing within a\nday's march of the walls? There was a fountain here over against us when\nwe arrived; but the sun licked it up ere we saw him rise three times,\ndry and clean as a dog's red tongue licks a platter. For duty, it is\nwatch and ward day by day, with your headpiece scorching the very hair\noff your brow, and alarms throughout the night, every time a camel\ntinkles its bell within or a jackal howls for hunger without. As to\npleasure, if you care not to fly your hawks over a plain so barren that\nthe very wormwood refuses to show a twig, or to follow a lion as sulky\nas yourself for lack of food, who burrows into a cave when you come up\nwith him, you must be content to tie knots in your bowstring, and so\nkeep count of the days of your captivity, as they pass by and bring no\nchange.\"\n\n\"But you hold a high post,\" said Sarchedon absently, for his thoughts\nwere still with the veiled figure that vanished so quickly from his\nsight. \"You have a noble command, and great honour amongst men.\"\n\n\"And receive gifts from travellers entering in,\" added Sethos. \"Caravans\nout of Egypt, merchants from the coast, spoilers of the desert, who must\nneeds replenish quiver and sharpen steel, none can pass through without\ndoing homage to the keeper of the gate, and his hand is never empty\nwhose beard brushes the dust. Tell me, Agron, are there not bales of\nsilk piled in thy dwelling, myrrh, spices, inlaid arms, and talents of\ngold, ay, and a captive maid or two, fresh and rosy as the dawn on those\neastern mountains from which she comes?\"\n\nAgron laughed loud.\n\n\"How long would she abide with me at the gate, think you, after the\nprince had heard of her white skin and ruddy cheeks? No, my friends,\nwayfarers are driven from our walls as if they brought a pestilence in\ntheir very garments. For recompense, I have stern command and scornful\nlook; for food, camel's flesh and dried locusts; for handmaiden, an\nEthiopian wench, black and rough as a goat's-hair tent; and for\ndrink--well, for drink--you are a king's cup-bearer, Sethos--I can give\nyou, as you will presently confess, a skin of wine equal to the richest\nyou ever pressed at dawn for thirsty old Ninus. May he live for ever!\nHush, man! we are now within the royal gate, and none speaks here above\nhis breath who values the safety of his tongue.\"\n\nThus cautioning his companions, Agron guided them through a massive\nportal, into the central fortress of Ascalon, constructed to hold a foe\nat bay even in the last extremity, were the outer walls destroyed, and\nthe town itself razed to the ground.\n\nAs a bulwark against Egyptian aggression, and a check to the excesses of\nthose wild tribes that, from the earliest period of history, seem to\nhave made the desert their home, Ascalon had been fortified with all the\nappliances of defence which the experience of Ninus could suggest; and\nperhaps, as the birthplace of the queen whom he loved so dearly, had\nacquired in his eyes a fictitious value that caused him to regard it\nwith jealous and constant supervision. Its central fastness was\ntherefore in proportion to the strength of the whole place, nor did it\nfail to impress both Sethos and Sarchedon with feelings of awe and\nwonder, quite incomprehensible to the light-hearted captain of the gate.\nFor Agron, this lowering fortress seemed but a dreary prison, only\npreferable to the tomb, because of the hope that he might at last resume\nlife and light amidst the luxuries of Babylon the Great. Ascalon, as the\nqueen remembered it, was a glittering city, beautiful in architecture,\npleasant with verdant bowers, and ripening dates, and voice of rushing\nwaters. As Agron found it, shorn of beauty to enhance its strength, it\nwas a grim solemn citadel, denuded of palm and paradise to make room for\nfrowning rampart and threatening tower, drained of its bubbling streams\nthat they might fill its moats and ditches, retaining nothing of its\nancient loveliness but the blue sea and the silver lake, that continued\nto mirror its rugged features in age truly and faithfully as the smiling\nfreshness of its youth.\n\nMaking signs to them of silence and discretion, the captain of the gate\nled his comrades through a succession of massive portals and vaulted\npassages, to a chamber lined with cedar wood, taken, as it were, out of\nthe wall itself, and lit but sparingly by an aperture communicating with\nthe roof.\n\n\"The prince will not see you,\" said he, \"because he sits at the banquet\nof wine, and he holds by our ancient custom of Ashur, which forbids the\nclashing of cups and counsel; but you are fasting men as yet, and you\nmay see _him!_\"\n\nThus speaking, he drew aside a heavy curtain that had hitherto darkened\ntheir hiding-place, and disclosed a sufficiently sumptuous\nbanqueting-hall, in which feasted some twenty or thirty guests, of whom\nat least half a score were women, unveiled, with flushed cheeks,\ndisordered raiment, and garlands of flowers clinging to their loosened\nhair.\n\nKeen as the desert hawk's, Sarchedon's eye took in the gay assemblage at\na glance. There was less of disappointment than relief in the deep\nbreath he drew to miss the woman he loved amongst these restless,\nlavish, and alluring forms.\n\nNinyas sat in their midst, gorgeously attired as was his wont, with a\njewelled drinking-cup in hand, pledging his male guests at the lower end\nof the board with loud hilarity, or whispering softly in the ear of one\nof those fairer companions by whom he had surrounded himself. The good\nhumour of princes is contagious. To the royal challenge, men raised\ntheir goblets full and set them down empty; to the royal jest, women\nreplied with peals of laughter and protestations of disapproval; while\nthe royal whisper was answered by blush, and smile, and smothered sigh,\nmore flattering than the wildest outbreak of mirth.\n\n\"I told you so,\" said Sethos in his friend's ear. \"He was anxious about\nour embassy and could not remain in Babylon, but removed here to be\nnearer the land of Egypt.\"\n\n\"His mind seems easy enough now,\" answered Sarchedon; while Ninyas,\ntaking a lotus-flower from his own garland, and steeping it in wine,\ntwined it through the flowing locks of a free and laughing damsel,\nleaning across a comrade, till her head almost reclined on the prince's\nshoulder.\n\nAs she suffered him to fasten the flower in her hair, it was evident to\nthose watching above that she made some vehement though mirthful\ndeclaration, accompanied by many gestures of affected reluctance and\ndenial; presently, on a remark of the prince, her retort called forth an\nover-powering burst of laughter, and Ninyas, taking the collar of gold\nfrom his neck, wound it as a bracelet round her arm.\n\nIn the meantime goblets had been emptied freely, eyes began to shine,\nvoices to rise, and the confusion of tongues became every moment more\nand more unintelligible. The captain of the gate, though a stout\nwarrior, possessed, like his two comrades, a leavening of that\ndiscretion which, even if laid aside in camp, cannot be dispensed with\nat court. He judged it time to retire.\n\n\"Those are full men down yonder,\" said he, with a meaning smile, \"and ye\nup here are fasting from all but desert air, and mayhap a mouthful or\ntwo of desert sand. Had you taken your places at the banquet amongst the\nothers, with your feet washed, your locks combed, and garlands on your\nheads, there would have seemed no shame in all this revelry, because you\ntoo would have been merry with wine. That which is but decent mirth to\none who rises from a feast, looks like rank folly to another who is\nabout to sit down. Let us go hence, and you shall comfort your hearts\nwith bread ere I show you the place of your repose. To-morrow Ninyas\nwill speak with you face to face, in the light of the rising sun.\"\n\nHe conducted them accordingly to the lodging he himself occupied when\nnot actually on duty at the city gate, placing before them such fare as,\nnotwithstanding his protestations of its unworthiness, was exceedingly\nacceptable to their sharpened appetites, and producing a measure of\nDamascus wine, that even Sethos, in his official capacity, pronounced\nirreproachable. It proved, indeed, of so tempting a quality, that Agron\nseemed well inclined to let the gate take care of itself, while he\nassisted his guests in its consumption, expostulating earnestly with\nSarchedon on his insensibility to the merits of the matchless\nvintage--\"ripened,\" as he boasted, \"in the brightest beams of an\nAssyrian sun, pressed by the whitest feet that ever danced under a\nmountain-maid, stored in royal cellars, and worthy, if ever wine was, to\nbe placed before the cup-bearer of a king.\"\n\nSethos admitted its flavour, comparing it to that with which he had been\nregaled in Egypt at Pharaoh's own table, not disparagingly, yet so as to\nenhance in his listeners' esteem his own importance as a man of\npleasure, a man of counsel, and a man of action.\n\n\"Their feasts,\" he observed gravely, \"are spread more fairly than ours,\ntheir dishes are more sumptuous, their attendants more numerous. There\nis not the profusion of fish, flesh, and fowl that we waste in our land\nof Shinar; but dainties are brought at any cost from the extremities of\nLibya and the other side of the southern mountains. They would be\nashamed to hear the heifer lowing in the court for her calf smoking on\nthe board at which they sit, with knife in hand. Is it not so,\nSarchedon? You tarried longer as a guest of Pharaoh than I did myself.\"\n\n\"My own experience is chiefly of prison fare,\" was the answer;\n\"nevertheless, though the lodging was somewhat strait and gloomy, I can\nin no wise complain of the food. The bread of my captivity was meat and\nwine, not to mention a barley-cake and a bunch of onions thrust into my\nhand by the archer who led me to my cell.\"\n\n\"Barley-cake and onions!\" exclaimed Agron. \"They fight passing well--I\npray you suffer me to fill your cups--passing well, indeed, these nimble\nfriends of ours, for men who fare no better than that!\"\n\n\"Fight!\" repeated Sethos, in high disdain. \"Call you it fighting,\nforsooth, to set the battle in array, advancing in countless columns\nwith levelled spears and waving banners, only to halt in orderly line,\nsound a trumpet, and retire discomfited before the sons of Ashur have\ntime to bend their bows? Fight, comrades! I tell you, that for real\nfighting, man to man, hand to hand, foot to foot, and buckler to\nbuckler, there is but one nation on the face of the earth.\"\n\n\"And but one champion in that nation,\" observed his host, with a covert\nsmile at Sarchedon.\n\nIt was not lost on the merry nature of Agron, that his good wine already\nsang in the brain of the king's cup-bearer.\n\n\"You are my friend, and judge me too favourably,\" replied the latter, in\nperfect good faith. \"I am no boaster, by the quiver of Merodach! yet I\nmay say, that this belt of mine girdles a man who never shrank from\nbuffets with the Egyptian at a score, ay, a hundred to one! The sun has\nscarcely set since the chosen host of Pharaoh, his chief captains, his\nchariots and horsemen, surrounded me in the desert, as--as I surround\nthis goblet in my grasp. Did I yield? Did I fly? No. I retired to--to\ndraw them on, as it were, and loosen their array. What! thou art a\nwarrior--thou knowest my cunning of defence--my skill--\"\n\n\"In retreat?\" asked the other, laughing outright.\n\nSethos gazed on him angrily, and tried to rise; but resuming his seat,\nburst out laughing too.\n\n\"In retreat, in advance,\" said he, \"in press of battle--when and how you\nwill. They came on at a gallop, with their spears down. I reined-in, and\nstood like a rock, with my wine-cup--I would say, with my bow--laid\nacross my arm thus. Then I fitted an arrow to the string, and Sarchedon\nwill bear me witness--Is it not so? Why, where is he? Surely he was here\nnot a moment ago. Sarchedon, I say, will bear me--\"\n\nBut turning round for better summons of this additional testimony to his\nvalour, he found himself so unsteady, that he was fain to give up the\nsearch and the subject together, fixing his attention rather on the\nflagon, which he and his host finished in company ere they sank into a\nsound and not entirely sober repose.\n\nSarchedon in the meantime, anxious and sick at heart, had risen from the\nrevel unobserved, and retired to his assigned resting-place, where,\nnotwithstanding the day's exertions, sad thoughts and burning memories\nbanished sleep from his eyelids, peace from his troubled heart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nLOTH\n\n\nA lover's perceptions are not easily deceived; neither veil nor mantle\ncan hide that subtle, mysterious idiosyncrasy which makes the one woman,\nwhile wholly distinct from the rest, a type and ideal of her sex. It was\nindeed Ishtar whom Sarchedon had seen amongst the spectators of his\nentry into Ascalon, nor is it necessary to add that she had recognised\nhim almost ere he passed through the gate. In those long weary days\nsince they parted, how many drink-offerings had she poured out, how many\nprayers had she offered to Baal, Nebo, Merodach, all the host of heaven,\nespecially to Ashtaroth, Queen of Love and Light! Behold them accepted\nand answered now! Her lover was in the same town with her; all the\ncunning she had practised to keep him at bay whose ardour she so\nloathed--her assumed fatigue, her feigned sickness, her feminine arts of\ndefence--were to be rewarded at last. Doubtless she would meet Sarchedon\nin the streets--on the wall--what matter where?--before another sun had\nset; and to look in his face, if only once again, would be happiness\nenough for Ishtar. Her influence over the volatile young prince gave her\nauthority in his household, so that she could roam unquestioned through\nall parts of the town and fortress where he reigned supreme. Sarchedon,\ntossing uneasily on his couch, little thought whose hand had trimmed the\nlamp by his head, strewn the rushes on his floor, and filled with the\npurest coldest water in Ascalon the pitcher that stood ready to his\nhand.\n\nDuring the first watch of night, Ishtar paced to and fro in her own\nchamber, restless, perturbed, fevered with a wild joy far too keen for\nhappiness, her whole being, sense, heart, and brain, filled with the\nimage of the man she loved. When the archers had been relieved on the\nwall, and the spearman's echoing tread had died out among the ramparts,\na well-known footfall passed along the gallery to her chamber: she\nrecognised, with indescribable fear and loathing, the step of the man\nwho loved _her_!\n\nNinyas, weary of a banquet too late prolonged, of wine poured out too\nfreely, tresses unbound too readily, smiles lavished ere he provoked\nthem, and favours offered that he had little inclination to ask, broke\nup the sitting with less than his usual cordiality, and flung his\nfestive garland under foot with something of the petulance shown by a\nspoiled child, that destroys its playthings because of the one\nunattainable gaud it has been forbidden to possess.\n\nHis male attendants discreetly emptied their goblets and held their\npeace; but some of the women showed signs of displeasure and discontent\nere they withdrew; Rekamat, indeed, a comely dame from the northern\nmountains beyond Nineveh, who deemed her own ruddy cheeks and amber hair\ntoo rare beauties thus to be wasted in Ascalon, spoke her mind freely\nenough.\n\n\"My lord is wrath,\" said she, \"with his handmaidens, because, forsooth,\nwe grudge neither word nor deed, dance nor song, to do him honour. Shall\nwe not rejoice in the light of his countenance, as the golden fruit of\nthe palm deepens under the rays of a southern sun? When the date is ripe\nit should be gathered ere it fall.\"\n\n\"The dates are musty, and the palm-tree bare,\" answered Ninyas; \"I am\nweary of it all!\"\n\n\"Let not the anger of my lord be kindled,\" replied Rekamat in a voice\nthat betrayed considerable irritation, \"while I tell him he is plunging\nhis hand through the thorns to pluck a cluster of wild-grapes; he is\npouring streams of fair water on a growth of bitter wormwood, and yoking\na team of oxen to plough the desert sand. O, my lord, have you not free\nchoice among all the birds of heaven? and cannot you refrain from the\npoor gray linnet that sits sad and moulting in her cage?\"\n\n\"The linnet's plumage is sleek, and her song pleasant to hear,\" retorted\nNinyas with a mocking laugh. \"The vulture's neck is bare and peeled, her\nvoice an ugly croak.\"\n\n\"I thank my lord for the comparison,\" replied Rekamat, now quivering\nwith vexation. \"He used not to think so when he hunted the lion under\nthe walls of Nineveh: the vulture had bright eyes and sweet tones when\nshe flapped her wings in Babylon before the Egyptian campaign, and my\nlord seemed well-pleased to find her hovering over him in Ascalon when\nhe arrived with half-a-score of attendants, and a maiden swaddled up in\nsere-cloths on a dromedary. O that I had never come here! never seen\nthis hideous, hot, and hateful town! never, never, _never_ looked on the\nface of my lord!\"\n\nSkilful in the science of such warfare, Rekamat burst into a storm of\nsobs, veiling her bright face with her delicate hands, to hide the\ntears, which were not perhaps forthcoming so freely as she could wish.\n\nIt was no part of the prince's nature to soften at sight of a woman's\ndistress, real or simulated. He laughed heartily now, and she turned on\nhim like a tigress.\n\n\"My lord has yet to learn the first lessons of manhood!\" she exclaimed.\n\"What do I say? Am I not a fool to look for a warrior's beard on a boy's\nchin? Out on the smooth cheek and the white skin! Give me the heart, I\nsay. As bright Ashtaroth is my witness, I would I were Prince Ninyas but\nfor a single day!\"\n\nShe was very handsome with her burning cheeks and flashing eyes. It may\nbe, that all the evil in her listener's disposition woke up at her\npetulance and audacity; but his countenance remained unmoved, his voice\nseemed unusually gentle, while he asked, \"Why?\"\n\nShe looked in his face scared, dominated by the quiet tones that to her\nfeminine apprehension seemed more threatening than the loudest outbreak\nof wrath.\n\n\"Why?\" she repeated. \"Because I would cherish the faithful heart that\nbeats only for me, while the stubborn slave who dared to mock my power\nshould be thrust out with scorn into the wilderness.\"\n\n\"Have you done?\" asked Ninyas, still in the same placid tones, with the\nsame hard unchanging smile.\n\nShe fell at his feet now, and her tears began to flow in sad earnest. In\nher anger, she had been ready enough to run the risk of offending him;\nbut she shrank from paying the penalty.\n\n\"I am but as dust in the sight of my lord,\" was her reply. \"It is for\nthe prince to command, and for his handmaid to obey.\"\n\n\"To-morrow, at dawn,\" said Ninyas, \"you will sit in the gate of the\ncity, with your garments rent and ashes scattered on your head. In the\nsight of archers and spearmen, and all the people of Ascalon, you will\ndraw water from the well to wash the feet of Ishtar, as she takes her\nplace of honour, doing homage to the beauty of her who is the chosen of\nyour lord. I have spoken.\"\n\nThen he turned coldly away, leaving the prostrate beauty cowed and\ndefeated, though maddened with the bitter prospect of her humiliation.\n\nNotwithstanding his self-assertion, however, Ninyas proceeded on his\nundertaking with feelings of considerable annoyance and ill-humour. To\nbe baffled by one woman was bad enough, but to be flouted for his\nfailure by another was irritating in the extreme. He resolved that this\ntrifling must be borne no longer, that the royal favour he offered must\nbe accepted forthwith. What! the girl was in his power, after all! He\nhad not wavered when her father lay slain on his own hearth; why should\nhe hesitate now? She must be taught her lesson, here in this grim lonely\nfortress, and learn to accept with becoming gratitude the honours thrust\nupon her by the gods.\n\nBold, reckless, unfeeling, he possessed the chief elements of success;\nbut he was young, and left out of his calculations the thousand wiles\nand stratagems through which, in all encounters of their wits, a man is\ninvariably out-manoeuvred by a woman.\n\nWhile he entered her chamber, the girl felt her heart stop beating and\nher whole frame tremble like a leaf. She dropped her veil, nevertheless,\nwith a steady hand, standing erect, to all appearance calm and\nmotionless as a statue.\n\nA flaring torch of pine-wood, dipped in pitch and fixed in a ring of\nbronze against the wall, shed its wavering glare on these two comely\nfigures, playing over the sparkling jewels and festive garments of the\none, while it deepened into gloom and mystery the shrouded outline of\nthe other. Costly articles of furniture were scattered about the\napartment, such as ivory couches, dressed skins of beasts, silken\ncushions, and tables of elaborate Egyptian carving. On one of these\nstood two jewelled cups, and a flagon sparkling with amber wine from the\nsouth.\n\nNinyas paused at the threshold; then advancing on that silent inmate,\ntook her hand, and passed his arm round her waist.\n\n\"I have quitted lighted hall,\" said he, \"and circling wine-cup, because\nof the Lily of Ascalon, without whom there seems no savour in the feast,\nno mirth in the revellers. My lily is drooping here in solitude--lo, I\ncome to transplant her to a fairer garden and a richer soil.\"\n\nQuick as thought she flashed one glance into his beautiful face, and\nmade up her mind even while she looked.\n\n\"His servant felt cruelly disappointed that my lord bade her not to the\nbanquet,\" was the deceitful answer. \"It is to my shame and sorrow, if I\nhave in any way displeased my lord.\"\n\nThus speaking, she disengaged herself gently from the encircling arm,\nand fell at his feet in an attitude that expressed the utmost humility,\nbut made it exceedingly difficult for Ninyas to embrace her again.\n\n\"You know,\" said he, \"that you are always welcome to your prince. Come\nwhen she will and how she will, he only desires to lay the lily in his\nbosom, and place Ishtar beside him on a throne.\"\n\n\"Then my lord is no longer wroth with his handmaid,\" said she, unveiling\nand rising to her feet, while she called into her beautiful eyes a look\nthat thrilled her admirer to the core. \"I have sat here silent and sad,\nthinking that the cloud between us was never to pass away. Lo, my lord\nlooks favourably on his servant, and she is glad in the light of his\nsmile once more.\"\n\nRejoiced, no less than surprised, by the happy turn matters seemed to\nhave taken, pluming himself also on his own wisdom in having left her\nfor a space to herself, all the heart Ninyas possessed flew to his lips\nwhile he exclaimed:\n\n\"I love you, Ishtar! love you better than power, riches, a warrior's\nfame, a king's throne, the wine I drink, the very air I breathe! O, I\nlove you so, my pure and precious pearl, that I sometimes think the\npleasure can never pay me for the pain!\"\n\nFickle, self-indulgent, unstable as he was, yet in the fierce impulsive\nardour of his youth he meant it--honestly and heartily--for the time.\n\nIshtar could not repress a sense of triumph in the consciousness of her\npower--a power that should serve to baffle the gaoler even now, and\nunlock the prison door.\n\nHis eyes followed her with fond glances, while she moved to the table\nand filled a wine-cup to the brim. It must have been a colder nature\nthan his that could resist the winning grace with which she offered him\nto drink.\n\n\"My lord will not refuse to pledge his handmaid,\" said she, \"in token of\nforgiveness and good-will?\"\n\nHe emptied the cup at a draught; for indeed to this impulsive young\nprince there was a keen zest in every phase of luxury and indulgence:\nthe lust of the eye, the pleasures of the senses, feast and frolic, wine\nand women--he loved them all too well. It was the strongest vintage of\nthe South, and succeeding his previous potations, its effects were\napparent at once. His cheek paled, his glance wandered, there came a\nthickness in his speech, while he sank among shawls and cushions,\ninviting Ishtar to sit beside him on the couch. Though it sickened her,\nshe suffered him to caress her hands, her arms, the fragrant wealth of\nher flowing hair. Once more she filled for him. Once more he drank to\nher beauty, her promotion, her coming happiness.\n\nShe had ceased to fear him now; for the strong wine, though it blazed in\nhis eyes and inflamed his senses, fastened his limbs, like a chain of\niron, to the couch.\n\nStretching his arms back to embrace her with the caressing gesture of a\nchild, he looked up in her face, betraying even more of mirth than\neither love or longing in his own.\n\nShe watched him, as the physician watches the sick man about to die; and\nthough an icy cold crept over her, she never smiled more sweetly than\nwhile she took his beautiful head in her hands and pillowed it on her\nown beating heart.\n\nIn that fair smooth bosom thoughts of agony and horror were lurking, as\nthere are foul monsters and hideous secrets, wrecks and remnants and\ndead men's bones, hidden beneath the smiling surface of the sea. She\nlonged for the wine to work its office--all the more wildly that he wore\na dagger in his girdle--and she prayed with her whole heart she might\nnot be driven to use that.\n\nSoftly, sweetly, she sang him a drowsy lullaby, not a quiver on her lip\nnor tremble in her voice, while she soothed him with tender care, like a\nmother hushing off her child.\n\n    \"Sleep, my love, sleep; rest, my love, rest;\n          Dieth the moan of the wind in the tree,\n    Foldeth her pinions the bird in her nest,\n          Sinketh the sun to his bed in the sea.\n    Sleep, sleep--lull'd on my breast,\n          Tossing and troubled, and thinking of me.\n\n    Hush, my love, hush; with petals that close,\n          Bowing and bending their heads to the lea,\n    Fainteth the lily, and fadeth the rose,\n          Sighing and sad for desire of the bee.\n    Hush, hush; drooping like those,\n          Weary of waking and watching for me.\n\n    Peace, my love, peace; falleth the night,\n          Veiling in shadows her glory for thee;\n    Eyes may be darken'd, while visions are bright,\n          Senses be fettered, though fancy is free.\n    Peace, peace; slumbering light,\n          Longing and loving and dreaming of me.\"\n\nAt last! He would not wake now till dawn. She kept her eyes from his\ndagger, lest she might be tempted to make too sure; then disengaged\nherself with cautious sinuous dexterity from the undisturbed sleeper,\nand, slipping the ring off his finger, stole noiseless as a shadow from\nthe place.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nWILLING\n\n\nHurrying through the corridors of the fortress, she passed the chamber\nwhere Sethos and Agron, who had assiduously emptied their flagon, were\nsleeping that sound and dreamless sleep, from which men are with\ndifficulty aroused until the draughts they have swallowed cease to\naffect the brain.\n\nNeither had taken much thought in bestowing himself decently to rest.\nThe cup-hearer, stretched on the floor, still grasped a goblet in his\nhand; while the captain of the gate, retaining, as it seemed, some vague\nconsciousness that his duties demanded unceasing vigilance, remained\nseated at the table, his head pillowed on his arms, his whole faculties\nso steeped in slumber that an enemy might have stormed the walls and\npenetrated to the heart of the fortress, yet scarcely disturbed his\nrepose.\n\nWith womanly foresight and precaution, Ishtar snatched a loaf of bread\nand a handful of dates from the board, lifted mantle, bow and quiver\nfrom the corner where these had been flung aside, and went her way.\n\nSarchedon, tossing restlessly on his couch, courted sleep in vain. To no\npurpose had he quaffed draughts of pure cold water, extinguished his\ntorch, and resolved to force his faculties into repose.\n\nThe veiled figure he had seen on entering the gate thrust itself on his\nsenses. It might have been--it must have been--Ishtar! She was in the\nsame town, perhaps under the same roof. And if so, what had been her\nfate since they parted? How came she in Ascalon, but by a violence and\ntreachery that could only have the basest object, the cruellest results.\nEach after each, these maddening thoughts seemed to goad and sicken him,\nlike successive stabs, when their current was suddenly arrested by a\nlight step on his chamber-floor, the faint rustle of a garment at his\nside.\n\nStarting to his feet with an exclamation of defiance, it was smothered\nere spoken by a soft hand laid to his lips, while the dear familiar\nvoice murmured in his ear,\n\n\"Sarchedon my beloved, it is I--your own Ishtar! Hush, for your life! Be\nsilent, be obedient, and follow me.\"\n\nWas he dreaming? Was he in his right senses? This, at least, could be no\nillusion of fancy. The glowing form panted in his arms, the sweet lips\nwere glued to his own. Even in that crisis of danger and suspense she\ncould spare him a moment of rapture, in her clinging close embrace. If\nthese were dreams--he prayed to Ashtaroth--let him never wake again!\n\nBut despite of, perhaps because of, her affection, the woman retained\nall her faculties, her common sense and presence of mind, while the man\nwas lost and bewildered in the tumult of his unexpected happiness. She\ngirded the sword on his thigh with her own hands, buckled Agron's bow\nand quiver at his back, whispered caution once more, and so led him\nthrough gloomy passage and vaulted archway to the outer court.\n\nHere the starlight showed him the loving eyes, the fair, fond face, he\nhad thought never to see again but in his dreams. Looking down on that\npure open brow, angry suspicions, hideous misgivings fled from his\ntroubled spirit, as evil dreams and phantoms of the night vanish with\ndawn of day.\n\n\"I am happy now,\" she murmured, \"and I am safe. To-morrow it would have\nbeen too late.\"\n\nBut for this timely avowal, he might have urged her with a thousand\nill-advised questions, productive only of delay. Now he pressed the hand\nthat guided him gratefully to his lips, and she knew that he thanked her\nfrom his inmost heart.\n\n\"We have not a moment to lose,\" she whispered, as they made for one\ncorner of the court, where a continuous chewing of provender, and an\nindistinct mass topped by two or three swan-like necks and motionless\nheads, denoted that certain camels were at rest. \"By to-morrow's dawn we\nmust be many leagues from Ascalon, and it is now the middle watch of\nnight. The dromedary that brought me here is the fleetest in all the\nland of Shinar. He laughs at the wild ass, and scorns the desert wind in\nits wrath. Sarchedon my beloved, if you and I were mounted on him, a\nsingle bowshot outside the gate, we should be safe!\"\n\n\"They have fleet steeds,\" he answered, thinking of Merodach, and wishing\nthe good horse stood ready saddled for him now.\n\n\"Steeds!\" she repeated. \"The fleetest that ever spurned sand would\nlabour, after that ill-favoured beast, like gorged vultures after the\nlong-winged hawk of the desert. Rouse him, Sarchedon, and fasten our\nprovender to his side. Beware! he is surly and savage; but he can travel\nfar and fast, untiring as a ship on the sea, swift as a bird in the\nair.\"\n\nThus speaking she helped him to secure the trappings of the unwilling\ndromedary, disturbed from its repose, not without many angry\nprotestations, couched in discordant screams and fierce attempts to\nbite. It was not long ere he had mounted and placed her behind him on\nthe creature's back, which then rose slowly to its knees and feet,\nstretched its long neck with an inquiring gesture into the darkness,\nblew the dust out of its nostrils, and shuffled with awkward sidelong\ngait into the town.\n\nThose soft spongy feet roused no echo in the streets. The dromedary\npassed on under its burden, like an ungainly ghost, without disturbing\nspearmen in the fortress or archer on the wall.\n\nWhen the gate was reached, however, the fugitives found it too well\nguarded. In Agron's absence, his subordinate was prepared to be\nunusually vigilant and alert.\n\nThe watchman challenged from the rampart, the archers mustered by\nscores, bending their bows; a single torch shed its light on the\nofficer's warlike face and weapons, the clamps of the ponderous doors,\nSarchedon's bow and quiver, the dromedary's sullen head, and the feet\nand hands of Ishtar, as she sat exalted over all.\n\n\"None can pass out after nightfall,\" said the officer, levelling his\nspear. \"Turn back your beast and go your way. You can come hither again\nat dawn.\"\n\nSarchedon felt the hand of Ishtar press his shoulder as though to\ninculcate silence and caution. Trusting to her resources he held his\npeace.\n\n\"Where is the captain of the gate?\" said she, in a tone of anger deep\nand imperious as a man's. \"I demand to see Agron; we do not speak with a\ncommon spearman of matters pertaining to the Great King.\"\n\nHis instincts of discipline bade him screen his commander, while he\nobeyed an appearance of authority so well sustained.\n\n\"Let not my lord be wroth,\" said he, peering up into the darkness, in\nhope of recognising the high official with whom he spoke. \"The captain\nof the gate is even now visiting his watchmen on the wall. At his return\nhe will doubtless give my lord liberty to pass out. In the meantime the\nroyal orders are strict. May the King live for ever!\"\n\nWhispering to an archer, he bade him run with all speed, and apprise\nAgron of the difficulty, but showed no disposition to relax his own\nvigilance at the gate.\n\n\"Fool!\" exclaimed Ishtar, in the same deep tones. \"Will you wear your\nhead to-morrow at sunrise? or do you wish it set here over the gate,\nwhile your body is flung from the wall to make a morning meal for the\njackals? Know you not this token? Do you dare disavow the signet of\nNinyas in his own royal abode?\"\n\nShe held out the ring stripped from the Prince's finger in his drunken\nsleep, and was not surprised to see the Assyrian officer prostrate\nhimself humbly before the jewel. He thought the manner of its\nforthcoming unaccountable and irregular, the hand that tendered it\nstrangely white and delicate; but that was no affair of his. The\nPrince's signet, here in Ascalon, conferred supreme authority on its\nbearer, and he must simply obey.\n\nHe lowered his spear; the archers unstrung their bows; the heavy gate\nswung back; the dromedary paced leisurely through; and Sarchedon was\nalone with Ishtar in the desert--free!\n\nThey made but little haste while within bowshot of the walls. To arouse\nsuspicion would have been fatal. The stars gave light enough for a\npractised archer to make sure of his mark. But when they had traversed a\nfew furlongs, Sarchedon could not resist a smothered cry of triumph,\nwhile he urged the dromedary to its speed. The air from the sea blew\nfresh and pleasant, lifting his locks and cooling his temples as he\nhurried on, while every sense seemed sharpened, every muscle\nstrengthened by the rapidity of his flight. Behind him was sorrow,\noutrage, and imprisonment; before him freedom, love, and joy. He could\nscarce control his feelings; for was not Ishtar leaning on his shoulder?\nand had he not gained all he desired in the world?\n\nLooking back in the beloved face of her who was to share his future, it\nstartled him to see it so pale, that in the starlight it was like the\nface of a corpse.\n\nShe had borne up bravely through difficulty and danger; but when the\ncrisis was past, and she knew her lover in safety, the strength that\nself-sacrifice and devotion afford a woman at her need failed her\nwithout warning; and she sank heavily against Sarchedon, faint,\nhelpless, inanimate, but clinging round him to the last.\n\nSo the stars paled, the sky brightened, turning to pearly gray, and\nclear faint green, primrose, orange, crimson, and molten gold. The sun\nrose in his glory, bathing earth and heaven in floods of dazzling light.\nThe sand glowed, the waste widened, and still the dromedary travelled on\nwith free, unfaltering strides, swift, straight, and noiseless like an\narrow from a bow.\n\nNinyas, waking out of his heavy slumbers, looked about him in a dim\nconfusion of thoughts that gradually resolved themselves to a sense of\nirritation tinged with shame.\n\nThe voice of Ishtar still seemed ringing in his ears, signs of her\npresence--jewels, garments, articles of feminine luxury--were strewed\nabout the apartment; but she who made the charm of all was nowhere to be\nfound. He called, he clapped his hands, he rose, yawned, stretched\nhimself, and observing his finger bared of its accustomed jewel, the\nwhole truth flashed on him at a glance.\n\nHe actually trembled with rage and self-contempt. To have been put off\nso long, and thus outwitted at last! He could have inflicted on her the\nseverest punishment in all the code of Assyrian cruelty, and laughed her\nto scorn the while, had she been within reach. His perceptions,\nespecially where self was concerned, were vivid enough; and the loss of\nhis signet showed him too clearly that not only had the bird escaped\nfrom his hand, but that she was beyond the walls ere now, flown out of\nreach for evermore.\n\nHe had as yet vouchsafed no audience to the fugitives from Egypt, and\nhad indeed taken little notice of their arrival, reported during his\nprotracted carouse; so he was ignorant that Sarchedon had been his guest\nfor a night, and thus repaid his hospitality. It was maddening enough,\nhowever, without this aggravation, to reflect that the woman he proposed\nso to honour, should have preferred to his royal favour the danger and\nhardships of a sudden flight into the wilderness. Ninyas felt he must\navenge himself on anything and everything that came to hand.\n\nThe captain of the gate was obviously the first person to be\ninterrogated, brow-beaten, and disgraced.\n\nAgron, collecting his faculties after his debauch, and learning with\nsome anxiety from the report of his subordinate, that the gate had been\nopened by royal order before the morning watch, was in no wise reassured\nwhen he received a summons to attend the Prince forthwith. Bold as he\nhad proved himself many a day in battle, his cheek paled, and his\nfingers trembled, so that he could hardly draw the buckle of his girdle,\nor straighten the quiver at his back.\n\nNinyas had bathed his temples, combed out his abundant locks, and\nadjusted his apparel. Not a trace of his late excess was perceptible\nsave a slight flush, which perhaps rather enhanced the beauty of his\ndelicate cheek; and only those who knew him well could have detected in\nthe mocking calm of that fair womanly face signs of a storm that would\nburst anon.\n\nAgron, however, while he prostrated himself before his lord, felt that\nhe was a doomed man.\n\n\"I missed you from the banquet yesterday,\" said Ninyas, with exceeding\ngraciousness; \"was it that my trusty captain remained to handle bow and\nspear at the gate, rather than wine-cup at the board?\"\n\n\"The Prince hath spoken,\" answered Agron, steadying his voice by an\neffort.\n\n\"Not a mouse could have crept through, then, without your sanction,\"\ncontinued his lord. \"O, I know your vigilance, and shall reward it\nrichly as it deserves.\"\n\nAgron could but listen and tremble.\n\n\"The fleetest dromedary in the land of Shinar was tethered in the court\nof the fortress when the sun set yesterday. I have heard it passed out\nof Ascalon, bearing a double burden, before the morning watch. Are these\nthings so?\"\n\nIt was obvious that the Prince had already made himself acquainted with\nthe truth. Agron only faltered out,\n\n\"The rider bore the royal signet. What am I, that I should canvass the\ncommands of my lord?\"\n\nThe voice of Ninyas grew softer, his manner more gentle every moment.\n\n\"You are an Assyrian captain,\" said he, \"a trained man of war from your\nyouth. Rehearse me, lest I forget them, your duties as chief watchman at\nthe gate.\"\n\nAgron felt that the shadow of death was overtaking him fast, while he\nreplied,\n\n\"Thy servant quits not his post on any pretence until relieved, but at\nthe express command of my lord. He visits the walls.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" exclaimed the Prince, bursting into fury at last, while his\ncheeks kindled, his eyes blazed, and he looked like an angel possessed\nby a fiend. \"Coward! and slave! out of your own mouth you are judged, by\nyour own words you are condemned! All last night you were absent from\nyour post, passing the wine cup, striking the timbrel--what do I know or\ncare? And the gate of Ascalon was left open and unguarded as the great\nmarket-place in Babylon. For such an offence there is a fitting\npunishment, never yet remitted amongst the sons of Ashur.--Cover his\nface, and lead him forth! I have spoken.\"\n\nThen, while the archers in attendance seized on their late commander to\nfulfil the awful sentence, Ninyas turned with a calm brow and sweet\nsmile to a stately official standing near, and said,\n\n\"Those fugitives from Egypt--I can attend to their matters now. Bring\nthem into my presence.\"\n\nThe official seemed greatly troubled.\n\n\"Let not my lord consume me utterly in his displeasure,\" said he. \"One\nof them hath escaped in the night, and there is but one left.\"\n\nIt was in vain to calculate the Prince's changing moods. He laughed\naloud.\n\n\"The more fool he to stay in the town since the gate stood open,\" was\nhis reply. \"Put him in the fortress-dungeon, and keep him there on\nbitter waters and bread of affliction till I send to bring him out. Now\nlead the horses round, and unhood the hawks. I have done enough justice\nfor one sitting. Let us ride forth into the wilderness to take a prey!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nBREAD AND SALT\n\n\nThe dromedary travelled fast; but its pace, rough and fatiguing even to\nSarchedon's athletic frame, was especially trying to his companion.\nAnxiety and agitation had done their usual work; so that when Ishtar\nrecovered from her swoon, refreshment and a short interval of repose\nseemed absolutely necessary, if she was to continue her journey through\nthe night. Towards noon, therefore, her companion thought it wise to\nhalt at a convenient resting-place, where a clump of palms flung their\nslender shadows over a desert spring; and while the dromedary, after\ndrinking its fill, browsed on the few dried shoots afforded by the\nscanty vegetation of the wilderness, Sarchedon did all that a lover's\ncare and a traveller's experience could suggest for her comfort who was\nthus confided to his affection.\n\n\"You were wise,\" said he, forcing on her a share of their provision, \"to\ncarry off this morsel of food from Agron's table. I know the stations\nwell at which we can halt to drink, and that good beast yonder, though\nhe will grow leaner and leaner, can journey on with unfailing strength\ntill the sun has risen twice again. Eat, then, and spare not; for on the\nedge of the desert, when we have passed the bitter sea of the plain,\nthere are cities of refuge, where we can obtain such food as we require\nfor man and beast, ere we go on our way rejoicing to the country between\nthe rivers and the cool mountains of the North.\"\n\n\"Your path is mine,\" answered Ishtar, with a fond smile; \"I am not so\nfaint and weak of heart now, but I am very weary, and would fain sleep.\"\n\nHe disposed his mantle so as to shade her yet more securely from the\npitiless sun, pillowed her head on his own broad breast, and watched her\nslumbers with feelings pure and holy as his whose loving eyes are\nresting on the face of the dead.\n\nPresently he became himself heavy with sleep, and strove in vain to keep\nhis faculties on the alert. He could not move a limb without disturbing\nhis charge, and it was not long ere his sight grew dim, his head began\nto droop: with keen searching glances he swept the horizon round, and\nthen gave way, dropping at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.\n\nThe sun was low when he woke with a start that roused his companion\nalso. The snorts and restless motions of the dromedary, straining at its\ntether, denoted danger. The sleepers sprang to their feet, and looked in\neach other's faces with anxious eyes.\n\nThat danger was indeed very near. A cloud of dust had approached within\na furlong. Through its dusky veil could be heard and seen the tramp of\nhorses, the glitter of spears.\n\n\"They must be Philistines!\" \"It is Ninyas!\" were the exclamations that\nrose to their respective lips; while Sarchedon, snatching the broken\nloaf and few remaining dates from off the sand, released the dromedary,\nlifted Ishtar hastily to her seat, and took his own place before her on\nthe animal's back.\n\nUrging it to the utmost, he was painfully conscious that although\nswifter and more enduring for a long journey, it was not so nimble as a\nhorse in an effort of a few furlongs. Ere it had attained its full\nspeed, the enemy were within bowshot. Already an archer had halted and\nwas taking aim.\n\nStung with the knowledge that, from their relative positions, he was\nshielded by the body of Ishtar, Sarchedon pursued his flight in an\noblique direction, guiding the dromedary now to the right, now to the\nleft, in such alternate curves and bends as he thought might baffle the\nhostile marksman. An injury to the beast on which their safety depended\nwould, he knew, be only less fatal than the wounding of Ishtar herself.\n\nThe Philistine dismounted to draw his bow with exceeding care and\nprecision. Sarchedon felt the dromedary wince beneath him. In a few more\npaces the animal's speed sensibly slackened; and, looking back, it\nsickened him to see certain red drops soaking in on its track through\nthe sand. The successful archer had remounted to follow his companions,\nwho were rapidly nearing the fugitives.\n\n\"It is hard,\" muttered Sarchedon, grinding his teeth in rage and\ndespair. \"But ten out of all the horsemen of Assyria would suffice to\nbring us through, and for the want of them we must perish. We are\nforgotten of Nisroch, and are doomed!\"\n\nIshtar's face turned very pale, while she pressed her lips on his\nshoulder, and murmured:\n\n\"Better even here, my beloved, than in Ascalon! Behold, the time is\ncome, and in death we shall not be divided!\"\n\nTheir pace was now reduced to a walk: the arrow had sped deeply home,\nand the dromedary, pierced through its loins, tottered at every step.\nThe Philistines gathered round, calling on their prey to halt.\n\nSarchedon glanced at his own weapons--a bow, some half-score shafts, and\na short straight sword. Then he measured the strength of his\nopponents--fifty horsemen at least; champions of exceeding stature,\nfierce and terrible; children of Anak; objects of dread even to the\nwarlike sons of Ashur--in arms against all men, holding their tenure of\nthe wilderness by right of bow and spear.\n\nThe dromedary stopped, drooping its head, groaning and shivering in sore\nfear and pain. Sarchedon made signs of surrender by unstringing his bow\nand casting it on the sand. The tallest of the Anakim threw up the spear\nhe had levelled, and reined his horse along-side of the dromedary; his\ntribe gathering round, hemmed in their captives with an armed circle.\n\nSarchedon was ordered to dismount. While he obeyed, Ishtar too alighted\nnimbly on the ground. She had scarcely touched it ere the dromedary sank\nto its knees, struggled, and turned over on its side. In the shock, that\nloaf of broken bread on which the ill-fated pair depended for support,\nrolled to the leader's feet, and he lifted it greedily from the earth.\nHe had not tasted food for many hours, and instinctively began eating,\neven while he gave directions to secure their prisoners. Here and there,\nlike a scurf of mildew incrusted on some prison-wall, a white saline\ncrystallisation flecked the sand at their feet.\n\nIshtar, separated from her lover, sprang at the chief's hand, tore from\nhim a morsel of the broken loaf, dipped it in these shining particles,\nswallowed it hastily, and seizing the hem of his coarse homespun\ngarment, claimed the protection of her act.\n\n\"Bread and salt!\" said she, \"the host's honour--the guest's right! I\ndemand the safeguard of bread and salt!\"\n\nIt was unanswerable. To have renounced the duties such an appeal exacted\nwould have been to forfeit rank, character, respect in the tribe,\nauthority in his own tent. Had she been his deadly enemy, thirsting for\nhis blood, who had slain his kindred, carried off his maidens, defiled\nhis father's grave, there was no help for it--she had eaten of his bread\nand salt! Henceforth his relations with her must be those of courtesy,\nfriendship, and support--even to drawing of sword and bending of bow in\ntime of need.\n\n\"It is enough!\" said the chief; turning to his followers: \"Place the\ndamsel on my own steed--I will myself lead it gently to our tents. For\nher companion, he at least is a captive and a slave. Disarm him, and\nbind him fast. Bread and salt is the only obligation I regard, and I\nswear, maiden, by your own comeliness, you were but just in time.\"\n\nHe laughed while the last morsel disappeared down his stalwart throat.\nIshtar, casting longing looks at Sarchedon, could not refrain from\ntears.\n\nThe Anakim had taken his sword from his thigh, and bound him securely\nwith his own bowstring. He learned by the chief's gestures that Ishtar\nwas safe for the present from insult or ill-usage, and this was his only\nconsolation. Standing, too, among his captors, he saw how hopeless would\nhave been resistance, even had there ridden at his back those ten\nAssyrian horsemen he longed for so heartily but now. Himself a man of\ngoodly stature and powerful frame, he did not fail to remark that the\nleast of these giants towered fully a span over his own head, while\ntheir weighty limbs and fierce bearing brought to mind all the stories\nhe had heard of their warlike prowess, their haughty defiance of Ninus\nhimself,--who hugely admired, while he waged a war of extermination\nagainst them,--the many deeds of desperate courage for which they were\ncelebrated, and the marvellous strength which made a common proverb of\nthe question, \"Who shall stand before the children of Anak?\"\n\nIt was natural enough for these sons of the desert to show considerable\ninterest in the dying dromedary. An animal of such extraordinary\nqualities, as their critical eyes told them it possessed, would have\nbeen a far more precious capture in the wilderness than a score of\nmaidens beautiful as Ishtar, a host of warriors stalwart as Sarchedon. A\ncreature that, travelling on without stint or pause, from rise to set of\nsun, could leave their fleetest horses panting many a league behind, was\nsimply the most valuable property a robber by profession could possess.\nTherefore, not until the last resources of their skill and experience\nhad been exhausted to preserve life, did they turn sorrowfully from its\ncarcase to the rider who had fallen into their hands.\n\nThere seemed some difficulty in disposing of him. Two loose mares,\nindeed, followed by their foals, had galloped up with the troop; but of\nthese the chief, twisting his bowstring into a halter, mounted one,\nwhile the cumbrous furniture of the dead dromedary was packed on the\nother. Sarchedon could hardly be expected to keep pace with his\nconquerors on foot, and they took counsel accordingly.\n\n\"Better slay the Assyrian where he stands,\" said a swarthy giant, coolly\nbalancing the profit and loss of retaining an inconvenient prisoner.\n\"The sand is hot, the way weary. It seems cruel to bid him walk, and men\nlike us, my brothers, cannot ask their steeds to bear a double burden.\"\nHe looked proudly round on his kindred, adding conclusively,\n\n\"Besides, we have mouths enough to fill in the tents where our wells are\nalready dry, and there is no millet left to grind!\"\n\n\"You have said it, my brother!\" exclaimed his nearest comrade, tall and\nsavage as himself, raising, while he spoke, the spear that Sarchedon\nfelt another movement of that brawny arm would drive home to his heart.\nNevertheless, his eye quailed not, nor did his cheek turn pale. A true\nson of Ashur, he could look death in the face without flinching. The\nstriker paused with grim approving smile. His comrades, gathering\nround, expressed in hoarse gutturals their admiration of such manly\ncourage.\n\nIshtar's looks had never left her lover. Riding beside the chief, she\ncaught him by the garment, and claimed his interference.\n\n\"I am your guest,\" said she, \"here in the open desert, even as under the\nshadow of your tents. All of mine should be sacred in your eyes, and I\ncall upon you to save that man's life.\"\n\nIn two bounds of his lean active mare he was beside the prisoner, and\nhis powerful grasp had seized the threatening arm.\n\n\"Hold!\" he thundered out. \"If I see fit, I will reserve that work for\nmyself. And now, damsel,\" he added, turning to Ishtar, \"you claim this\nman's body, and why?\"\n\nTrembling with fear, she could only think of one unanswerable plea.\n\n\"I am his wife,\" she answered, blushing, with downcast eyes.\n\n\"His wife!\" repeated the chief. \"Who is he, then?\"\n\nThoughts of ransom, flight, freedom, flitted through her brain, all to\nbe accomplished with less difficulty by the prisoner of humble grade.\n\n\"I will speak truth to my lord,\" said she, \"and so find favour in his\nsight. His servant is but a simple archer in the hosts of the king of\nAssyria.\"\n\n\"What are you doing here in the wilderness,\" was the next inquiry, \"many\ndays' journey from the walls of Babylon and the footstool of the Great\nKing?\"\n\n\"The servant of my lord has been a prisoner in the land of Egypt,\"\nreplied Ishtar; \"he was taken by the spearmen of Pharaoh. I followed him\ninto captivity, and ministered unto him till we found a fitting time to\nescape.\"\n\n\"But the dromedary?\" pursued her questioner.\n\n\"We stole it,\" she answered simply; and the son of Anak became less\ninclined to doubt the probability of her statement.\n\n\"An archer?\" he repeated, pondering, as it seemed, with all his might.\n\"But for the damsel herself, the tale seems likely enough; yet must the\nwives of his captains be marvellously fair, when a mere bowman in the\nGreat King's host can come by so white a skin as that! Nevertheless,\"\nhe added, turning to Ishtar, \"if he be in truth an archer, and you his\nwife, no doubt he can bend a bow to some purpose, and you are not afraid\nto trust his skill. We shall prove you both on the spot.\"\n\nWith these words, he halted his followers and gave them the order to\ndismount. Sarchedon's arms were then freed, and a heavy bow, requiring\nno slight strength to draw, was placed in his hands. Though surprised,\nthey laughed to observe that he was equally master of the weapon with\nthe tallest man in their tribe.\n\nOne of the band then measured out, spear-length by spear-length, the\ndistance of a furlong on the desert sand. It seemed a considerable\nflight for an arrow; but every child of Anak was bowman from his youth,\njust as he was horseman, swordsman, spearman, and spoiler of all who\ncame across his path.\n\nThe chief himself, lifting Ishtar from the saddle, led her to the spot\nhis follower had marked out. Then, taking off his own belt, he buckled\nit so as to form a loop half a cubit in diameter.\n\n\"Hold this in your hand,\" said he, \"and stretch your arm to the\nfarthest. If an archer of the Great King is skilful as the Assyrians\nboast, he can drive me a shaft through that loop without risk to a hair\nof his wife's head.\"\n\nIn vain Sarchedon protested; in vain he entreated that he might be\npitted against the fiercest champion of the tribe with sword or spear,\nfoot to foot and breast to breast.\n\n\"No,\" said the Anakim; \"the damsel told us he was an archer. As an\narcher he shall be proved. Surely it is the wife's duty to give life, if\nneed be, for her lord.\"\n\nNot a shade was on Ishtar's brow, not a tinge of fear in eye, mouth, or\nattitude, while she stood there over against him firm, erect, and\nbeautiful; but Sarchedon felt his heart turn sick, his head swim, as he\nthought with horror of the result, should his hand fail him, or the\ndesert wind divert the arrow but a cubit from its course.\n\nHe could not; no, he could not. Once, twice, he took aim--slowly,\nsteadily, with true unfaltering eye--but the third time his powerful arm\ndrew the bow to its utmost compass, directing its shaft at the sky, and\nsending it high over Ishtar's head, to quiver in the earth as far behind\nher as the marksman stood in front.\n\n\"An archer! an archer!\" exclaimed the Anakim with one accord. \"Not a man\nof us, with the wind against him, could have measured such a flight as\nthat!\"\n\n\"An archer, and a good one,\" assented their leader; \"but the damsel is\nno wife of his, nevertheless. If he were indeed her lawful lord, he had\nnot surely weighed the scratch of an arrow on her skin against his own\nfreedom and his life.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nPARTED\n\n\nThus arguing according to his lights, the chief directed that Sarchedon\nshould be secured once more, and, much to the dissatisfaction of the\ntroop, that they should place him on their horses in rotation,\njourneying by turns on foot. Although Ishtar failed to make as good\nterms for her lover as for herself, she had in no way forfeited the\nprotection she acquired so discreetly, and rode by their leader's side,\nat the head of the band, as an honoured guest rather than the captive of\nhis bow and spear. Nevertheless, all her thoughts were engrossed by his\nwelfare whom she so dearly loved; her whole mind was bent on forming\nsome scheme for his security and freedom. Alas! it was to no purpose\nthat she wrung her hands and racked her brain. Sarchedon had fallen into\nthe power of men for whom human life and human suffering were of less\naccount than the wormwood that lay bruised beneath their horses' feet.\nIf a captive proved troublesome, what matter? It was but the push of a\nspear, and they were rid of him once for all.\n\nNevertheless, these children of Anak, though possessing themselves on\noccasion with the strong hand of whatsoever they desired, had yet, like\nother spoilers, peaceful relations with certain traders whose\npropensities for barter could be of inestimable value to men against\nwhom every gate was barred, every wall guarded, through all the cities\nof the plain. With these merchants their dealings were honourable\nenough, the man of trade seldom failing to make exorbitant profit from\nhis transactions with the man of war. This mutual barter comprised\nalmost every one of the ruder articles required for support or\ndestruction of life. Horses, arms, camels, dates, bread, honey,\nmare's-milk cheeses, even goodly raiment of needlework, were exchanged\nfreely; while a fair-faced maiden to adorn the tent, a stalwart youth to\nkeep the herds, were more than all other merchandise sought after and\ndesired.\n\nThus it came to pass that Sarchedon, though out of favour with his\ncaptors--who, like most practised horsemen, cared not to journey much on\nfoot--escaped a fate that seemed imminent each time some wrathful giant\ndismounted to make room for the prisoner, and swore freely, by his gods,\nthat if this inconvenience was to continue through another day, he would\ntake such order with the Assyrian as should prevent him from ever riding\non horseback again.\n\nNight was falling fast when the troop approached the encampment of their\ntribe; a temporary residence to be broken up and removed at an hour's\nnotice, on the slightest occasion. Rude goats'-hair tents were scattered\nhere and there, scarcely visible in the deepening gloom. Two or three\ncamels lay at rest amongst half a score of horses, fastened by the\nforefoot, that neighed, screamed, and fought savagely, whenever the\nloosening of their tethers permitted them to approach each other within\nstriking distance. A few giants, sauntering lazily about, took little\nnotice of the new arrivals, and their tall stately women scarcely lifted\nveil for a glance of curiosity, so busied were they in twisting\nbowstrings, repairing harness, grinding corn, pressing cheeses, or\nbaking loaves in the embers of a scanty fire for their lords; but two\nswarthy travel-worn men, looking like dwarfs amongst the towering\nfigures that surrounded them, came forward to accost the chief with\nwords of extravagant welcome and looks of eager curiosity. These were\ntraders from the north, who examined the veiled figure of Ishtar with\nprofessional interest, expecting, no doubt, to secure a golden profit by\nher purchase.\n\nIn this hope they were disappointed. With extreme courtesy the chief of\nthe Anakim conducted her to a tent standing beside his own, in which,\nafter a long loving look at Sarchedon, she disappeared, and was seen no\nmore.\n\nThe Anakim seemed well pleased to find these dealers, with whom they had\nso often traded, thus inmates of their camp. The leader, after disposing\nof his fair guest by consigning her to the care of a stately beauty,\ntender of heart as she was gigantic of frame, came out to meet them, and\nat once broached a proposal that found immediate favour with his\nfollowers.\n\n\"The captive is a goodly youth,\" said he; \"a stout warrior, an expert\narcher--tall and strong too for an Assyrian. What say you? These\nnorthern merchants are our brothers--shall we not sell him to them for a\nprice?\"\n\n\"Let him go,\" exclaimed his listeners with one accord; \"he is fair, he\nis precious, he is a man, even amongst the children of Anak. But the\ntraders from the north have eaten of our bread and drunken from our cup.\nAll we possess is theirs, and they shall have him--at a price!\"\n\nThen the elder of the traders--keen-eyed, voluble, energetic--put in his\nword:\n\n\"You have many mouths to feed, my brothers, here within your tents.\nMillet grows scarce, and the wells are running dry from day to day. We\nalso have a long journey before us in the desert. Our water-skins are\nempty, our camels over-loaded. What have we to do with a captive who\neats and drinks, yet must be carried from day to day like a bale of\ngoods? How are your servants to bring this encumbrance with them from\ncity to city, till they reach their home in the mountains beyond the\ngreat rivers of the plain?\"\n\n\"You will sell him for a talent of gold in the first market you enter,\"\nwas the answer. \"Is he not a comely youth? Fair and strong, and of a\nruddy countenance? We have taken no such prey since we rode, without\nceasing, four days and nights to spoil the City of Palms, by the western\nsea.\"\n\n\"The Assyrians have more slaves than enough,\" answered the trader,\n\"since they brought captives up from Egypt, by scores and by hundreds,\nat the chariot-wheels of the Great King. Nevertheless, are we not\nbrothers? You shall deliver him as a gift, and take two suits of\nraiment in exchange.\"\n\n\"He is yours, my brother,\" said the chief, \"and my tents are yours; my\nhorses, my camels, my handmaidens; the sword on my thigh, and the bow in\nmy hand. But shall I give my brother ripened dates and receive from him\nonly their broken shells? Add to the raiment a measure of myrrh, at\nleast, and three cruses of oil.\"\n\n\"With a new pack-saddle,\" suggested a bystander, whose own\ncamel-furniture had reached the last stage of decay; while a dozen more\ntook up the cry, insisting on such articles as each thought necessary to\nhis own comfort or equipment.\n\n\"Some twisted rope for hobbles!\"\n\n\"A bale of silk from Tyre!\"\n\n\"Two skins of wine of Eshcol!\"\n\n\"An embossed girdle!\"\n\n\"A shield of brass!\"\n\n\"A score of new bowstrings!\"\n\n\"Or fifty shekels of silver, and no more said,\" exclaimed the trader,\nturning from side to side, with the air of a man overcome by his own\nliberality.\n\n\"Add to them a hundred,\" urged the chief; \"and go thy way, thou and thy\ncamels and thy servants, with the goodly slave I have given thee.\"\n\n\"One hundred shekels, and he is mine,\" returned the trader, placing his\nhand on the Assyrian's shoulder in token of ownership; and thus becoming\nthe possessor of Sarchedon at something less than the price of a good\nhorse.\n\nRegret was fruitless--resistance impossible. Bound hand and foot, he\ncould but grind his teeth, and submit.\n\nThe merchants made ready their camels forthwith, taking advantage of the\ncoolness of night to journey through the desert, and guiding their\ncourse by the pilotage of the stars. So noiseless was their departure,\nafter the bustle of concluding their bargain subsided, that they had\ndisappeared with her lover in the darkness, ere Ishtar knew they were\nclear of the encampment. Seeking the spot where she had last seen\nSarchedon, to find it empty, the maddening truth flashed upon her, and\nshe could bear no more. Sick, faint, despairing, she uttered one\nplaintive cry, and fell senseless on the sand.\n\nThe first of the tribe who found her, lifted that drooping form, with\nthe ease and something of the pitiful admiration with which he would\nhave picked up a broken lily, and bore her gently to the chiefs tent.\nHere she was tended carefully during the night, its gigantic owner\nstepping softly to its entrance at intervals to assure himself of her\nstate. With morning she was able to rise, and as her faculties resumed\ntheir vigour, she realised the whole force of the blow that had fallen.\n\nIshtar's nature, however, was one which is only found amongst women.\nShrinking instinctively from everything approaching to pain or\ndanger--fond, trusting, sensitive, and docile--she could yet brave and\nendure all things on behalf of those she loved; identifying herself so\nwholly with their welfare as to forget her own fears, her own weakness,\nand combining with the martyr's patient courage that cheerful energy,\nwhich, looking only to duty, overcomes, by sheer persistence, the\ndifficulties it ignores. Sorrow might bend, but could not break her\nspirit. Like certain flowers which, tread them down as you will, lift\ntheir fair heads directly the crushing footstep has passed on, it rose,\nfor all its meekness, the more invincible, because of its misfortunes.\n\nSatisfied that Sarchedon was fairly gone, she set herself the one single\ntask of recovering him. Was he sold into captivity? He must be bought\nback. Was he lost? He must be found. That should now be her sole object\nin life; and no sooner did she feel strong enough to stand upright than\nshe began her work without wasting another moment in consideration or\ndelay.\n\nSeeking the chief of the Anakim, whom she found without the encampment\nleading his mare to water, she placed herself in his path, standing\nerect and motionless till he approached. Then she rent her garment to\nthe hem, and, lifting a handful of sand, poured it over her head.\n\n\"The servant of my lord is in sore distress and perplexity,\" said she:\n\"to whom should she come for help, but to him of whose bread and salt\nshe has eaten within the shadow of his tents?\"\n\nThe mare was rubbing her head caressingly against his breast; he pushed\nher away, extending both arms in token of sincerity, and replied, \"All\nthat I have, my life, and the lives of my tribe, herds and horses, bows\nand spears, are at the disposal of my guest.\"\n\n\"My lord speaks well,\" answered Ishtar. \"But words are vain. Like the\nflight of a bird through the air, they leave no track. It is the steed\nand the camel that stamp their mark on the sand.\"\n\n\"The tongues of the Anakim are small and feeble,\" said he, \"their arms\nlong and weighty. Desire of me what you will. It is a gift, before it is\nasked.\"\n\n\"What have you done with the Assyrian?\" she murmured eagerly. \"How fares\nhe? Whither is he gone? You will not deceive me!\"\n\n\"You are my guest,\" returned the chief, \"and I _cannot_ deceive you. The\nAssyrian is sold into captivity; ere now he has journeyed many a furlong\nover the plain towards the city of the Great King.\"\n\n\"Is he, then, bound for Babylon?\" she asked, with something of hope\nrising in her eyes.\n\n\"I know not, of a surety,\" was his answer. \"Yet I think these northern\ntraders, possessing so goodly a captive, would hardly pass within a few\ndays' journey of the great city, and fail to visit its market. They will\ntreat him well, and if he finds friends to redeem him, he may soon be\nfree. No doubt in Babylon he will sell for nearly a talent of gold, and\nwe let him go at a hundred shekels of silver! Half the price of a camel!\nTruly there is injustice in the desert as in the city!\"\n\nThis reflection was unheard by Ishtar, being indeed but the echo of the\nchief's own thoughts, and spoken aside, as it were, into the ear of his\nmare.\n\nThere seemed a vague hope, then, of seeing Sarchedon once again. The\ngirl seized her protector's hand, and, stooping but a little, pressed it\nagainst her forehead.\n\n\"You will take me under safe conduct to the gates of Babylon?\" said she.\n\nHe pondered, looking very grave.\n\n\"Will you not abide with us in our tents?\" he asked. \"Will you be cooped\nup in the walls of a city, when you might roam over the desert free as\nthe wild ass on the plain? Take thought, damsel, once more, as a man\nfits a new bowstring when his arrow has missed its aim.\"\n\n\"Had I a quiverful,\" she replied, \"I can see but one mark for them all!\"\n\n\"You are my guest,\" said he stoutly; \"and go where you will, it is my\nduty to speed you safely on your way. You shall ride this my own mare,\nthe most precious of my possessions, and Lotus-flower, swift, easy,\ngentle, will bear you like flowing water. But I must leave you, damsel,\nunder cover of night, in the vineyards that fringe the great city. If,\nfor every horseman who leaps to the saddle when I shake my spear, I\ncould muster a score, then should you enter Babylon through a breach of\nfifty cubits in the wall. But a wolf or a jackal would meet with more\nmercy than a child of Anak from the Assyrians when they set upon him, a\nhundred to one! I have spoken.\"\n\nTheir journey was begun accordingly. Ishtar, mounted on the chief's\nfavourite mare, led by its owner, and guarded by a score of the stalwart\nsons of Anak, journeyed in security and comfort through the wilderness,\nuntil they reached its confines, and entered a territory over which\nNinus, and more especially Semiramis, had thrown the protection of their\nsevere and pitiless laws. Here they lay hidden by day, advancing swiftly\nand silently under cover of night; and Ishtar could not withhold her\nadmiration from the extraordinary skill and sagacity shown by these\nprofessional spoilers in concealing their encampment on their march. On\nsuch expeditions as the present, they were careful to ride their mares;\nfor these animals, docile and gentle, either loose or picketed, never\ndisclosed their presence by those paroxysms of neighing and screaming to\nwhich their less tractable brothers were exceedingly prone.\n\nAt length, soon after dawn, Ishtar found herself alone with the chief at\nan easy distance from the great city. Taking the ass of a poor peasant,\nwho dared not even protest against the spoliation, he had dismounted his\nguest from the high-bred mare, and placed her on the humbler animal's\nback. The troop had been left many a league in the desert. Their leader,\nat the utmost personal risk, was within a short ride of Babylon. It was\ntime to depart, and thus he bade his charge farewell:\n\n\"May thy corn never fail nor thy well run dry! May thy vines yield a\nhundredfold, and men-children play round thy feet! Thou camest into my\ntent like the breeze from the mountain. Though the breeze passeth on,\nthe tent is glad because of the coolness it hath left. The desert is\nboundless, and we scour it far and wide. Behold! Where rides a son of\nAnak, there hast thou a brother. I have spoken.\"\n\nHe swung himself on the mare from which he had lately dismounted, caught\nLotus-flower by the bridle, and sped away like the wind.\n\nShe watched the gigantic form till it disappeared amongst the dust\nraised by those two fleet animals, of which toil and privation seemed in\nno way to diminish the mettle or speed; then she looked towards Great\nBabylon, towering in state, with her glittering pinnacles, her flashing\ngates, her frowning, forbidding walls, and felt that she had lost a\nfriend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nFORLORN\n\n\nShe had lost a friend, and where was there another left? Her father\nslain, her home despoiled, the man she loved sold into slavery and\ncarried she knew not where: could human lot be more lonely, more\nhopeless? Yet she never lost heart. Plodding on in lowly guise, riding\nthat humble animal, there was yet dominant in her tender frame a hopeful\ncourage, such as does not always animate the warrior in his chariot, a\nspirit of self-reliance and self-devotion that would have ennobled a\nsceptred monarch on his throne.\n\nReaching the well-remembered spot where she used to watch for the return\nof Arbaces, where she had first met Sarchedon riding home with tidings\nfrom the Great King, it was no wonder that she saw the Well of Palms\nthrough a mist of tears.\n\nNevertheless she dashed them hastily from her eyes, and summoned all her\nenergies, when she became aware of a troop of horsemen moving rapidly on\nher track. To be discovered by these, she knew too well, would entail\nthe risk of insult, perhaps injury, and the certainty of delay. While\nthey were yet afar off, she leaped from the ass, and, taking advantage\nof her familiarity with the locality, concealed herself behind a broken\nwall that skirted the fountain, while the animal jogged leisurely home,\nto the relief and comfort of its disconsolate owner.\n\nSo near the great city, a solitary wayfarer was an object of little\ninterest. She soon perceived she had escaped observation by the\nmovements of the party, who galloped on towards Babylon without\ndiverging to visit her hiding-place. She determined, however, to remain\nconcealed yet a while longer, and had no cause to regret her caution,\nwhen a single horseman, detaching himself from the rest, approached the\nmarble basin of the Well of Palms, as if to water his good white steed,\nere he passed on.\n\nHalf a bowshot off, she recognised the animal with a start of fear,\nsuspense, surprise, sweetened by a thrill of love. She could not be\ndeceived: it was Merodach! That spotless frame, those glancing limbs,\nthat gallant bearing, could belong to no other animal in the land of\nShinar; and where Merodach bent to the rein, it seemed cruelly hard\nSarchedon's should not be the hand to guide.\n\n[Illustration: \"SHE COULD NOT BE DECEIVED: IT WAS MERODACH!\"]\n\nWatching with fond and eager eyes, she turned sick and faint, while she\ncrouched down, like some poor hunted fawn, into her shelter; for on its\nback, soothing the good horse with many a gentle word and tender caress,\nsat the form of him whom most she feared and hated in the bounds of\nearth. Yes; the beautiful face she seemed yet to behold lulled on her\nown breast, in flushed and drunken sleep, was surely there, within a few\npaces, gazing dreamily into the distance; while Merodach, scarcely\nwetting his dark muzzle in the water, pawed and snorted in restless\nimpatience to rejoin the companions he had left.\n\nWhat was Ninyas doing here? Had the prince pursued her from Ascalon? was\nhe on her track, and searching for her even now? could she escape him,\nneither in the city nor the plain? All these thoughts whirled through\nher brain, while she lay still as death, scarcely daring to breathe,\npeering at her enemy through a crevice of the crumbling wall with pale\nface and wild dilated eyes.\n\nThe horseman seemed moody and abstracted--strangely lavish of caresses\nfor his steed, strangely indifferent to the heat of the sun, the ripple\nof the fountain, everything but his own engrossing thoughts. Without\ndismounting, he sat wrapped in meditation for a space of time that\nappeared interminable to the watcher, ere he woke up, as it were, with a\nstart, and, curbing his beast's impatience, rode away at a walk to enter\nthe city by a different gate from that which the party he had left were\nabout to pass through.\n\nEmerging from her shelter, though not until the white horse and his\nrider had disappeared in the distance, Ishtar felt sadly perplexed. To\nabide by her present hiding-place would be imprudent in the highest\ndegree, for the Well of Palms was the resort of every traveller who\napproached Babylon on its southern side. If she retraced her steps, and\nfled once more into the wilderness, she must perish from thirst and\nfatigue; for to be afoot in the desert without a camel was to be adrift\non the sea without a boat; and she had even abandoned the honest\nplodding beast that brought her thus far after she left her gigantic\nprotector at sunrise. She almost wished now she had remained in their\ntents with the Anakim, intrusting to those tameless denizens of the\nwaste her own safety and the task of eventually recovering her lover.\n\nShe saw no other course left but to trudge wearily on, and pass, if\npossible, unnoticed through the gate of Babylon, there to seek high and\nlow some real friend, who, for her father's sake, would give her bread\nto eat, a roof to cover her, and aid in the one object of her life.\n\nWrapping her veil closely round her, counterfeiting as well as she could\nthe gait and bearing of a woman advanced in years and of humble grade,\nIshtar toiled slowly forward, carrying indeed a sorely laden heart into\nthat glittering capital of splendour, luxury, and sin.\n\nThe troop that had so disquieted this forlorn and friendless fugitive\ntrampled bravely on, raising clouds of dust, through which flashed the\nmagnificence of their arms and apparel, as a beautiful face sparkles\nand blushes through its tawny veil. Without waiting for the detached\nhorseman, they hastened towards the city, galloping, it seemed, from\nsheer exuberance of spirits rather than from any actual necessity for\nspeed. The principal figure in the group, to whom the others turned\nobsequiously for guidance, was Assarac; and the eunuch's bearing, as he\nmanaged his steed with the graceful ease of an Assyrian born, was\ndignified and commanding in the extreme.\n\nBy his side rode Beladon, laughing, talking, gesticulating, proud to\nshow his countrymen that a priest of Baal could back a horse and bend a\nbow with the best of them--that if his sacred character debarred him\nfrom seeking fame in the war-chariot, he was yet a true child of Ashur\nfor skill and daring in the chase.\n\nHis eye gleamed, his cheek glowed; there were stains of blood on his\nlinen garments; and from his horse's chest dangled the muzzle and fangs\nof a full-grown lion, that had fallen since sunrise to his bow.\n\nHe was never weary of detailing this achievement, dwelling in boundless\nsatisfaction on his own success and the formidable size of his prey.\n\nAssarac listened, with his usual imperturbable smile.\n\n\"I called on Baal,\" said Beladon, \"and urged my good horse to his speed;\nfor already the lion was scarce the cast of a javelin from the reeds,\nand had he reached his thicket, I must have gone in and finished him on\nfoot. By the belt of Nimrod, I can tell you it was no comely face he\nshowed me when I came up with him. His eyes glared like the carbuncles\non the palace-gate, and he bared all these fangs that hang here at my\nhorse's breast, as who should say, Behold! a score of proven warriors,\nand every one an enemy! I drew my bow thus--to my very ear--and as he\nrose on his hind-legs, I pierced him straight and true right through his\nopen mouth, then turned my hand and galloped off across the plain, lest\nhe should rise up ere life was extinct, and tear my good horse limb from\nlimb in his death-pang.\"\n\n\"So the spearmen gathered round and slew him,\" observed Assarac.\n\n\"The spearmen gathered round and slew him,\" repeated the other, \"after\nthey found him disabled by the might of this right arm. When I turned\nback and got down to measure his carcass, there was my shaft driven\nthrough the roof of his mouth, cleaving his very skull.\"\n\n\"Was there not an arrow in his body when he fell?\" asked the eunuch.\n\nBeladon coloured and looked vexed.\n\n\"The king had, indeed, loosed a shaft at the beast when first we roused\nhim,\" said he. \"Doubtless, the royal hand never misses its mark.\"\n\n\"Had you come between Ninus and his prey in the olden time,\" observed\nthe other, \"not all the host of heaven could have turned aside his\nwrath. He would have impaled you before set of sun.\"\n\n\"He loved the chase dearly,\" answered Beladon, \"as did the Great Queen,\nand Ninyas too, till lately. What has come over him now? He leaps to the\nsaddle at dawn--hasty, eager, excited, as though every beast of chase\nbetween the rivers must be swept away forthwith, slaying and sparing\nnot--then, after one fierce dash at the wild-bull, one savage thrust at\nthe lion, leaves his followers, as he left us even now, to ride slowly\nhome, sad, moody, and alone. Always on the same steed too. It seems as\nthough he cared for nothing under heaven but the white horse with the\nwild eyes.\"\n\n\"'Tis a good beast,\" answered the other, scrutinising the face of his\nfollower, \"and worthy to bear the person of a king.\"\n\n\"A good beast indeed,\" said Beladon simply, \"and belonged once to as\ngood a warrior as ever lifted spear or emptied wine-cup. It seems but\nyesterday that Sarchedon brought back the Great King's signet, and made\nhis night's lodging with us in the temple of our god. What has become of\nhim now? I would we knew!\"\n\n\"I would we knew!\" repeated Assarac in a careless tone, as if he only\nechoed the other's sentiments, not as if he would have given wealth\nuntold, deemed no waste of blood or treasure too lavish, for the\ninformation.\n\nReining their horses to a walk, the gaudy troop had already passed\nthrough one of her gates, and entered the crowded streets of Babylon.\nThinking their king was amongst the party, his people gathered round in\nconsiderable numbers, and appeared disappointed to miss the beautiful\nface and form they so seldom looked on now. It was a common remark\namongst all classes, that the wild, free-living, free-spoken young\nprince had become strangely solemn and reserved since his accession to\nthe throne. There was far less revelry in the palace than in the days of\nstern old Ninus. His son seldom rode abroad through the streets or\nshowed himself to his people. The shadow of the priests of Baal seemed\nover the monarch, and it was known that Assarac had great influence in\nthe royal counsels. As is usual in such cases, the favourite came in for\na larger share of obloquy than his lord.\n\nNevertheless, there is always enough popularity about a gay cavalcade to\ninsure its welcome in a pleasure-loving city like Babylon. Assarac could\nnot but observe that, although there were dark frowns and angry glances\nin the outskirts of the crowd, the nearer spectators shouted their\nwelcome cordially enough, pressing in to kiss the trappings of his\nhorse, the hem of his garment, with all the transitory enthusiasm of\ntheir impressionable nature.\n\n\"Tis an easy people to rule!\" whispered Beladon in the ear of his\nsuperior. \"Believers in Baal, and a thousand gods besides; mark the\nreverence they pay your sacred character. Surely the sons of Ashur love\nthe linen vestment of the priest.\"\n\n\"Were not their shouts yet louder, their welcome kinder, to the scarlet\nand steel of the Great King's horsemen, when he marched in from Egypt?\"\nreturned Assarac. \"Trust me, Beladon, they bend lowest when they carry\nthe heaviest load. They love deepest where most they have to fear.\"\n\n\"And they fear Baal,\" said the other.\n\n\"Only because they know not Nisroch,\" replied Assarac. \"God or man can\nbe great for this false fickle nation only until there cometh a greater\nthan he. Do they not offer homage willingly to Abitur of the Mountains?\nAnd why? Because they dread his power, not knowing its nature nor its\nextent. Their ruler should indeed be a god in all but benevolence. He\nmust have no natural sympathies, no human weaknesses, no remorse, no\npity, and, above all, no fear.\"\n\n\"There is but one man in the land of Shinar who is above and without\nthese softer failings of his kind. May I sit on his right hand\nhenceforward, as to-day!\" was Beladon's insidious reply.\n\nThough half despising the flattery of his follower, Assarac smiled. Yet\nit did not escape the other's observation, ever on the alert, that in\nthe eunuch's smile lurked an expression of weariness and sorrow almost\namounting to pain.\n\n\"The king has faithful followers,\" said he \"and wise counsellors--may he\nlive for ever!\"\n\nThe crowd hemmed them in very close; his last sentence, though uttered\nin a low voice, was caught up and repeated by a thousand tongues.\nThrough the noise and confusion that prevailed, only Assarac could hear\nthe whisper of his subordinate,\n\n\"Baal is great. What are kings and princes compared to the mighty\nAssyrian god? Let Baal rule alone in Babylon and through all the land of\nShinar; while Assarac, the interpreter of his will to the people, twines\nthe sacred lotus round the royal sceptre, he needs but stretch out his\nhand to take.\"\n\n\"As the serpent of Ashtaroth twines round a man's heart!\" answered the\nother. And Beladon, looking in his face, marvelled to see it drawn and\nwhite, as of one who strives with an agony of mortal pain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nTHE LION'S CUB\n\n\nIt was but according to an established principle of nature and general\nlaw of race, that the descendants of Nimrod should entertain a keen\npredilection for the chase. In this particular Ninyas, notwithstanding\nhabits of luxury and effeminacy at home, formed no exception to the\nprinces of his line. He was never so happy as when urging a good horse\nto speed after the scudding ostrich, loosing a grim leopard from its\nleash to spring on the fleet antelope, tracking with fierce and heavy\nhounds the footprints of some lordly lion on the desert sand, or\nwatching with eager eyes his long-winged falcons wheeling and stooping\nin the desert sky. Skilled in bodily exercises, sitting his horse with\nthe graceful ease of constant practice, flushed, panting, joyous, he\nrode to and fro, beautiful as a woman and radiant as a god.\n\nAfter that night of revelry, on which he so lowered the pride of\nRekamat, to be in turn foiled by Ishtar, it was not strange that this\nwayward prince should wake from a feverish sleep in the very worst of\nhumours; but having relieved his irritated feelings by condemning the\ncaptain of the gate to a painful death, and settled himself in the\nsaddle for a long day's pleasure on the plain, he felt sufficiently\ncomforted to enter with considerable zest into the amusement of the\nhour.\n\nWhile his horse was fresh, he had succeeded in approaching within\nbowshot of some wild asses to wound one of the herd wantonly and\nuselessly, with an arrow from his own royal quiver. He had fairly ridden\ndown and secured an ostrich of unusual plumage, breaking the bird's long\nlegs by a blow from the club, which he flung while galloping at speed\nwith marvellous dexterity. His leopard had not failed to strike an\nantelope at the first pounce; his hawks never once missed their quarry,\nnor delayed returning obedient to the lure; moreover, he had brought an\nold male lion to bay, and, riding in on him, wounded the monster so\nseverely with his spear, that although it had crawled for refuge into\ncertain inaccessible rocks, it must have died before night; and as none\nof his servants had come up to help him, the glory was exclusively his\nown.\n\nAccordingly, when he paced back into Ascalon at sundown, weary and\ndishevelled, yet happy and triumphant, he felt at peace with mankind;\nrevenge seemed hateful, anger impossible, and all he thirsted for was a\ncup of wine.\n\nDismounting within the gate of the fortress, it was served as his foot\ntouched the ground. Then he bethought him of the fugitive from Egypt, to\nwhom he had not yet granted audience, and desired that this visitor\nshould be brought into his presence forthwith. Sethos, in his dark and\ncheerless apartment, scooped out of the very rock on which the fortress\nstood, received such a summons with considerable dismay. The care taken\nto secure him, the dreary nature of his lodging, the coarse food brought\nby his only visitor, a spearman, belted with bow and quiver, grim,\nsilent, and armed to the teeth, denoted that his offence, whatever it\nmight be, was considered of exceeding gravity, and that in all\nlikelihood his imprisonment would soon be terminated by death.\n\nBold and joyous as was his nature, the cup-bearer followed his conductor\nwith a sad brow and a heavy heart. He knew the prince's character well,\nand a peal of laughter from his lord, while he bent low at the royal\nfeet, served by no means to allay his fears.\n\n\"So I have kept him in ward from sunrise to sunset,\" exclaimed Ninyas,\nshaking his sides and wiping his eyes, in the exuberance of his mirth,\n\"little guessing who he was! The Great King's cup-bearer, the curled and\nscented ornament of all the Assyrian host, the daintiest flower in the\nwhole of dainty Babylon; for whom the royal banquet was but a coarse\nmeal of broken meat; the royal court, blazing with a thousand torches,\nbut a dim and dismal den. And I ordered him bitter water and bread of\naffliction; shut him up in a stone cell without a breath of air or a\ngleam of light! By the beard of Ashur, I shall never recover it. O\nSethos, Sethos! had I known this morning it was you, I could not have\nsat my horse for laughing all day. And think what a spoil we should have\nlost! Five antelopes, man; an ostrich as tall as my spear; scores of all\nthe birds of heaven; and a lion, though we brought him not in, so tawny\nthat he seemed almost black, old, and fierce, like Nimrod himself, big\nas a wild bull, and with fangs more than a span long. By the quiver of\nMerodach, I have not taken such a prey since we hunted that pleasant\ntime in the northern mountains, before the Egyptian campaign!\"\n\nNinyas seemed in high good-humour. Sethos, raising his eyes to look in\nthe prince's joyous face, knew that the bitterness of death was past.\n\n\"His servant has received many good gifts from my lord,\" was the\nconventional reply. \"Shall he not accept evil without complaint? There\ncan be no injustice between a master and his slave.\"\n\n\"But how come you here?\" asked Ninyas, ignoring, from force of habit,\nthe accustomed formalities of the other. \"They tell me you rode in with\nhalf-a-score of bowmen, pursued by the hosts of Egypt--chariots and\nhorsemen, banner, bow, and spear. I would have loosed a shaft or two\namongst them nevertheless, had they been a hundred to one.\"\n\n\"My lord speaks well,\" answered Sethos proudly. \"His servant slew their\nleader with his own hand ere he turned rein, and fled to seek shelter\nwith my lord!\"\n\n\"I would I had been at your back!\" exclaimed the prince, kindling. \"I\ngrew weary unto death of their country, I own, when we rode there under\nthe banner of Ashur, and I never wished to set eyes on one of their\ntawny faces or their supple backs again. But to have them brought here\nat bowshot distance, without any trouble, like a troop of wild asses or\na herd of deer! Ah, Sethos, you were always a favourite of the\ngods--Baal, Nisroch, Merodach, and above all, Ashtaroth, Queen of\nLight!\"\n\n\"My lord gives praise to his servant out of his own bounty,\" answered\nthe other. \"Hath Ninyas ever yet been known to come down from saddle\nor war-chariot without taking the first spoil? And as for\nAshtaroth--surely, fairer game than feeds in field or forest falls to\nhim, even before he lifts his bow.\"\n\nThe prince loved flattery dearly, though he had wit to despise the\nflatterer. He smiled well pleased.\n\n\"I cannot blame the gods,\" said he; \"they have served me better than\never I served _them_. Do you remember the old lion we slew in the\nmountains ten days' march from Nineveh, when you drove my chariot up to\nthe axles through the marsh? That was a prey worth the taking of a king.\nHow he grinned and roared, and fought, with my javelin through his\nshoulder, and my arrow in his neck! Had he not torn at the chariot-wheel\nwith claws and fangs, in blind senseless rage, we had hardly brought his\ndark skin home to make a foot-cloth for the Great Queen. Believe me,\nman, the beast I slew to-day might have been whelped in the same\nlitter--as old, as savage, flecked in the jaws with grey, leaner\nperhaps, and a thought longer--say a span--from muzzle to tail. I am no\nboaster, Sethos; but surely old Nimrod himself can scarce have won\nnobler triumphs over the fiercest beasts of chase than mine!\"\n\n\"My lord hath spoken,\" answered Sethos. \"Is he not unrivalled in war, in\nthe chase, in love?\"\n\nThe last word seemed to touch some painful chord, rouse some bitter\nmemory in his listener. The prince's handsome face reddened, and then\nturned pale. When he spoke again, it was the cup-bearer's turn to feel\ndiscomposed; for the voice of Ninyas sounded cold and hard, his manner\nhad become stern and almost severe.\n\nThe lion's cub so far resembled his fierce old father, that his mood\nwould change on occasion at a moment's notice from joyous good-humour\nand hilarity to a paroxysm of wrath, all the more dangerous that it was\nso sudden and unexpected.\n\nWith Ninus, however, such an access of passion betrayed itself in\nuncontrolled violence of language and gesture; while his son, on the\ncontrary, concealed his feelings under a smooth brow and calm demeanour,\nfar more implacable than the savage outbreak of his sire. The one would\norder an offender to be taken out and strangled on the spot, but forgive\nhim perhaps before the fatal covering had been drawn round his head. The\nother spoke softly, nodded courteously, passed sentence of death in a\nwhisper, and remitted it for no consideration of justice or mercy\nwhatsoever.\n\nBut the prince loved pleasure even more than cruelty, and was therefore\npopular enough with the multitude, who were willing to give his\nbeautiful face and graceful form credit for every royal virtue;\nbelieving no evil of one who rode abroad so gallantly in such shining\nraiment, sat so long at the feast among brave men and beautiful women,\ndrank so deep, laughed so loud, and looked so fair, garland on head and\nwine-cup in hand.\n\n\"You have not yet accounted for your presence in Ascalon,\" said he\ncoldly.\n\nAnd Sethos, knowing well that he must trim his sails according as the\nwind blew, answered with the gravity of some high official making a\nreport:\n\n\"In order to fulfil the mission of my lord, I was compelled to journey\nswiftly, tarrying nowhere by the way. Therefore were our horses\nsomewhat faint and wearied, or we had laughed to scorn the speed of the\nEgyptian, flinging sand like the wild ass in their faces who pursue.\"\n\n\"You should have halted and fought it out,\" observed Ninyas.\n\n\"The embassy of my lord spoke indeed of defiance,\" replied Sethos; \"but\nhis servant was accompanied by scarce a score of horsemen. The hosts of\nEgypt swarmed like locusts in a south wind. Had the city of refuge stood\nbut one furlong farther off, our bones had lain bleaching in the desert,\nor we had been again brought into the terrible presence of Pharaoh ere\nnow.\"\n\n\"Then you have seen Pharaoh?\" interrupted Ninyas. \"What is he like?\"\n\nThe cup-bearer looked surprised.\n\n\"I have indeed stood before him,\" he answered, \"and spoken with Pharaoh\nface to face. His throne is of beaten gold, studded with jewels; his\ngarments shine and glisten so that he seems clad in light; but the man\nhimself is of low stature and puny frame, lean, sallow, undignified. It\nis only the line of Ashur who are princes in bearing as in blood.\"\n\n\"The princes of Ashur go out to war with their hosts,\" responded Ninyas,\naccepting the compliment greedily enough. \"Pharaoh lay soft in his\npalace beyond the river many a night while I was watching with bow and\nspear.\"\n\n\"Pharaoh lives for ever,\" said the other. \"So proclaim his captains and\nofficials from rise to set of sun. Perhaps it is that he cares not to\nfront death in battle or the chase. Nevertheless, he entertained me with\nall the honour due to him who carried the message of my lord the king.\"\n\n\"And what message had my lord the king for one with whom he might have\nmade his own terms at his very gate?\" asked the prince.\n\nOnce more the puzzled look crossed his face, while Sethos pondered ere\nhe replied. The path he trod seemed very dangerous; he must look well to\nhis balance at every step. Taking courage, he answered frankly, yet with\na certain caution,\n\n\"What am I, that I should stand in the light of the king's countenance?\nThe reed withers in the furnace and is consumed, the bar of iron doth\nbut bend and obey. On such a matter it was not fitting that the lowest\nof his servants should speak with the king face to face. I received my\ninstructions from him who stood on the king's right hand. Shall I repeat\nthem to my lord?\"\n\nNinyas watched him keenly.\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked.\n\n\"I was commanded to make all speed through the desert, until I came into\nthe presence of Pharaoh himself,\" said the cup-bearer; \"to speak out\nboldly, as befitted him who represented the glory of Nimrod; to demand\nthe body of a son of Ashur, lying captive in the land of Egypt; and if\naught but good had befallen him, to warn Pharaoh that Assyria would come\ndown with her chariots and horsemen to take a life for every hair of\nSarchedon's head.\"\n\nThe prince started as if he was stung.\n\n\"Sarchedon!\" he exclaimed. \"Was it even so? And you brought him back\nwith you to Ascalon?\"\n\n\"It seemed but my duty,\" answered Sethos, \"to shelter in a city of\nrefuge one on whose head the king set so high a price, rather than\nsuffer him to fall a second time into the hand of the false Egyptian.\"\n\nNinyas seemed much disturbed, betraying his vexation, as the other could\nnot but perceive, in the unnatural composure of his demeanour.\n\n\"And these instructions?\" said he, after a pause. \"They must have been\ngiven by one in authority, standing at the right hand of my lord the\nking.\"\n\n\"They were given by Assarac, high-priest of Baal,\" answered the\ncup-bearer. \"Surely my lord is but proving his servant with empty words.\nWhat am I, that I should seek to show aught but the truth in the sight\nof my lord.\"\n\n\"Assarac, high-priest of Baal!\" repeated Ninyas. \"And at the right hand\nof the Great King! Beware, my friend; beware! There is yet a morsel of\nbread and a cruse of water in that dungeon where you passed the day.\nWhen a son of Ashur speaks to his lord with a lie in his mouth, surely\nhis face is already covered, and his blood lies on his own head.\"\n\nHurt, alarmed, and in the utmost perplexity, the tears rising to his\neyes, Sethos could but answer in a broken voice: \"The Great King is\ngone to the gods! If my lord should slay his servant, he can only speak\nof that which he hath seen and knows.\"\n\nIn spite of all his self-control, Ninyas turned deadly pale, rocking and\ntottering where he stood, like a man stricken sore in fight. Then he\ncalled for another cup of wine, and turning to Sethos, with a smile said\nonly:\n\n\"Leave me now; I am wearied, and the sun smote fierce to-day on the\ndesert sand. See that they water not my horse till he is cool; and,\nSethos, let not man nor woman come near me till I clap my hands.\"\n\nWith these words Ninyas retired to his chamber, and was seen no more,\nleaving the cup-bearer at his wits' end with astonishment, a state which\nwas shared more or less by all the household; for was not the banquet\nspread, the hall lighted, the wine poured out, yet the prince absent?\nSuch an event had never yet come to pass in the memory of his servants;\nand Rekamat, who hoped to-night she would regain some of the footing she\nhad lost in his favour, was loud in protestations of astonishment and\nvexation.\n\nShe was yet more dismayed, however, on the morrow to learn that a troop\nof horsemen had passed out of the gate at sunrise, and disappeared in\nthe desert towards the north; the watchman farther reporting, that in\ntheir centre, on the prince's favourite steed, rode a woman closely\nveiled. Rekamat bit her lip in sore vexation, to keep back the tears of\nspite and shame that rose brimming to her eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nTHE POWER OF THE DOG\n\n\nTowards sunset, Ishtar wandered into Babylon anxious, forlorn, and\ndesolate, yet carefully nursing in her breast that spark of true courage\nshe inherited from a line of warriors. In plain attire, travel-worn and\ndejected, she passed on among a crowd of wayfarers heeded by none.\nDesirous of escaping observation, she yet could not help reflecting\nbitterly how everything about her was changed, herself perhaps most of\nall.\n\nIt seemed but yesterday that the daughter of Arbaces moved abroad\nattended by a retinue of servants, escorted by a troop of horsemen. Even\nwhen most she affected privacy, she could not stir without women,\ncamels, foot-cloths, fan-bearers, all the encumbrances of rank. Eager\neyes were fain to pierce her veil, that they might gaze on her beauty;\nkind voices wafted after her their welcome or good wishes, because of\nher own graces and her father's fame. She was flattered, admired--above\nall, loved. And now she must shrink beneath the wall, to avoid the rude\ncamel-driver and his ungainly charge. The water-carrier, tottering under\nhis jars, gruffly bade her stand aside to let him pass; and the only\ncourtesy she experienced amongst that hurrying, shifting throng was from\na curled and bearded bowman, who would fain have lifted her veil as the\nprice of his protection, and whose good offices she repulsed with a\nscornful energy that put him to flight in considerable dismay.\n\nShe wept a little after this effort, and hurried on faster to the\nshelter of what had once been her home.\n\nIn the days of mourning that succeeded his death, or, as his subjects\nwere taught to believe, the enthronement amongst the stars of the Great\nKing, a strange repressive power had made itself felt amongst all\nclasses in the city of Babylon. An unseen hand, cold, weighty, and\nirresistible, seemed laid upon the whole people, forbidding any\ndemonstration of sympathy and indeed all expression of feeling whatever,\npublic or private. The king's host, as it was still termed, had been\nrecalled within the walls, and amalgamated cordially enough with their\ncomrades of that army which was avowedly in the interests of the queen;\nbut the citizens gained little from such an alliance, save more mouths\nto feed, more prejudices to consult, and it might almost be said more\nmasters to serve. The priests of Baal too, with whom, in the reign of\nNinus, his men of war had been covertly at variance, seemed now on terms\nof the closest brotherhood with all who handled bow and spear. Such a\nfusion of two non-productive classes boded little good to those whose\nindustry supported both; and the thoughtless Babylonian, usually so\nlight-hearted, found himself saddened and depressed when he had fondly\nexpected to eat, drink, and be merry, under the easy rule of a lord who\npreferred feast to fray, bubble of wine-cup to clash of sword and spear.\nFrom a change of rulers Babylon had expected a change of those\nprinciples which constitute government itself. Ninus, though firm and\nimpartial, was severe, and reined her with a strong hand; she had\ntherefore always looked forward to the day when his son should sway the\nsceptre, as a time of ease and luxury, with license for every man to\nthink and speak and act as seemed good in his own eyes. But Ninus went\nto the stars, Ninyas reigned in his stead; and the citizens wondered,\nwith blank faces, why bread was dear and water scarce, the priest\ncovetous, the warrior oppressive, and the royal yoke harder than ever to\nbe borne.\n\nUnder such circumstances none thought it worth while to bestir himself\nfor the bettering of his own position, or the assistance of his\nneighbour. If a well was choked, he cared not to clear it: if a wall\nfell down, he let it lie. There was a shadow over the city, and its\ninhabitants already regretted the wise foresight and judicious\ngovernment of the Great Queen.\n\nIshtar felt very weary before she reached the portals of her father's\nhouse, very sad and friendless when she crossed its threshold and looked\nround on the precincts of her home. The sun was down, but a clear cold\nmoon poured its beams over the scene of desolation and decay. It was\nobvious that the palace must have been abandoned on the night of its\nattack, and that no friend or servant of Arbaces had revisited it since.\nThe assailants, having another object than plunder, carried away from\nhis dwelling only that one of his possessions the chief captain most\ndearly valued, which they took with them to Ascalon. But an unguarded\nhouse could scarce remain unspoiled for a single night in such a city as\nBabylon. And Ishtar found her father's dwelling rifled and sacked from\nroof-tree to door-stone completely, as though an enemy had taken it by\nstorm. In the court-yard remnants of shawls, silks, precious arms,\ncostly flagons, strewed the inlaid pavement, dinted and defaced by marks\nof struggling feet; but the shreds were frayed and torn, stained with\nwine or stiff with blood, the weapons bent or broken; the flagons lay\ncrushed and battered where they had been emptied and dashed down.\nPushing aside some rent hangings at the entrance of the court,\nnight-hawks shrieked and night-owls hooted, while a bat, flying out,\nstruck cold and clammy against Ishtar's cheek. Her flesh crept with\nhorror; but that sorrow mastered fear, she must have cried aloud for\nhelp.\n\nThe moon shone brighter as it mounted in the sky. Patches of dried blood\nstained courts and passages, a splintered javelin and a naked sword, lay\nat her feet--fragments of alabaster and gilding broken from the\nsculptures on the walls strewed the floor; but whatever loss the\nassailants might have sustained, it seemed that they had borne away\ntheir wounded and their dead. As yet she was spared the ghastly presence\nof a corpse.\n\nCold and faint, she leaned against the wall to take breath. It had come\nto this. Amongst all that shattered splendour in those very halls where\nher father feasted scores of warriors, every one a captain of ten\nthousand, there was now neither bread to eat nor wine to drink--no, nor\nthe means of purchasing so much as a draught of fair water; though so\nshort a while ago the palace of Arbaces had been stored with royal gifts\nand costly merchandise, meat and drink, gold, precious stones, and spoil\nof war.\n\nIf she could but find even an embroidered baldrick, a jewelled dagger,\nwhole and uninjured, something she might carry into the market, and sell\nfor as many skekels of silver as would put food in her mouth, and enable\nher to continue those efforts for the delivery of Sarchedon, which\nshould never cease but with her life!\n\nResolving to search the palace through, she pushed on, traversing the\ncourt she had lately entered, and so reached the well-known stairs\nleading to the women's apartment, that heretofore she had so often\nclimbed dreamily thinking of her lover, or run down blithely with a\nsmiling welcome for her sire. Here were indeed traces of deadly strife.\nEmbroidered curtains, torn and disordered, dangled from the wall;\ndefaced sculptures and shattered slabs encumbered the pavement; a\nslender column of bronze, supporting a brazier, was bent and twisted to\nits pedestal; a broken bow lay across a torch long since extinguished\non the floor. The lower part of the hall was black in shadow, while a\nflood of moonlight bathed roof and rafters, painted wood-work, gilded\npinnacle, all that elaborate ornament and finish which had been above\nthe level of the conflict.\n\nAs her foot touched the first step, two lurid eyes glared on her through\nthe darkness, and a long lean object glided swiftly by, brushing her\ngarments as it passed.\n\nIt was the wild-dog disturbed from his loathsome meal.\n\nShe had no fear now; only a thrill of intense suffering, with a fierce\nhideous desire for revenge. Wreathing her white arms above her head, she\nflung herself down by something, that an instinct of love, stronger than\nthe very horror of the situation, told her must be the remains of her\nfather.\n\nA cloven headpiece had rolled from the smooth and grinning skull. His\nfleshless fingers still closed round the handle of a sword. He lay where\nhe fell, his face to heaven, grim, unyielding, defiant even in death;\nbut the wild-dogs had stripped him to the bone, and it was a bare\nbleached skeleton against which Ishtar laid her pale and shuddering\ncheek.\n\nThere rose through roof and rafters, curdling her very blood, a shrill\nand piercing shriek. She never knew it was the wail of agony wrung from\nher by her own despair.\n\nAlas for the brave spirit passed away, the loyal heart, cold and still,\nkind and true! He had been struck down in _her_ defence; had been\nwilling, eager, to purchase with drops of life-blood the brief moments\nthat might have aided _her_ to escape; his last blow struck on _her_\nbehalf, his last breath drawn for the child who had sat on his knees and\nlain in his bosom. The noblest warrior that ever drew bow in the service\nof Ninus, fit leader of the brave who were arrayed under the banner of\nAshur at his behest. She was proud of him even then.\n\nAs the moonbeams crept across the pavement where it lay, they were so\nfar merciful, that they revealed to her the ghastly sight by\nimperceptible degrees. She seemed to gather strength from him whose\nblood ran in her veins, stretched out in that white distorted heap,\nscarce retaining a semblance of human form. She thought of him in the\nmajesty of his strength, the pride and beauty of his manhood, recalling\nthe broad hand that used to rest so lovingly on her head, the noble brow\nthat never wore a frown for _her_; and the weight seemed lifted from her\nbrain, the iron probe taken out of her heart, while sobs convulsed her\nbosom, and scalding tears rushed to her eyes.\n\nShe became human again. She was a woman now, and she wept.\n\nIt was a weary watch. The long night through she never left his\nskeleton, never changed her position, nor ceased her silent mourning,\nnor moved a limb, but to drive away the wild-dogs that glided in and out\nthe entrance of the court, drawing near with eager whine and wistful\neyes while she was still, scouring off in vexed dismay when she stirred,\nto return again, and yet again, till dawn.\n\nThough grief like hers may for a time dominate the requirements of the\nbody, these assert themselves at last. With the return of day Ishtar\nfelt conscious of hunger and weakness, the one threatening to overpower\nher if the cravings of the other were not speedily satisfied. She knew\nshe must exert herself at once, lest she too should sink down, and die\nby him whose bones lay bleaching beside her there.\n\nWould it not be better so? What had she to do with life now? There was\nbut one consideration to rouse her from the apathy of despair. The last\nobsequies must be paid to the remains of her father; and who would\ninsure for him that final mark of respect if she was gone? She would\nlive at least till this was accomplished; and therefore must she go out\ninto the city, and stand unveiled in square and street till she could\nfind a friend. Surely amongst all those men of war who went forth to\nbattle at his word might pass one who would recognise his daughter, and\nafford the only tribute of respect left to the memory of Arbaces!\n\nFrom the resolution to make her effort grew strength to attempt it. With\nexertion came renewed vitality, and with vitality a spark of hope. Yes,\neven through those depths of gloom and misery glimmered faint reflective\nrays of that which was not quite impossible; as the light of heaven,\nthough blurred and dim, reaches one who is sinking in the green\nbewildering sea.\n\nThen she rose up, tore a strip of curtain from the portal, and lifting\nthe skeleton with tender reverent care, disposed it in a seemly attitude\nunder that scanty covering, so as to baffle wild-dog and vulture till\nher return.\n\nIn raising her father's remains she found under them a baldrick in which\nhis sword had hung, embroidered by her own hands. Even this had been\ngnawed and partly eaten away; but it was fastened with a jewelled clasp,\npressed down beneath the broad shoulder-blade of the dead warrior, and\nhad escaped alike the eyes of cupidity and the fangs of hunger. It was a\ntreasure to her now. Drawing it hastily out, she concealed it in her\nbosom, kissing the precious relic once with eager, passionate lips,\nbecause she must part from it so soon.\n\nThen she disposed his strange shroud about the remains of Arbaces,\nlooked high and low, to earth and heaven, with wild imploring eyes,\nseeking aid, but finding none, and so walked out alone into the world\nfrom her home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nTHE WINGS OF A DOVE\n\n\nAn hour after sunrise, Babylon the Great was up and dressed like any\nother restless lady, wakeful and astir, warm with life and beauty, rich\nin gaudy colours, bright with gold and gems.\n\nTrumpets that mustered warriors by thousands were pealing from her\nwalls. Priests of Baal and prophets of the grove were chanting their\nidolatrous hymns, to ring of harp or sound of timbrel, through a score\nof stately temples, a hundred squares, terraces, and open places in the\ncity. Oxen were lowing, sheep bleating, as they stood in droves herded\ntogether for sacrifice. Peasants from without were toiling under their\nmarket-produce; merchants of Tyre and of the South were guiding their\ncamels, laden with bales of costly goods for the mart of nations; a\nhundred streams of labour, luxury, and traffic converged to this common\ncentre; and through all her gates the wealth of a hundred countries was\nflowing in to enrich the mistress of the world.\n\nShe accepted their tribute like a queen lavish of smiles and honours,\nrepaying real substantial benefits with bright glitter of ornament, with\nshow of tinsel and gilding, with a false welcome and a cold farewell.\nHer visitors took their leave, the better for her notice, by an acquired\ntaste for deteriorating luxuries, an increased discontent with the manly\nsimplicity of their homes. They thronged in and out nevertheless,\ncrowding especially to one quarter of the city, on the banks of the\nbroad river, at an equal distance from the two royal palaces, where it\nwas customary to hold a market for all kind of wares and provisions,\nwhere a man might purchase, according to his needs, a barley loaf or a\ndress of honour, a rope of onions or a string of pearls.\n\nHere prevailed that stir, turmoil, and confusion of tongues which must\nnecessarily accompany such gatherings of different tribes and\nprofessions, especially under a southern sky. The plain-spoken\ncountryman discoursed volubly on the luxuriant growth of garden-stuff\nthat overflowed his baskets; the keener-witted citizen cheapened and\nchaffered, sparing neither laughter nor sarcasm, nor shrill and\ndeafening abuse; dark-skinned Ethiopians grinned, nodded, clapped their\nhands, and rubbed their woolly heads in mingled amazement and delight;\nhaughty warriors stalked in and out the stalls of the various traders\nwith martial strides and offensive demeanour, taking at their own price\nsuch things as they required, or, on occasion, omitting the ceremony of\npayment altogether; troops of women, chiefly from the lowest class,\nadded their eager voices to the general clamour, hanging their swaddled\ninfants at their backs, hoisting them on their shoulders, or extricating\nwith loud outcries and hearty cuffs the stronger urchins, who\npersistently sought every opportunity of being trampled under foot by\nthe crowd; while over all, at no distant intervals, towered the pliant\nnecks and patient heads of meek-eyed camels, looking sleepily down on\nthe confusion, in calm tolerant contempt, like that of their swarthy\nriders, for those who dwelt in cities, earning bread by the bustle and\ncompetition of sedentary occupation rather than by long adventurous\njourneys or the vicissitudes of robbery and war.\n\nThese were invariably objects of undisguised interest to the bystanders;\nfor about man and beast hung a smack of the boundless desert, the wild\nfree air, the untrodden measureless waste, as from the dress and bearing\nof the mariner seems to exhale a flavour of his adopted element, a\nbreath from the salt breezes of the sea.\n\nThey were mostly sun-burned and travel-worn, bearing traces of fatigue,\nhardship, and long exposure by night and day.\n\nTo a group of these, standing somewhat apart, surrounding one of their\ncamels, which had lain calmly down, load and all, Ishtar thought well to\naddress herself. They were apparently traders of a superior class, while\nsomething in their dress and furniture, denoting that their home was in\nthe north, led her to believe they would offer a more liberal price for\njewels than those southern merchants, who might probably have brought\nwith them many such valuables for sale. The men, like their camels,\nseemed very weary; nevertheless they entered on the business of a\nbargain without delay.\n\n\"The damsel needs but look round,\" said one, \"to see that her servants\nhave no need of such things. We are overcome with long travel, sore\nhungered and athirst. What have we to do with clasp and jewel? Your\nservants are faint for lack of bread. Can they comfort their hearts with\ngems and gold?\"\n\n\"Behold the sandals dropping from our feet,\" pursued another, \"the\nhalters of our camels worn to the last fibre! Bring us goats'-hair\nropes, woollen raiment, or even garments of fine linen; we will buy them\nof you, and welcome--at a price.\"\n\nSorely discouraged, Ishtar would have protested; but the words died on\nher lips, and she turned meekly away. Perhaps no amount of eloquence\ncould have served her so well as this apparent indifference. The\nprincipal trader leaped down from his camel, and accosted her with some\neagerness.\n\n\"Be not hasty, my daughter,\" said he. \"The foolish guest turns from a\nsmoking platter, the wise waits till it is cool. Those who desire not\nto buy may be willing to sell. Will you look on the wares we have\nbrought out of the south?--over the long trackless desert, and through\nthe nations whose hand is ever stretched out to spoil and slay--the\nAmalekites, the Hivites, and the Anakim.\"\n\nIshtar started. The mention of the last-named tribe brought the blood to\nher brow. She turned back, and replied,\n\n\"Show me your wares, if you will, but I too am faint for lack of bread.\nIf I am compelled to take this jewel out of the market unsold, I must\ncreep hence to the city wall, turn my face to its shelter, and so lie\ndown to die.\"\n\nThere was something in her tone that vouched for her truth. He was a\nmerciful man, though he had traded and travelled through the eastern\nworld. Had she bargained with him, he could have found it in his heart\nto cozen her out of every article she possessed, and had been proud of\nhis own acuteness the while. But this was a different question. It was\nlike fighting an unarmed adversary, taking a prey that made no effort to\nresist or flee. His heart melted within him for sheer pity and\ngood-will. Caution, however, whispered that such appeals might form the\nnew mode of trading lately adopted in Babylon; and while he took the\njewel from her hand, he only said,\n\n\"We have enough and to spare of such ornaments. Nevertheless, let us\nlook, and judge for ourselves.\"\n\nHis comrades, of whom there were but two, joined in the examination.\nFrom their immovable features she could not guess their opinion; but\nIshtar gathered that they meant to trade from the quiet air of\ndepreciation assumed incontinently by each.\n\nAfter scrutinising the jewel at every possible angle, so as to subject\neach particle of each stone to the searching test of sunlight, the last\nspeaker, who seemed the principal personage, weighed it carefully in a\npair of scales hanging at his belt, and observed,\n\n\"One hundred shekels of silver would surely be a fair price, oh! my\ndaughter? But we too have merchandise to sell. Will you not take fifty\nshekels and your choice of a breadth of silk, a piece of goodly\nneedlework, or a wrought ornament in bronze and ivory from Tyre?\"\n\nThe clasp was worth three hundred at the lowest, and he felt full of\npity and loving-kindness towards the damsel, but a profession is second\nnature. He was a trader, and must live.\n\n\"Your servant is in the hand of my lord,\" answered Ishtar humbly. \"Take\nthe jewel, I pray. Give me the fifty shekels, so that I may buy a morsel\nof bread, and eat before I die!\"\n\nHe counted them out, well pleased. It was not often, even in careless\npleasure-seeking Babylon, that he could trade to such advantage. But the\nbargain now stood on a different footing. Ishtar's prompt compliance\nwith his terms caused him to feel bound in honour to give her free\nchoice of the various articles he had named, trusting only that she\nmight not select the rarest and most expensive. Neither he nor his\ncomrades would have refused her for their lives. Their probity, though\nloose in the extreme, was not elastic, and no temptation could have\nseduced them into any act they considered a breach of faith. Causing,\ntherefore, another camel to kneel down, they proceeded to unpack its\nload, turning over for inspection shawls, silks, embroidery, and\ntrinkets, more or less costly, from the workshops of Tyre, Ascalon, or\nother cities on the seacoast.\n\nFaint with watching and exhaustion, goods, camel, traders, and\nbystanders swam before Ishtar's eyes; for amongst a handful of\nglittering ornaments she distinguished the amulet that the Great Queen\nhad bestowed on Sarchedon, that she had last seen about her lover's\nneck.\n\nWith an effort of which few women would have been capable, she recalled\nher fleeting senses in subservience to her will, and asked calmly to\nexamine the trinket. It was valuable, no doubt, yet more from its\nexquisite finish than intrinsic worth, and she had presence of mind to\nappear only desirous of possessing it as a gaudy trifle with which they\ncould have little disinclination to part.\n\n\"I will ask my lord,\" said she, \"to bestow on me no more than this\nornament I hold in my hand. Also, if a drop be left in the water-skin,\nthat I may wet my burning lips, for indeed I am faint and sore athirst!\"\n\n\"It is my daughter's,\" answered the trader. \"My camels, my goods, all I\npossess, are hers! The water-skin is indeed dried and shrivelled like\nan ungathered grape, but here is a gourd not yet emptied, a barley-loaf\nstill unbroken. I pray you, eat and drink, my daughter; comfort your\nheart, and go in peace.\"\n\nComplying eagerly with the invitation, Ishtar felt her very life\nreturning with each mouthful she swallowed. Had it not been so, she\nnever could have found strength for the task she had set herself to\nperform. Looking on that amulet, with its bird of peace following the\nweapon of war through the air, her whole being, her very soul, seemed to\ngo out towards the lover from whom she had been parted with so little\nlikelihood that they might ever meet again.\n\n\"O, that I had the wings of a dove!\" thought Ishtar, in the loving\nimpotence of her desire, wishing, with other tortured spirits of every\nage and clime, but to burst through the invisible, impalpable wires of\nher cage to seek the rest that none can find--broken in heart and hopes,\nweary and wounded, yearning only to fly home.\n\nAnd it may be that those who have followed in the slimy path of the\nserpent shall one day find their bitterest punishment in aimless,\nendless longing for the wings of the dove.\n\nBut could she have flown with all the speed of all the birds of air, it\nwas yet indispensable to follow out the clue she had already obtained in\nthe possession of the trinket that so lately belonged to Sarchedon.\nStrengthened by food, her womanly wit regained its keenness, while\nwomanly shame bade her disclose but half the truth. It would be wise,\nshe thought, to trust this friendly merchant; yet she dared not confide\nin him wholly, nor lay open to a stranger all the weakness of her heart.\n\n\"My lord has shown favour to his servant,\" said she. \"I desired of him a\ngift, and, lo, it lieth here in my hand! I was hungered and athirst; he\ngave me to eat and to drink! Am I not in some sort the guest of my lord?\nI would fain ask him one question. All my happiness hangs on his lips.\nAs his soul liveth, I implore my lord to tell me the truth.\"\n\n\"Speak on, my daughter,\" was the reply. \"There is no space for falsehood\nwithin the curtains of a tent, and he who dwells in the desert knows not\nhow to lie.\"\n\n\"This trinket,\" she continued eagerly, \"you took it from its owner. It\nhung round his neck. He was a son of Ashur, tall and comely as a cedar\nof the mountain, brave as the lion, ruddy as sunset, bright as morning,\nand beautiful as day!\"\n\nThe astute trader smiled.\n\n\"You know him,\" said he, \"and you love him! It is as my daughter hath\nsaid.\"\n\n\"He is my brother,\" she answered, blushing crimson while she adjusted\nher veil. \"If aught but good hath befallen him, it were better for me\nthat I had never been born!\"\n\n\"Such a one as you have described,\" answered the other, \"did indeed come\ninto our possession by lawful barter amongst the tents of the Anakim. A\nslave can have no goods to call his own, and when we discovered beneath\nhis garment this jewel that had escaped the eyes of his spoilers, we\nmight have taken it righteously by force. Nevertheless, the man was\nstrong and warlike. Even in bonds, it may be that he would have done\n_himself_ some injury, and so lessened his price. It was well that he\nsuffered me to strip it from his neck unnoticed while he looked back\nupon the camp, as if he had left his very heart with the tribe.\"\n\nA thrill that, in spite of all, amounted to real happiness shot through\nher trembling frame.\n\n\"Can he not be redeemed?\" she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly.\n\"Where is he now?\"\n\nThe trader pondered.\n\n\"I too have a brother,\" said he, \"and we parted at a day's march from\nthe tents of the Anakim, as we have parted many a time, trusting to meet\nyet once again before we die. My course lay hither to the great city;\nfor are not my camels laden with silks and spices and costly jewels,\nsuch as rich Babylon must have at all hazards and at any cost? I pray\nyou, damsel, remember I am a fair trader; I ask for no greater profit\nthan enables me to get bread for myself and forage for my beasts. Some\nthere be who scruple not to rob with the scales, as the Amalekite robs\nwith the spear; but such prosper not in life, and long before their\nbeards turn gray, their flesh is eaten by vultures and their bones\nwhiten the plain.\n\n\"My lord spoke of the Assyrian,\" interrupted Ishtar. \"Is he safe? Is he\nalive?\"\n\n\"That he is alive, my daughter,\" replied the merchant, \"if care and good\nusage can keep the life in a valuable captive, I will answer with my\nhead. We bought him at a remunerative price, and my brother is even less\nlikely than myself to let one suffer damage whose welfare is of such\nmarketable value. That he is safe with the other goods I have sufficient\nreason to hope. Surely they joined a caravan guarded by more than five\nhundred horsemen of the desert. Ere now they must have reached the\npleasant confines of my home--the broad-leaved oaks, the cool green\nvalleys, and the breezy mountains of the north.\"\n\n\"The north!\" repeated Ishtar, aghast and discomfited. \"What! beyond\nNineveh?\"\n\n\"Far beyond Nineveh,\" said the other, \"far beyond the boundaries of the\nland of Shinar, where the banner of Ashur hath never been lifted, the\nspear of the Assyrian never dulled its point in blood--in the land of\ncorn and wine, pasture and fruit tree, flocks and herds, peace and\nplenty, the happy hill country of Armenia!\"\n\n\"Sold to the Armenian for a slave!\" was her answer. \"O, my lord, shall I\nnever see him again?\"\n\nHe pitied her from his heart.\n\n\"Much may be done,\" said he, \"with these three weapons, sword, bow, and\nspear; more yet with these, time, wisdom, patience. Add but a little\ngold, and who shall say that aught is impossible? My brother is one of\nthose who, setting before them an object in the plain, turn neither to\nright nor left till they have reached it. The Assyrian is of fine frame\nand goodly stature, fit to stand on the steps of a throne. My brother\nhath determined he will sell him to no meaner purchaser than a king. Not\nall the wealth of Armenia will tempt him from his purpose, and to the\nking he will be sold. I have spoken.\"\n\nThen he turned away to prosecute his business with those who were\nwaiting around for examination of his merchandise, and Ishtar found\nherself alone and friendless in the crowded market--alone, with a wild\nfoolish hope in her heart, and Sarchedon's amulet in her hand.\n\nFrom the time she lost sight of him, she had never faltered one single\nmoment in her resolution; arduous, impossible as seemed her task, she\nwould not relinquish it even now.\n\nHad she needed any farther stimulant to exertion she would have found it\nin the reflection that he, the distinguished warrior, the ornament of a\ncourt, the flower of a host, the treasure of her own heart, was a slave!\n\nAt least she knew where he had gone; at least there was one spot of\nearth on which her loving thoughts could light, like weary birds, and\ntake their rest. But how to reach him? how to span the cruel distance\nthat lay between? Gazing wistfully on the amulet in her hand, she would\nhave bartered all her hopes here and hereafter, peace and safety, life\nand beauty, innocence itself, in exchange for the wings of a dove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nBOND AND FREE\n\n\n\"A horned owl in the twilight; a horned owl in the dark! How many horns\ndoes my owl hold up!\" A merry laugh was ringing in her ear, a soft hand\nwas laid over her eyes, while the white fingers of its fellow twinkled\nbefore her face, and Ishtar recognised the voice of Kalmim, challenging\nher to one of those foolish games of guessing so popular from the\nearliest ages with the thoughtless children of the south.\n\nIt was something to meet a friend, and of her own sex, even though that\nfriend was one with whom her deeper, purer nature had but little in\ncommon. Strung to their highest pitch, her feelings now gave way; and\nleaning on Kalmim's shoulder, Ishtar burst into a passion of weeping\nthat perhaps did more to calm and restore her than all the feminine\nconsolations and condolences lavished by the other, whose compassion,\nlying near the surface, seemed easily aroused and quickly exhausted.\n\nA weeping girl was no unusual sight in the public places of great\nBabylon. Exciting neither pity nor comment, Ishtar and Kalmim withdrew\nunnoticed from the crowd, to stand apart in the shelter of a gigantic\nfountain, erected for the refreshment of her people by the Great Queen,\nwhere the younger woman soon recovered composure to answer the voluble\nquestions of the elder.\n\n\"Where have you been hiding, and what have you been doing, and why have\nwe never seen you at the well, in the temple, at market, sacrifice, or\non the city wall?\" said Kalmim, flirting the water about while she\ndipped her white hand in its marble basin. \"Surely the days of mourning\nare past, and those of feasting should have begun. Why, then, in the\nname of Ashtaroth, do I find the fairest damsel in Babylon with her eyes\nunpainted, her head untied, and, my dear, a dress that looks as if it\nhad been trodden in the dust by every beast in the market? How did you\never get it so rumpled and soiled?\"\n\nIgnoring this important consideration, Ishtar took the other by the\nhand, and gazing in her face with large serious eyes, replied,\n\n\"Kalmim, I believe you would serve me, if you could. I believe you are\nmy friend.\"\n\n\"As far as one woman can be a friend to another,\" laughed Kalmim. \"And\nthat is about as far as I could fathom the great river with my bodkin.\nTrust me, dear, you are too comely to possess friends, either men or\nwomen. Nevertheless, you sat on my knees when you were a curly-headed\nchild, and I--well, when I was better and happier than I am now. I would\nserve you if I could. By the light of Shamash, I would, though I might\nhate myself and you the next minute! Take me, therefore, while the good\nmood is on. What can I do to please my white-faced Ishtar?\"\n\n\"You have influence and power,\" was the reply. \"He--my father used--I\nhave heard it said that you are deep in her counsels, and high in favour\nwith the Great Queen.\"\n\nAn angry flush rose to Kalmim's brow, and her laugh was not pleasant to\nhear, while she answered,\n\n\"The Great Queen is a woman like the rest of us. I wish I had never seen\nher haughty face. For days together it was Kalmim here, Kalmim there;\nwho so quick-witted as Kalmim? whom could she trust like Kalmim? Kalmim\nwas never to be out of her sight. I must have had a score of hands, and\nas many wings as Nisroch, to do half her bidding. Then, in the\ntwinkling of an eye, lo, in the threading of a needle, all is changed,\nand because the Great King went to the stars or wherever he _did_ go, I\nam to be cast aside like a frayed robe or a soiled napkin, and must see\nher face no more. She might have been a little fonder of him while he\n_was_ here, I think, instead of making all this mourning now he's gone.\nYou would suppose that in the whole land of Shinar no wife was ever left\na widow before. Queen though she be, she must take her chance with the\nothers, I trow.\"\n\n\"And are you no longer in the royal service?\" asked Ishtar, sadly\ndisappointed.\n\n\"In the royal service I must ever be,\" answered Kalmim, \"since I was\nborn a bondwoman in old Nineveh, whence come the fairest of us, after\nall, say what they will of this great wicked town! I can no more help my\nbonds than my beauty, and I do not know, my pretty Ishtar, that I am\nmore anxious to get rid of the one than the other. But it vexes me sore,\nand angers me too, when I think that the queen, because she sits in\nsackcloth and scatters ashes on her head, should refuse to admit her\nfaithful slave and servant, who never failed her yet, even to the outer\ncourt of the palace. If I were free, like you, my dear, I swear by Baal\nI would take my leave of great Babylon for good and all!\"\n\n\"Free!\" repeated the girl bitterly, reflecting how little availed her\nfreedom, her birth, even her beauty to attain the one object of her\nlife, in the pursuit of which she was fain to implore the assistance of\nthis bondwoman. \"If I were _free_, as you say, I would leap on yonder\ncamel, with a lump of dates and a barley-cake in my hand, turn his head\nfor the northern mountains, and never wish to see the city walls again.\"\n\n\"I guessed it!\" exclaimed Kalmim, clapping her hands. \"The daughter of\nthe stars has gone the way of us poor children of earth, as if she too\nwere made of common clay. He has taken your heart with him, whoever he\nis. I see it all, and follow him you must, at any labour and at any\ncost. I can feel for you, dear: I know what it is. Now, there was\nSethos, the Great King's cup-bearer, as goodly a youth as ever longed\nfor a beard. And, lo, he vanishes one summer's morning with a score of\nhorsemen, rides away into the desert, and I shall never see him more.\"\n\n\"Take comfort,\" rejoined Ishtar, glad to do a kindness even for this\nflighty dame. \"I left him safe and well at Ascalon, and beheld him with\nmy own eyes drinking wine of Eschol the night before I fled.\"\n\n\"At Ascalon!\" exclaimed Kalmim. \"Where Rekamat was--I heard them say so!\nThe treacherous tiger-cat! The false villain! See what it is to let a\nman find out you have thought twice about him. He cares no more for you\nthan we do for a garment worn a score of times, or a husband we have\nknown a score of years. And yet he swore and protested. Well, I was born\nunder Ashtaroth, and I have been a fool like many another. Nevertheless,\nthe broken jar will mend no doubt, and the empty gourd can be filled\nagain at the stream.\"\n\n\"I think he came not into Ascalon of his own free will,\" answered\nIshtar. \"He galloped through the gate like one who rides for life, with\na cloud of Egyptian horsemen at his heels.\"\n\n\"I wish with all my heart they had caught and flayed him alive!\" laughed\nthe other. \"But I might have known him better than to think he would\nlook at that cream-faced Rekamat, for all her delicate gait and her\ntawny hair. So he escaped with the skin of his teeth, say you, and was\nlast seen safe in Ascalon. I pray you, is he there now?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" answered Ishtar. \"O Kalmim, I will trust you. I am so\nmiserable. He entered the city with--with Sarchedon. And the walls were\nguarded, the watch set, because of the false Egyptian, so that a mouse\ncould scarce creep out unnoticed. Nevertheless, we glided through the\ngate at sunrise, he and I, and--and, right or wrong, we fled into the\nwilderness.\"\n\n\"Like a pair of pelicans!\" exclaimed the other in high glee. \"And so,\nbeing in the wilderness, you made yourselves a nest no doubt, and folded\nyour wings in peace, as it had been behind the city wall!\"\n\n\"The children of Anak surprised us sleeping,\" sobbed Ishtar, whose tears\nwere beginning to flow afresh. \"They killed our dromedary, poor beast,\nand spoiled our goods--all that we had--a lump of bread and a handful of\ndates. They spared our lives in pity, but they set me down beside the\nWell of Palms, and they sold him into captivity. O Kalmim, comfort me,\nfor indeed I fear I shall never see him more!\"\n\nLight-hearted and impressionable, the other was ready enough with\nsympathy, advice, and perhaps assistance, up to the point at which it\ncould inconvenience herself.\n\n\"Take heart,\" said she; \"the world is wide, but woman has her wits, as\nthe bird of the air has its wings. Can you not discover where he is\ngone? Knowing this, surely the bow is bent, and the arrow fitted to the\nstring. You need but let it fly.\"\n\n\"I was guided by Nisroch,\" was the tearful answer; \"for I came hither\ninto the market from the halls of my ruined home and the bones of my\ndead father. O Kalmim, I watched by them all last night, to drive the\nwild-dogs away.\"\n\nAgain she laid her face on the other's shoulder, and wept.\n\nKalmim was greatly moved.\n\n\"I will help you,\" she protested. \"Indeed, I will. I have friends; I\nhave lovers--scores of them, girl; and in high places too. I will seam\nmy face with scars, tear out my hair by handfuls, but they shall listen\nto my prayer. What! is my cheek sun-burned? are mine eyes grown dim? I\nwill force my way to the queen! I will humble myself before the prince!\"\n\n\"The prince!\" interrupted Ishtar. \"He is in Ascalon.\"\n\n\"Foolish girl!\" replied the other. \"He is even now coming out from the\nqueen's palace to do justice amongst the people. Every second morning he\nrides forth on a white horse, with Assarac at his right hand. Grave has\nhe grown, and severe, putting aside the wine-cup, speaking but a word at\na time, and scarce suffering the people to look on his face. Ashtaroth,\nwhat a face it is! Surely he is more beautiful than dawn.\"\n\nIshtar shuddered. To her, for all his comeliness, he was loathsome as a\nleper, terrible as a beast of prey.\n\n\"It is but justice I require,\" said she, wringing her hands. \"Bare\njustice for an Assyrian-born carried into captivity.\"\n\n\"He shall be brought back by the sons of Ashur with the strong hand,\"\nreplied Kalmim stoutly. \"Who can stand against Assyria in her might? But\nI know not yet whither they have taken him, nor how you have discovered\nthe prison-house where he is lodged.\"\n\n\"I came into the market at sunrise,\" answered Ishtar, \"to sell the clasp\nof my father's girdle, that I might eat a morsel of bread. Ashtaroth\nmust have had pity on me; for she directed my steps to those very\ntraders who bought Sarchedon from the sons of Anak. One, who seemed\nchief among them, spoke me fair, and treated me well. Perhaps he has a\ndaughter of his own. From him I learned, that when they divided the\nspoil, his brother had taken the Assyrian warrior for his share, and was\njourneying with him to Armenia, where he would sell him for a goodly\nslave to stand before the king. I pray you, Kalmim, is it very far to\nArmenia?\"\n\n\"It is many days' journey,\" replied Kalmim hopefully. \"But those who\nhave horses and camels need not the wings of a bird. I have heard it\nsaid of the Great King, that his sceptre stretched over the whole land\nof Shinar, his spear to the uttermost ends of the earth, and his arrows\nreached the heavens. I know not; but I think the sons of Ashur can\nobtain what they want, even from beyond the mountains of Armenia, if\nthey go to ask for it with bow and spear. These traders, though, are\nsoft and smooth-spoken, false as prosperous lovers, every man of them!\nHow know you their tale is true?\"\n\n\"By this token,\" answered Ishtar, showing Sarchedon's amulet in her\nhand.\n\nKalmim recognised it at once. Many a time since she missed it from the\nGreat Queen's neck had she speculated on its absence, and wondered what\nfresh combinations of intrigue and duplicity were denoted by this\nimprudent generosity of her mistress. Though Semiramis, she knew,\nentertained a peculiar reverence for the trinket, as possessing some\nsupernatural charm, yet when she bade her tirewoman go back to search\nfor it in the temple of Baal, there was a restless anxiety in her\ndemeanour not to be explained by mere concern for a lost jewel. And now\nher eyes were opened. She marvelled how she could have been so dull and\nblind. She resolved to hold the clue tight, and never let it go till she\nhad turned its possession to her own advantage. Though she tried to look\ninnocent and unconscious, it was impossible to keep down the sparkle in\nher eye, the crimson on her cheek, while she asked as carelessly as she\ncould,\n\n\"Is it a sign between you, and did he send it to vouch for the truth of\nthe messenger?\"\n\n\"Not so,\" answered Ishtar. \"They took it from his neck by stealth, and\nthe good trader gave it into my hand, because I desired it from him as a\ngift. When I look on it, I seem to see the noble face of my beloved. O\nKalmim, we must deliver him, and bring him back.\"\n\n\"We must deliver him, and bring him back,\" repeated Kalmim, pondering\ndeeply. In a few seconds she ran through the main points and bearings of\nthe case.\n\nSo long as Sarchedon remained a captive in Armenia, it was obvious that\nhe could be of little service to her designs, but if she could by any\nmeans recall him to Babylon, a path seemed open that should lead to her\nown aggrandisement and paramount influence in the palace. She was\nsufficiently persuaded that the seclusion of Semiramis would last but\nfor a short time; that her masculine intellect would soon weary of\ninactivity; and that her energies would again rule the nation through\nthe son, as heretofore through the sire. She was shrewd enough to have\nobserved that Ninyas did nothing without the counsel of Assarac; and she\nhad not forgotten Assarac's implicit and slavish devotion to the queen.\nShe was also satisfied that her royal lady had contracted one of those\ninfatuated passions for Sarchedon to which she was occasionally subject,\nand which her tire-woman's experience reminded her would be gratified at\nany cost of danger or shame. If, then, she could go to the queen when\nthe days of mourning had expired, and say to her, \"I have got your\ntreasure safe in Babylon, under lock and key; I brought him back from\nArmenia by my own exertions, and you need but lift up your finger to\nbehold him here at your feet,\" would she not become one of the greatest\npersonages in Assyria, herself the fount of honour, wealth, influence,\nand promotion? Sethos, she decided, should obtain the leadership of the\nroyal guard, and her other lovers be rewarded, more or less, in\nproportion to their attractions. Meantime Sarchedon must be brought\nback.\n\n\"You love him dearly then,\" said she, \"and would shrink from no\nsacrifice to insure his safety?\"\n\nThere was more than devotion in Ishtar's simple answer,\n\n\"I would give my life for the life of him.\"\n\n\"There is but one power under that of Ashtaroth to help you at your\nneed,\" pursued Kalmim. \"If the king will send an embassy to Armenia, as\nto Egypt, for the recovery of Sarchedon, the youth may yet return, fast\nas camels can travel. But you must make your petition at once, and in\nperson. You are young and comely, though a little too pale. Such faces\nas yours seldom plead with Ninyas in vain.\"\n\nIshtar clasped her hands and trembled.\n\n\"Is there no other way?\" said she. \"There is none in all the land of\nShinar before whom I would not rather bow down my face than the prince.\"\n\n\"The prince, girl! what mean you?\" exclaimed the other. \"Are you mad?\nThere is none can help you in such a matter but the king.\"\n\n\"Only--only,\" stammered Ishtar, \"I fled on purpose to avoid him.\"\n\n\"Fled!\" repeated Kalmim scornfully; \"whence and why? There is no time to\nlose. Tell me in a word: has Ninyas, too, taken a fancy to that white\nface of yours?\"\n\nThat white face turned crimson, while about brow and lip gathered such\nhaughty defiance, that for a moment the girl looked like her father when\nhe set the battle in array.\n\n\"He would have forced me to love him,\" said she; \"but I had rather be\nlying dead without the city wall!\"\n\n\"Is it so indeed?\" exclaimed Kalmim, a little vexed, it may be, to hear\nof another woman's conquest, yet highly pleased with the promise of\nsuccess it seemed to offer. \"Then Ashtaroth doth indeed favour us, and\nthe prey is taken ere we spread the net. If he wooed you unsuccessfully,\nbelieve me, he is not out of your power yet. You need but ask your\nprice, and he will pay it. That price must be the recovery of\nSarchedon.\"\n\nLove and hatred were tearing at the poor girl's heart--love gained the\nmastery.\n\n\"What would you have me do?\" she asked; but her voice was so changed,\nthe other looked anxiously in her face.\n\n\"Now you are reasonable,\" said Kalmim, after a pause, \"and will take a\nfriend's advice. So shall all turn to our advantage at last. This must\nyou do: rend that garment of yours thus, not down to the hem, but so\nthat it falls gracefully away in two pieces, uncovering neck and\nshoulder. Scatter a little dust on your head--a very little--not enough\nto dim the lustre on your hair. Then sit you down in the gate yonder; I\nwill show you the place. Wait till Ninyas rides by, coming from the\njudgment seat. He must be leaving it ere now. When you hear the tramp of\nthe white horse, turn not your face to right or left; but as he draws\nnear, start up in front of him, throw back your veil, wreathe your arms\nabout his knee, pour forth your prayer, and implore your lord to do with\nyou what he will.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" answered Ishtar, calm and pale, like one in the grasp of\ndeath. \"Thus shall I save you, Sarchedon my beloved! But never, never\nwill I look in your dear face again.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nIN THE GATE\n\n\nBowed to the dust, with rent garments, drooping head, and aching heart,\nfrom which the very life seemed pressed out, Ishtar sat herself down in\nthe gate to watch for the passing by of the king, as he rode from the\nplace where he had been administering justice to his people since\nsunrise. She had not long to wait; the trampling of hoofs soon warned\nher that the royal troop was approaching, and flinging back her veil,\nshe had scarcely time to rise erect before the well-known white horse\nwas upon her, guided by the hand that most she feared and hated in the\nworld.\n\nIts rider, buried in thought, proceeded at a walk, accompanied only by\nAssarac, the few mounted spearmen in attendance remaining several paces\nbehind. Ninyas appeared unusually grave and preoccupied. His face was\nsomewhat hidden by the fall of a linen tiara and the profusion of his\ndark silken hair, but in his rounded symmetry of limb, his graceful\ngestures, and royal dignity of bearing were conspicuous those personal\nadvantages which formed perhaps the only merit of their new ruler in the\neyes of the common crowd.\n\nFaint and forced were the cheers that greeted his approach, dark and\ndiscontented the glances that followed him as he passed on. He from whom\nso much was expected had turned out a failure and a disappointment. To\ncruelty and injustice the people of Babylon would have submitted without\na murmur, but for incapacity they had little forbearance; for one who\nwasted neither blood nor treasure, they entertained a fierce and\ndangerous contempt.\n\nAlready loud regrets had been heard among the populace for the iron rule\nof Ninus and the warlike glories of the Great King. Already whispers,\nfierce and earnest in their suppression, asked when her days of mourning\nwould be ended; and suggested that the queen should again take part in\naffairs of empire--should govern Babylon, her own especial city, in\nperson. Even before the seat of judgment, murmurs to this effect were\ndistinctly audible, and a cry of \"Semiramis! Semiramis!\" had been caught\nup and re\u00ebchoed in the outskirts of the crowd. On such occasions, the\ncalm face of Assarac was observed to denote secret triumph and\ngratification, yet clouded with something of anxiety and deep earnest\nthought. Riding on the king's right hand, he seemed even now so\nengrossed in meditation, that he was the more disturbed of the two when\na figure, rising, as it were, out of the earth, wound its arms round the\nroyal knee, at the imminent risk of being trampled to death, and laid\nits forehead to the white horse's shoulder in an attitude of\nheart-broken entreaty and abasement. Merodach must have recognised her.\nIshtar knew that the animal avoided touching her with its hoofs, while,\nin spite of skilled hand and severe bridle, it pressed its muzzle\nagainst her fair shoulder with a mute loving caress.\n\n\"How now!\" exclaimed the rider haughtily.--\"What foolish damsel is this\nwho encumbers the royal path, seeing that the sun is already high? Know\nyou not how the people cry without ceasing for justice during the space\nof two hours after dawn? Stand aside, girl, lest that tender body of\nyours be trampled like a lily in the dust!\"\n\nIshtar raised her tear-stained face, pale as the flower to which she had\nbeen compared, and sobbed out wildly,\n\n\"As thy soul liveth, hear me! Only hear me, ere thou ride on in thy\nmight, and crush me to death beneath thy feet! What am I that I should\nstand in the path of my lord the king?\"\n\nSurely he remembered her voice. He seemed strangely disturbed, and the\nhand that reined Merodach shook till the bridle rang again. Turning to\nAssarac, he murmured in a stifled voice,\n\n\"Bid them keep the people back, I pray you; with point of spear if need\nbe. I will hear what the damsel has to say.\"\n\nThen Ishtar poured forth her whole heart with an eloquence that could\nonly have been wrung from her by his danger whom she loved better than\nher very life. She reminded Ninyas of his professed attachment to\nherself, of their flight through the desert to the south, of her\nunwilling thraldom, and constant resistance at Ascalon, notwithstanding\nhis rank, his beauty, his exceeding attractions, avoiding, with womanly\ntact, every allusion that could hurt his self-love, and lavishing, with\nwomanly recklessness, every expression of flattery that could impress on\nhim the immeasurable distance between his handmaid and her lord. Then\nshe bade him judge of her feelings by his own. What had she to live for\nbut the man she loved? The youth was to _her_ as water in the desert, as\na breath of air to one bricked up in a dungeon. She was sick for his\ncomely face. She made her prayer to the king, because she had been\ntaught from childhood he was the representative of Baal in the land of\nShinar, the embodiment of truth, justice, and mercy amongst his people.\nShe knelt to him as to Nisroch with the eagle-head. She presumed not to\nstand before his face without a gift. Let her find favour in his sight.\nIt was the only jewel she had left. Let him take it. Let him but grant\nher petition, rescue this goodly youth from captivity, and take\nherself--her life--all she had to give!\n\nIn accordance with ancient custom forbidding the suppliant to enter the\npresence of a superior without an offering, she thrust into the king's\nhand that amulet of emerald which had already changed owners so many\ntimes. Even at her extremity of need she could not help remarking how\nwhite and delicate were those royal fingers that trembled round the\njewel, how fair and shapely was the arm that shook with some inward\nconflict of passions, terrible in their struggle against the strength\nthat kept them down. It was marvellous to her that jealousy should have\nsuch power over the male nature, and if Ninyas cared so very dearly for\nher, surely she ought to pity him, she thought, even though she could\nnot love! All this under-current of feeling and reflection passed\nthrough her mind while she watched every turn and gesture of her lord\nwith the eager eyes of one who balances between life and death.\n\nThe royal face was hidden by its tiara; the royal voice came low and\nhusky with its haughty question,\n\n\"Is it a lover, girl, for whom you make this bold petition? Did he buy\nyou with a trinket and cast you aside in the desert, and will nothing\nforce him back to your arms save a decree of the king? Go to! You seem\nover-shameless for a maiden,--over-tender for a wife. I have spoken.\"\n\nShe was on her knees again, pressing the rider's garment to her\nforehead.\n\n\"By the glory of Shamash!\" she exclaimed--\"by the might of Ashur!--by\nthe blood of Nisroch! I am a true woman. May my lips wither, may my\ntongue drop out, may my heart be consumed to ashes, if I conceive a\nfalsehood in the face of my lord the king! His servant loves the\nyouth--loves him so dearly, that for his sake she would accept death\nwith joy, life-long bondage with gratitude--that to insure his safety\nshe would give her hopes, her heart, her all, and consent never, never\nto see him again!\"\n\nThe king was certainly changed. Looking wildly up in that comely face,\nit was colder, paler than before, and the lips turned very white while\nthey asked in a low stern voice,\n\n\"How came you by this amulet? Speak the truth, girl, lest even now your\neyes be covered and your body flung from the wall. Was it given you\nby--by this faithless lover of yours?\"\n\n\"Not so, my lord,\" answered Ishtar eagerly. \"As your servant liveth, it\nwas round his neck when they bore him into captivity, and but that I had\ncome to the market at sunrise to eat bread, I should never have known\nwhere they had taken him. I saw the jewel in the wares of an honest\nmerchant, and I learned from him all that my heart desired to know.\"\n\nNinyas smiled as if well pleased, and spoke in a softer voice.\n\n\"Let him be brought to the palace at once,\" said the king, turning to\nAssarac. \"An honest merchant ought to be easily distinguished in the\nmarket-place of Babylon. I should like to see him, girl, and I should\nlike also to learn whither they have dared to carry this Assyrian-born.\nHow called you him? Sarchedon, was it not?\"\n\n\"Surely my lord is wiser than Nebo,\" answered the girl, \"to know good\nfrom evil. It is even as he hath said. Behold, the king discovered it\nbefore my tongue could form the name that was in my heart.\"\n\nThe rider's hand gave such an involuntary wrench to the bridle, as\ncaused Merodach to rear straight-on-end in resentment and surprise.\nCaressing the horse, and laughing lightly the while, Ninyas continued to\nquestion his suppliant:\n\n\"They have carried this free-born son of Ashur into captivity. It seems\nthey have more courage than wisdom. And whither have they taken him?\"\n\n\"Far beyond the northern mountains,\" answered Ishtar, \"into the land of\nArmenia; and for that he is so comely of face and noble of stature, they\nwill be loth to yield him back, for he is to stand in goodly raiment at\nthe right hand of the king.\"\n\n\"Hear her, Assarac!\" exclaimed Ninyas, turning to the eunuch, with\nflushed brow and sparkling eyes. \"This comes of unstrung bows and\npeaceful counsels, the way of the serpent on the rock rather than of\nthe lion by the water-spring, or the eagle in the sky. Go to! Are the\nspears of Ashur bulrushes by the river-side? Are his horses ham-strung?\nHath the arm of his might dwindled to the lily hand of a maiden? I tell\nyou, that for every furlong they have taken their captive beyond the\nbounds of Shinar, I will send chariots of iron and mailed horsemen a\nleague into the land of Armenia to burn, ravage and destroy, to bring\naway their gods and lead their men and maidens into captivity! Nay, if\nso much as a hair of Sarchedon's head shall have fallen, I will sow\ntheir country with salt, and blot out its very name from among nations!\nDamsel, depart in peace; your petition is granted. I have spoken.\"\n\nExulting in her success, yet even more bewildered than rejoiced by the\ngood fortune that had gained her object without sacrifice of personal\nfreedom, Ishtar lost no time in obeying the royal injunction. Shrouding\nher fair face in its veil, she wrapped her rent garments modestly about\nher, and glided into the thickest of the crowd. Her escape was for a\nmoment unnoticed, while the king gazed thoughtfully on the amulet she\nhad left for a gift; but looking quickly up, as if about to give some\ndirections to Assarac, the attention of each was arrested by tumultuous\nshouting at the adjoining gate, repeated in a thousand echoes of a\nthousand voices along the city wall.\n\nIt seemed that both were prepared for disaffection and disturbance among\nthe populace. They exchanged meaning looks, and Assarac whispered in the\nroyal ear,\n\n\"There are twenty bands of spearmen massed behind the rampart; priests\nand prophets are scattered in the market-places and squares of the city;\nchariots of iron are harnessed in scores, and horsemen by thousands wait\nbut the holding up of my hand to mount. I pray you give the word, and\nere the sun goes down, Baal shall exterminate, root and branch, all who\nquestion the authority of--of my lord the king.\"\n\nLooking on the royal personage he addressed, the eunuch's eyes blazed\nwith an admiration that seemed almost too warm for reverence, too\npassionate for loyalty. At the sound of tumult, the signal-note of\nconflict, Ninyas started into life with as much fire and energy as\nMerodach himself. The folds of the tiara fell back, disclosing those\nmatchless features, that radiant face, glowing with just such\npleasurable excitement as brightens the aspect of an ardent hunter when\nhe sights the deer. That supple stately form, springing into graceful\nenergy of attitude and gesture, seemed an embodiment of beauty in\nwarlike harness. How could such softness and delicacy be endowed with\nsuch resistless might? Surely horse and rider, thought Assarac, formed a\npair unequalled the wide world through.\n\n\"Keep the men of war back!\" exclaimed Ninyas gleefully. \"Never take your\neye off my right hand. When I raise it thus, let the spears open out by\nwings, unmask the archers, and bid them bend their bows.\"\n\n\"You will return to the palace!\" exclaimed Assarac. \"You will not risk\nthat precious life in a city tumult! By the light of Ashtaroth, by the\nblood of Nisroch, by the safety of the empire, by all you hold most\nsacred, I entreat you to keep out of danger!\"\n\nHis voice was broken with real emotion, his features worked\nconvulsively, as if he pleaded for something dearer than life, but a\nringing laugh was the only answer to his appeal, and the anxious eunuch\ncould but press on at a gallop to keep near the white horse and its\nrider, as they made for the great gate of Babylon that looked towards\nthe south.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nUNVEILED\n\n\nLike a swan cleaving the waters, Merodach forced his way through the ebb\nand flow of an eager crowd, even dangerous in the impatience with which\nit surged to one common centre, where two figures, dusty and\ntravel-worn, as though arriving from a journey, sat patiently on their\ndrooping horses to receive with exceeding calmness the cheers and\ncongratulations lavished by the populace. One of these was in female\nattire, and enough of the veil and mantle were thrown aside to disclose\na beautiful face, recognised with wild enthusiasm by the people of\nBabylon for that of the Great Queen. Shouts of welcome, acclamations\ndenoting a transport of loyalty and affection, rose on all sides.\n\"Semiramis! Semiramis!\" was the ceaseless burden of many thousand\nvoices; while the lowest and dirtiest of the excited multitude demanded\nangrily the repeal of that law which forbade a woman to reign over the\nsons of Ashur, insisting that their queen should be invested with\nsupreme authority in this her especial city, the work of her hands,\nproposing that she should ride at once to the palace, on a pavement\ncomposed of their own necks and shoulders, many of them proceeding to\nfling themselves on their faces with that object forthwith.\n\nSo flattering a reception seemed, however, to raise no corresponding\ngratitude in the person to whom it was offered. The beautiful face wore\nonly an expression of malicious amusement mingled with somewhat scornful\nsurprise; while the other horseman, riding in close attendance, looked\nstrangely troubled, whispering doubt and apprehension in the ear of his\nmore composed, if more contemptuous, companion.\n\nSethos--for it was no other than the Great King's cup-bearer who thus\nfound himself in a situation of extreme perplexity--on his arrival in\nBabylon felt indeed at his wits' end. When he obeyed the summons of his\nyoung lord, to ride with him through the desert, day and night, till\nthey reached the great city, which Ninyas, for reasons of his own,\nproposed to enter in female disguise, he bade farewell to the grim\ntowers of Ascalon with a light heart, looking on the expedition, though\nit necessitated more bodily exertion than he loved, as one of intrigue,\nmirth, and amusement, especially at the end. The little he could gather\nfrom Ninyas during their journey failed to prepare him for such a\nreception as awaited them; and indeed the young king toyed, trifled, and\ngalloped through all these leagues of burning sand as if life had\nnothing more serious to offer than the jest of leaving his tired\nattendants, one by one, in the wilderness, and riding his own good horse\nmercilessly to the point of death.\n\nIt had ever been the nature of Ninyas to appear lightest of heart when\nmost he saw cause for vexation or anxiety; nor, indeed, was it without\ngood reason that he quitted his retirement to look after his\ninheritance in person, and made an effort to retain the sceptre, which\nhe first learned was his own at the moment it seemed so mysteriously to\nbe slipping from his grasp.\n\nHis conversation with Sethos had been the earliest communication he\nreceived of his father's departure to the stars; it filled him with\nwonder and alarm. Subsequent explanations and comments of the cup-bearer\nserved only to increase his bewilderment. But for the audacity of such a\nproceeding, he would have felt satisfied that another had personated him\nin order to rob him of his crown.\n\nIt perplexed him, too, that he should have received no tidings from the\nmother to whom he was accustomed to fly in all his difficulties,\nfeeling, perhaps, no little concern for her safety as well as for his\nown succession.\n\nThe escape of Ishtar also angered him to the core, while of Rekamat he\nwas wearied, even to disgust. He resolved, therefore, on returning\nwithout delay to Babylon, there to examine for himself the opposition\nwith which he had to contend, adopting the attire of a woman, as most\nlikely thus to avoid recognition, while he prosecuted his inquiries and\nascertained the nature of a conspiracy that must have been organised for\nhis destruction.\n\nIt seemed, therefore, inconvenient and untoward in the last degree to\nfind himself the object of such an ovation as now greeted him, denoting\nenthusiastic attachment, not for himself, but for the mother to whom he\nbore so close a resemblance. He felt his position more embarrassing than\never, when it dawned on him that in his own capital his own people\nmistook him for the queen. A score of times he strove to address them,\nand a score of times his voice was drowned in the deafening acclamations\nthat arose the moment he opened his lips.\n\nHis patience was failing fast, and an angry light already glittered in\nhis eyes, when the whole expression of his face changed to one of\nextreme consternation and dismay. Dashing up at a gallop, and halting\nwithin two strides, sat a figure on a white horse, so like himself in\nhis ordinary royal attire, that for a space in which a man might have\ncounted a hundred, his senses deserted him, and, speechless from\nsheer amazement, he could but gaze with dilated eyes, like one\nhorror-stricken at some vision from another world. The face, the form,\nthe scarlet robe, the princely tiara, the golden collar, the jewelled\nsword, the very trappings of the horse, were all his own; and in the\ngesture with which that figure suddenly drew rein to station itself\nmotionless over against him, he seemed to see _himself_ not in the\nfoolish disguise he had lately assumed, but as it had been his custom to\nride through the streets of Babylon, the darling of the Assyrian people,\nthe flower of young heroes, the fairest of young princes, in the eastern\nworld.\n\nBrief as was the interval during which his presence of mind forsook him,\nit was long enough to permit one of those rapid strokes by which, in\nlove, war, and policy, bold spirits gain the mastery; the other Ninyas\nhad also paused for a moment, as if confused and uncertain how to act,\nbut Assarac, pressing to the white horse's side, whispered a few earnest\nwords in its rider's ear--words that brought a flash of energy and\nintelligence into the beautiful face of his listener, ere the eunuch\nturned in the saddle to impress some hasty directions on a captain of\nten thousand, who was in attendance at his back.\n\nMeantime the multitude shouted louder than ever, crowding, as they\nbelieved, in eager homage about their queen, unconscious of the pressure\ncaused by a ring of spearmen circling gradually round Sethos and the\nveiled figure at his side.\n\nMingled, however, with the protestations of loyalty and affection\nlavished on Semiramis, rose many a seditious outcry, many an angry burst\nof impatience and contempt against the name of Ninyas. As the spearmen\nencompassed the newcomers, there was much increase of ill-humour amongst\nthe multitude, thus wedged together by a band of iron that compressed\nthem from without--women shrieked and fainted--children were trampled\nunder foot--strong men, reeling and swaying to and fro, cursed audibly,\ndirecting savage scowls and fierce abuse at the rider of the white\nhorse, as though their ruler were answerable even for the excesses of a\ndisorderly crowd. The storm increased, the human waves surged, swelled,\nand roared, everything indicated a tumult, and still the serried ranks\nof spearmen narrowed their circle, drawing closer and closer round the\nlittle knot of figures on which all eyes were fixed.\n\n\"Never had man or woman such a chance!\" whispered Assarac. \"By the body\nof Ashur, his sceptre has come down from the stars into your very hand.\nIt is but to close your fingers, and you grasp it once for all!\"\n\nThe rider of the white horse replied by a look of intelligence in the\neunuch's face, and a gesture of supreme contempt for the noisy\nmultitude.\n\nAssarac's eyes answered with a gaze of devoted and passionate adoration.\n\n\"Opportunity,\" he murmured, \"is the harvest of the gods!\" But the\nsentiment seemed lost on the ear to which it was addressed; for the\nfiery white horse, obeying hand and heel, began to plunge with such\nformidable energy as soon cleared a breathing-space, so to speak, in the\nreceding crowd.\n\nAnd now the roll of chariots was heard without the gate, while a score\nof trumpets answered each other in swelling notes of war from all\nquarters of the city. Men knew that for every trumpet rode a thousand of\nAssyria's terrible horsemen, armed with bow and spear.\n\nIt was well, thought Sethos, for his lord and himself, that they were so\nsafely guarded. Stalwart warriors, massed ten deep, kept the people off\non every side; but with thunder of wheels and bray of clarions, a\ncertain panic took possession of the crowd, and it closed in so heavily\non the plunging Merodach that, active as was the animal, it seemed in\ndanger of being swept off its feet. Had they once gone down, neither\nhorse nor rider would ever have risen again.\n\nAssarac exerted all his strength and all his courage to keep in close\nattendance. On his face was graven the set expression of one who elects\nrather to die than fail in his desire; and under that storm of howls,\nand threats, and bitter execrations, the eunuch bore himself like a man.\n\nAn ever-increasing pressure in the crowd had now forced the white horse\nagainst the surface of the city wall, which sloped upwards from within\nat such an angle as permitted a nimble bowman to surmount the incline,\nand reach a narrow platform, whence under cover of the rampart he could\ndischarge his missiles in safety against an enemy. It was very steep,\nand afforded a foothold slippery and insecure to the last degree.\n\nMeasuring it in one rapid glance, his rider's hand and heel roused\nMerodach's courage to the utmost for his effort. With a bound like a\nwild-deer, a shower of sun-baked clay, a hideous moment of poise,\nstruggle, and recovery, the white horse bore his rider to this point of\nvantage and security, standing there motionless, save for a quick\nvibration of his ears, a prolonged snort, expressing triumph, defiance,\nand a sense of danger past.\n\nThroned in their recess, the pair seemed rather to have come down from\nthe gods than gone up from amongst men.\n\nSuch a feat, with such a people, could not but produce an irresistible\neffect. Voices raised a little earlier in scorn and hatred now shouted\nenthusiastic admiration and approval. One such display of skill in\nhorsemanship seemed enough to regain for their reckless ruler all the\npopularity that had been withdrawn.\n\nEvery eye was now riveted on the white horse and its rider. At a signal\nthat the latter desired to speak, unbroken silence fell on those\nassembled thousands, and not an accent was lost of that sweet measured\nvoice, clear, full, and musical in the cadence of its every tone.\n\n\"Sons of Ashur,\" it said, \"men of Babylon, conquerors of the world, ye\nlove the line of Nimrod dearly, but ye love not _me_! Tell me not ye\nhave changed in one brief moment, because of a bold leap and a willing\nsteed. I am unworthy to reign over you. I have been weighed, and found\nwanting. I have tried, and failed. Baal in his temple has warned me to\nabandon the reins I possess neither power nor wit to guide. I have seen\nyour reception of Semiramis. I know--none better--the worth and wisdom\nof the Great Queen. Sons of Ashur, in her favour I abdicate; to her hand\nI resign my sceptre, at her feet I lay my crown. May the queen live for\never! I have spoken. And now stand aside, sons of Ashur, while I come\ndown, lest I hurt a hair of the head of one of her especial people, whom\nshe will rule with a mother's love, whom she will lead to triumphs\nbeside which the glory of Ninus himself shall pale and fade away!\"\n\nWith these words, Merodach was urged to the downward leap. A column of\nspearmen cleared a passage through the crowd, and the brave white horse,\nfollowed by the eyes of all Babylon, galloped off at speed towards the\npalace of the Great Queen.\n\nWhen men turned to look for her, marvelling at her strange appearance\namong them weary and travel-worn out of the desert, lo, she too had\nvanished with her attendant, guarded, it was said, by hosts of archers,\nclouds of horsemen who thronged about her so thick and close, that none\nmight lock on the royal person, nor come within hearing of the royal\nvoice.\n\nNevertheless, each went to his home with a pleasing prospect of coming\nrejoicings, of war and triumph, feast and revel, harp, timbrel, and beat\nof dancing feet, splendour in the palace, plenty in the suburb, jovial\ndays and merry nights throughout great Babylon once more.\n\n\n\n\nHisroch the Abenger\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nA SERPENT ON A ROCK\n\n\nA southern sun beat fierce and pitiless on the terrace of the queen's\npalace at Babylon. Hewn out of the solid rock, a smooth and glistening\npavement refracted those noon-day beams like burnished metal. Not a\nbreath of wind arose to cool the heated air; not a bird dared spread its\nwing against the burning sky; yet Assarac stood motionless and\nthoughtful in the open unshaded space, heedless alike of throbbing\nbrain, blistered skin, and sandals scorching under his very feet.\n\nSuddenly he started and stepped quickly forward, like one about to\ntrample something beneath his heel. Checking himself in the act, he\npaused to mark a serpent gliding along the unfriendly pavement, as if\nseeking for a hole or crevice wherein to shelter its shining skin and\nsmooth, flat, cunning head.\n\nHe had thought to slay it; but no, it was not in him to do the creature\nharm, as he stood watching it with wistful eyes, and bitter thoughts,\nand a strange sad feeling of compassion at his heart.\n\nUncoiling many a sleek and glistening fold, it worked its way slowly,\npainfully, traversing in all its length and breadth the surface of that\npitiless pavement, so different from the dank morass and tangled brake\nfor which its nature yearned. The wise reptile, type of caution,\nintellect, sagacity, measured its cunning in vain against the beautiful\nimpenetrable slab, could find no solace in the hard unyielding stone.\n\n\"Is it better, after all,\" thought Assarac, \"to wind, like this wily\ncreature, along the devious paths of policy, or to take the straight and\nopen road, leading to danger indeed, but to danger that may be foreseen,\nassailed and vanquished with the strong hand? Would I be the tiger,\nblind with desire of blood leaping at the wild-deer's throat, to slake a\ncruel thirst? or the serpent, crafty, patient, persevering, exhausting\nall its ingenuity, all its devices, against an obstacle smooth and\nimpenetrable as this adamantine pavement, heated by the sun's rays, not\nto warm and cherish, but to scorch, wither, and consume?\"\n\nThus meditating, with an unusual cloud of despondency on his brow,\nAssarac turned away, and traversing the large cool hall of the queen's\npalace, walked thoughtfully through leafy wilderness and shaded\npleasure-ground to the silver temple of the Fish-God, where he had been\nsummoned by Semiramis, that he might assist with his counsels the great\ndesign on which her heart was bent.\n\nKalmim, who had again resumed attendance in the household of her royal\nmistress, rejoicing that the days of mourning were at last expired,\nwaited as usual in the porch.\n\nWith winning smiles and sparkling eyes--since Kalmim's bow was always\nbent for practice as for slaughter--she drew those silken hangings that\nscreened the presence of Semiramis, and admitted him to the court of\nivory and silver, as she had admitted Sarchedon once before, when that\ncomely warrior arrived from the camp, bearing the signet of the Great\nKing.\n\nThe queen had not forgotten. Something in the gesture of her tirewoman,\nsomething in the murmur of doves, the babble of waters, the scene, the\nplace, the listless noon-day heat, recalled that other interview but too\nforcibly now, and she received Assarac with a languid loving smile.\n\nThe eunuch's whole nature glowed beneath her glance, while prostrating\nhimself at her feet, he pressed the hem of her garment to his lips, with\nsuch rapture and devotion as he had never felt for Baal, Nisroch,\nAshtaroth, nor all the host of heaven.\n\nHer favourable looks emboldened him to speak; and after the formal\nsalutation, \"Great Queen, live for ever!\" he offered his advice unasked,\nin a burst of impassioned eloquence, very different from his usual\ncomposed immovable demeanour.\n\n\"It is a war,\" said he, \"of which the new-born babe in the land of\nShinar may never live to see the end, unless indeed it should terminate\nin an advance on Babylon by innumerable hosts, under the leadership of\nAryas the Beautiful, and the sacking of our city by those swarms of\nfierce savages who congregate in the wind-swept deserts of the north.\nThe Great Queen's arm reaches far, her hand is strong and skilful; but,\ntrust me, she is about to plunge it in a very hornets' nest!\"\n\n\"And crush them like locusts in my grasp!\" exclaimed Semiramis, all her\nbeauty kindling into flame, while she threw up her graceful head in\nfeminine defiance. \"I make no war with drones, sparing their lives and\ntaking away their gods, yet exacting small tribute of cattle or slaves:\nbut when the insects carry stings, it is worth while to conquer and\ndestroy. They breed _men_, I hear, beyond the Zagros range--men stronger\nand fiercer, like their own storms, the farther you march towards the\nnorth. I will carry back ten thousand of their champions, chained in\npairs, to make sport for my fickle people here in Babylon. The blind\nfools! they are as proud of their queen's might as if it were their own.\n'Twas a good stroke of yours, Assarac, that enabled me to resume my\nwoman's garment at will. You welded the iron like a cunning smith while\nit glowed and sparkled on the forge. I could not patiently endure the\nconstant restraint; I never should have guessed how irksome it is to be\na man.\"\n\n\"Irksome, indeed,\" said the eunuch, \"so long as women have softer\nskins, stronger wills, and harder hearts. But the prince himself made\nthe very opportunity that foiled him. I did but whisper in the Great\nQueen's ear to seize it. And though she drew her bow almost at a\nventure, the arrow flew deftly home, according to her wont.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" answered Semiramis generously, \"it was _your_ eye that\naimed the shaft, though my finger pulled the string. I have always\nesteemed the head that counsels far above the arm that strikes. By the\nbeak of Nisroch! I believe that I have not in the land of Shinar so wise\nand true a servant as this high-priest of Baal!\"\n\nFor answer, he was fain to kiss the hem of her robe once more. When he\ntried to speak, the words seemed stifled in his throat. With one of her\nrapid glances, she even detected something like a tear glisten in his\neye.\n\n\"It is far better and easier,\" she continued, \"to reign for myself, and\nmeet my people frankly without disguise. While I personated my son, I\nfelt in every word, every gesture, the likelihood of detection; and they\nwere beginning to hate me as a king. I saw it every hour. To hate\nwithout fearing--a fatal sentiment in such subjects as mine, whom I can\ngovern easily as I can rein Merodach, but by far different means. The\nruler of Babylon must have a frank brow, a close mouth, a sharp sword, a\nlong arm, and an immovable heart. When I reigned here in the absence of\nthe Great King, ere he--ere he--went before us to the stars--who can\nreproach me that I ever turned one step aside, for any consideration of\npity or compunction? And yet, did you not hear, my friend, how they\nyelled and shouted, leaping for joy to think they had got their queen\nback again? Ah, they have not come to the end of it yet! And now counsel\nme, Assarac. What is to be done about the prince?\"\n\n\"He is safely disposed,\" answered the eunuch, keeping his eyes\nsteadfastly off her face. \"Nevertheless there is no gate so close but it\nmay be opened by treachery, no wall so high it cannot be surmounted with\na ladder of gold. The captains of ten thousand are loyal and trusty\nwarriors, yet who among them could resist a tempter offering the\nleadership of the host? I would bestow my lord Prince Ninyas in a prison\nfrom which no captive escapes, a fortress friend and foe are alike\npowerless to break through. There is yet a golden throne vacant in the\nsky, and he might take his place in it without delay, by the side of the\nGreat King.\"\n\nIt was a ghastly proposal; yet Semiramis seemed to listen without\nastonishment, and rather in sorrow than in any outburst of anger or\ndismay. She answered in a sad, thoughtful and dejected tone:\n\n\"Such a measure would be wise, I grant, and would set the question at\nrest for ever. But I must not--I will not--consent! I cannot but think\nthe doves that fed me in my infancy have imparted something of their\nnature to mine. I loved the boy dearly all his childhood through; none\nthe less, perhaps, that in form and features he seemed so entirely mine\nown. I was a good mother to him, as any sun-burned peasant who brings\nher babe into the vineyard on her back; and, will you believe me,\nAssarac? he cared more for a rough word or a rude jest from the Great\nKing than for my fondest caress, my smiles, my very tears. When I have\npleaded with him, even to his own advantage, he has turned his back on\nme, and laughed outright.\"\n\nHow strange it seemed that any man on earth could see that matchless\nface unmoved, hear that sweet voice unwon! But Assarac dared not speak,\nlest all his self-control should fail, and Semiramis proceeded with her\ncomplaint:\n\n\"He loved the meanest dancing-girl out of the market better than the\nmother to whom he owed his life, his beauty, his favour with the Great\nKing. He would leave me for horse, and hawk, and hound, without a\nword--the ring of a timbrel, the flash of a torch, the clink of a\nwine-cup, would have taken him from beside my dying bed; and yet I cared\nfor the lad through it all, sheltered him many a time from his father's\nanger, and screened his weakness, his incapacity, his vices, from the\npeople over whom he thought some day to reign. I have done too much for\nNinyas, and I have had no return. When I sent him to Ascalon with that\nwhite-faced girl, I thought we were rid of his follies for a space, to\nthe profit of every one concerned. I never dreamed she would leave him,\nnor that the child loved its toy so well as to follow even to the gate\nof Babylon. That he should ride through in woman's attire must have been\narranged expressly by the gods. Had he come in his own person, I had\nbeen compelled to act with less mercy. I thank you again, Assarac, that\nyou saw the opportunity at a glance. One so sage in counsel, so quick in\naction, cannot but be skilful in war. Ere this year's dates have turned\nto russet, you and I will flaunt the banner of Ashur in the very face of\nthe Beautiful King before his gate at distant Ardesh, and water our\nhorses, whether he will or no, in the swift Araxes. War is the sport of\nkings, and am not I more king than queen when I mount my chariot in\nharness and headpiece, armed with bow and spear?\"\n\n\"And does love count for nothing in the project?\" asked the eunuch, with\nso much of reverence as masked, but did not quite conceal, a bitter\nsneer.\n\nSemiramis turned from him in obvious displeasure: under the delicate ear\nhe marked her very neck grow crimson with a blush. He bore pain well,\nthis priest of a false god, and proceeded to urge his objections in the\ncalm tone befitting one who offers counsel to a superior.\n\n\"Has the Great Queen counted well the cost?\" said he. \"Has she\nconsidered how many bones of men and horses must whiten the line of\nmarch to rearward of her armies, ere they pass the Zagros range? Can her\nchariots of iron penetrate its wooded defiles? How shall her camels\nclimb its steep and slippery rocks? Say she advances to the fertile\ncountry beyond the hills: she must either encounter those terrible\nsavages, who worship a naked sword as the sons of Ashur worship Nisroch\nand Baal--gigantic warriors, clad in skins, but armed with bow and spear\neating human flesh and drinking horses' blood--or she will behold a\nbarren plain before her, its peasants fled, its wells choked up, its\nharvest wasted by fire, affording neither food nor water to man or\nbeast. When she has surmounted these obstacles, with the loss of half\nher strength, she will find herself face to face with a countless host\nof horsemen from the northern desert, under the leadership of Aryas the\nBeautiful himself.\"\n\nIn many respects, she was a woman to the core.\n\n\"I have heard he _is_ beautiful,\" she answered with a light laugh.\n\nHis reply was grave and sad:\n\n\"Could not he have met Semiramis, at the frontiers of her empire, in\nall honour and splendour, without encounter of armies and shedding of\nblood? Must he, too, rue the youthful manhood and comely face that bring\nhim a captive to the Great Queen's chariot-wheels, because of her\nungovernable desire--\"\n\n\"How, slave!\" she burst out fiercely.\n\n\"For glory and warlike renown,\" continued the eunuch; adding, humbly\nenough, \"My life is in her hand. Let the queen take it, here at the\nshrine of Dagon, rather than do aught which shall prejudice her honour\nand her name.\"\n\nShe looked appeased.\n\n\"It is mine honour,\" said she, \"that this matter immediately concerns. I\nsend an embassy, demanding a certain captive at the hand of Aryas; and\nwhat is his reply? Neither gifts nor tribute, nor words of homage and\nrespect, but two winged arrows bound together by a link of gold. It\nneeds not the dark wisdom of the Egyptian to interpret such a sign. He\nmeans that this is no question of barter or ransom, but one to be\ndecided between us by bow and spear. It is the issue I most desired in\nmy heart.\"\n\n\"He means that the Comely King and the Comely Queen should join their\nhosts, and bind themselves together in a link that can never be\ndissolved,\" murmured the eunuch, almost with a groan.\n\nShe smiled in beautiful scorn.\n\n\"I have the arrows in my quiver,\" said she; \"the first shall be shot\ninto his camp, the day I meet him face to face, with its feathers dipped\nin blood. It may warn him, perhaps, that I have sworn to drive the\nsecond with mine own hand through his heart. There are goodly men in the\nworld, I trow, besides Aryas, and one ten thousand times as fair is\nwasting in captivity even now. Prate not to me, Assarac! I tell you,\nthat if I wrap the world in flames, I will have Sarchedon back, here in\nBabylon, before this year's dates have fallen from the palm! I am sick\ntill I see his noble face again. It is enough: I have spoken.\"\n\nThen the eunuch knew he was dismissed, and passed out of the temple\nsadly, thoughtfully with drooping head, folded hands, and slow dejected\nstep.\n\nCrossing the terrace once more, he looked about for the serpent; but it\nwas gone.\n\nCalling to mind its struggles and windings, he wondered where and how it\ncould have found rest, foiled at every turn by the glowing surface of\nthat smooth unimpressionable stone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nBEFORE THE ALTAR\n\n\nBut for priest, as for warrior, there is no respite from daily duty, to\nbe discharged with scrupulous care and unfailing zeal, however sore may\nbe the heart within, aching under linen garment or proven harness of\nsteel. Assarac must needs officiate at the altar of his god an hour\nbefore the sun went down, even had a victorious enemy been wasting the\ncity with fire and sword, or had his own life been about to terminate\nwith the first shadows of night.\n\nHow he loathed the mummery, that yet made him all he was; the machinery\nof which he knew so well each cog-wheel, catch, and lever; the false\nglare and sparkle that seemed so poor a substitute for the steady rays\nof truth! And yet he dared not whisper, even to his own heart, how mean\nand paltry was all this artifice by which he climbed to power.\n\nHe had a new religion now--that religion of the heart which sweeps wiser\ncreeds away in a flood of blind unreasoning devotion; which degenerates,\nwithout a misgiving, into the wildest fanaticism, and can number its\nmartyrs, as compared with those sacrificed to any other superstition, at\nthe rate of a hundred to one.\n\nHe did not conceal from himself that he loved the queen--he, for whom\nthe love of woman must ever be as the blind man's desire for light,\nfiercer, perhaps, and more ungovernable, because of the very\nimpossibility that it should be realised. Cruel are the pangs of a\nhunger which is not even fed by hope. Intolerable is a thirst to which\nthe very offer of water seems but mockery and aggravation. Nevertheless,\nhe did not care to strive against his folly now. For a time, he had\nbelieved himself invulnerable--thought his very nature kept him\nsafe--and that, for him at least, there must ever be an insuperable bar\nbetween admiration, regard, sympathy, and the slavish devotion which\nothers call love. After admiration had become indiscriminating, regard\nunreasoning, and sympathy painful, he shut his eyes to the truth for\nabout a day; but when he opened them, yielded without effort, plunging\nwildly into the abyss, owning a certain morbid pride, in the\nconsciousness of his self-immolation, the while.\n\nAnd now heart, brain, and faculties were all saturated with the poison.\nHis strong will yielded gladly to the spell; his keen intellect was\ncontent to follow where it ought to lead; and had the queen bid him help\nher, as she said, to wrap the world in flames, his own hands would have\nbrought the fire, though it scorched him to the bone.\n\nTo say that he loved is to say that he was jealous; but the torture he\nsuffered was to that of other men as a cancer feeding on the vitals to a\nflesh-wound lacerating the skin. _They_ might fret and struggle,\ngnashing their teeth, raving vengeance, threatening reprisals,\nalternately worsting the rival and reproaching the idol; but _he_ must\nsuffer in silence, smiling however sad, erect however crushed and\nhumbled, outwardly serene though troubled to very madness within.\n\nAnd all unvisited by a ray of light, a glimpse of hope, even by the\ndream of what _might_ be, which has gilded so many a weary night-watch\nwith fleeting visions of the dawn. Surely, through its very degradation,\nthere was something sublime in such utter self-abasement, such complete\nself-sacrifice of love!\n\nAnd yet his port was never more assured, his step firmer, his aspect\nmore dignified, than when, after this interview with Semiramis, that had\nstung him to the core, he took his place at the altar to offer the usual\nevening sacrifice to his god.\n\nThe sun was sinking, and its level beams shed a crimson flush on the\nwhite garments of a band of priests, as on the spotless alabaster\ncolumns that crowned the lower story of the temple, supporting those\nupper chambers, of which the mysteries were veiled to eyes profane. A\nhundred steps, broken by five stately terraces, led down to an open\nspace, in which thousands were crowded to witness the ceremony with\nupturned faces, that glowed no less vividly than did altar, shrine, and\npriests in the warm red lustre of a setting sun.\n\nAs in the morning to the east, so in the evening sacrifice the people\nturned themselves to the west.\n\nA score of oxen stood lowing behind the altar. It seemed the poor beasts\nfelt some forebodings of the fate that awaited them; though not till\nincense had been burned and drink-offerings poured out were their\nthroats to be cut, at a given signal, and their flesh roasted for the\nconsumption of that lavish god, whose daily service thus required the\npresence of a thousand satellites. These stood, marshalled like\nwarriors, in rear of Assarac and Beladon, who assisted him in his\nfunctions. Swinging their censers, they continued chanting, or rather\nmuttering, in a low voice and a minor key, certain formal repetitions,\ndetailing the names and quality of their deity.\n\nAfter a short delay, during which Assarac kept his eyes steadily fixed\non the setting sun, he advanced before the altar, followed by Beladon,\nwho waved above his superior's head the mystic ring, which, enclosing a\nrepresentation of wings, formed the emblem of that incomprehensible\npower whose attributes were ubiquity and eternity. The eunuch's gait and\ngestures were solemn and imposing in the extreme; his ornaments of\nmassive gold, his spotless robes, deeply embroidered, falling in heavy\nfolds about his person, his fine stature and noble bearing--all were\ncalculated to enhance his own dignity and that of the sacred office he\nfulfilled. Turning slowly to Beladon, he received at the hands of that\nassistant a golden cup filled with wine to the brim, and poured from it\ngravely a libation to the four quarters of heaven, finishing with the\nwest. A hundred priests then advanced, chanting their hymns in time to a\nmeasured march, a hundred timbrels rang in sounding strains to the\npraise of Baal; and while fires were kindled, while smoke went up, and\nmusic swelled, the blood of twenty oxen flowed round the altar, filling\nthe channels cut to receive it with a bubbling crimson stream.\n\nAssarac and Beladon stood on each side, facing the people, wrapt, as it\nwere, in a holy trance. Men looked on them in awe-struck wonder as\nvotaries under the immediate influence of the god, whom Ashur himself,\ncoming down from his throne, might address face to face, who were\ncommuning even now in spirit with the souls of departed heroes, with all\nthe powers of all the host of heaven.\n\nLittle did they think how the eunuch's whole being was possessed at that\nvery moment by a human vision of the brightest eye that ever shone in\npromise, the sweetest lips that ever kissed or smiled; while his\nattendant, yielding to desires yet more of earth, earthly, pierced the\ncrowd with a gaze that, for all its semblance of holy preoccupation, did\nbut seek a well-known female figure, alluring of form, lavishly attired,\nand not too closely veiled.\n\nNo sooner had the sun gone down, the stars come out, than Beladon, whose\ntime was now his own, sought one of those courts which formed a\ncommunication between the temple of Baal and the king's palace, supposed\nby the people of Babylon to be occupied by Ninyas in a retirement from\nwhich their present temper would have rendered it extremely dangerous\nfor him to emerge. Semiramis had returned to live in her own royal\ndwelling, where she held such state as caused all former magnificence to\npale. The king's house, therefore, as it was called, became\ncomparatively deserted; and with the exception of its wooded parks or\nparadises, fenced off for game, no spot in the whole city could have\nbeen so secluded as that in which Beladon lingered, pacing to and fro,\nstopping, muttering, glancing about him in fretful perturbation of\nspirit, peculiar to one waiting for a woman on whom he cannot quite\ndepend. \"At last!\" he exclaimed, catching sight of a veiled figure\ngliding amongst the arches that skirted the court, like a ghost in the\ndubious starlight. \"At last! And I saw you in the midst of the multitude\nbefore the sun went down, looking on at the sacrifices. Where have you\nlingered, woman, and what have you been doing since?\"\n\nKalmim, for it was none other, raised her veil and laughed in his face.\n\n\"Who hunts learns cunning,\" said she. \"Who toils learns skill. Who waits\nlearns patience. With cunning, skill, and patience, even a priest may\ncome at what he desires.\"\n\n\"Kalmim,\" he exclaimed earnestly, \"do you believe there is nothing I\nwould shrink from that you bade me undertake? Are you assured that I am\nconstant and true as your own shadow on the wall? Do you trust me as I\ntrust _you_?\"\n\nShe had an object; and laid her hand on his arm with a pressure that\nimplied a world of confidence, while she answered,\n\n\"Stanch as string to bow, hound to slot, a woman to her mirror, and a\nman to his desire. We have never been less than friends, Beladon, why\nshould we? Perhaps, at last, we may be something more.\"\n\nHe had an object too; therefore, resisting the impulse that prompted him\nto pass his arm round her waist without farther ceremony, he assumed an\nair of respectful devotion and observed,\n\n\"I have no secrets from Kalmim; I trust her without reserve. There is\nnot a question she could ask me I would hesitate to answer from my\nheart. Will she do as much for me in return?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" she burst out frankly, while her bold black eyes looked him\nthrough and through. \"What do you desire to know?\"\n\n\"Arbaces was my friend,\" he replied abruptly. \"The Great King's chief\ncaptain fell shamefully murdered in his own dwelling. His daughter was\ncarried off by force into the desert. What has become of her now?\"\n\n\"You love her!\" she exclaimed, turning her head away in feigned\nvexation. \"You love Ishtar, the cunning white-faced wanton! I ought to\nhave known it; I _did_ know it all along! And yet _you_, Beladon--I\nthought you so different from the others. O, it is hard to bear! How\ncould I have been so weak? How can I be so foolish now?\"\n\nShe had put him thoroughly in the wrong. Surprised, alarmed, perplexed,\nperhaps not a little softened and flattered, he hastened to excuse\nhimself with more ardour than discretion.\n\n\"It is for Assarac,\" he stammered, \"not for me. The chief priest saw her\nawhile ago in the market, and she has escaped him--_him_ who can track a\nbird in the air surely as a camel on the sand! He bade me trace her.\nThat is why I came to _you_.\"\n\nIt passed through Kalmim's mind, that if Assarac set such store by the\ndiscovery of Ishtar's refuge, the information she had power to give\nwould only be of value so long as it was withheld. If she would get her\nprice, she must beware of submitting her merchandise to the light of\nday. The good-will of her customer too must obviously be secured in the\nfirst instance.\n\n\"And you do not love her yourself, Beladon?\" she sobbed. \"You are sure of\nit--you will swear it--on--on--the altar of your god!\"\n\nThe storm had lulled--yet not too suddenly. The heaving bosom,\nhalf-unveiled, though somewhat deep in colour, was not without its\ncharms.\n\n\"By every altar of every god that reigns,\" answered the deluded priest.\n\"By Ashtaroth, queen of love and light; by Baal, in whose very presence\neven now I stood; and by your own sweet self, whom I worship perhaps\nmore fervently than all the host of heaven put together!\"\n\n\"I cannot but believe you,\" she answered, smiling sweetly, while she\nabandoned her hand to his caresses. \"Nay, it would make me very sad\n_not_ to believe you, Beladon. Will you always be true to me?\"\n\n\"Always!\" he exclaimed, with an appearance of sincerity that might\nperhaps be attributed to his habit of making the same profession to\nevery woman who was kind and fair.\n\nShe, too, was not without practice, and accepted the assurance calmly\nenough.\n\n\"You _do_ love me,\" she whispered, \"and, indeed, if ever I could bring\nmyself to think of a priest, it should be one like--well, like Beladon,\nperhaps, though I sought in every temple through the land of Shinar till\nI found him. And now, if I tell you all I know, frankly and freely, will\nyou promise me what I ask in return?\"\n\n\"I promise,\" said he, pressing her hand to his lips.\n\n\"Will you swear?\" she asked.\n\n\"Can you not trust me without an oath?\" he pleaded.\n\n\"Freely,\" was her answer. \"But you must swear it nevertheless, to please\n_me_.\"\n\n\"I _do_ swear!\" he exclaimed. \"By the Seven Stars--the Consulting\nJudges--the might of Baal--the blood of Nisroch himself!\"\n\n\"And by the three wings in the circle,\" she added impressively.\n\nHe hesitated; but the dark eyes, softer and sadder than their wont, were\nlooking straight into his own, the balmy breath was on his cheek. Kalmim\nhad never before seemed so kind, so womanly, so lovable, and he\ncommitted himself to his promise by swearing that solemn oath which,\nneither in letter nor in spirit, did a son of Ashur ever dare to break.\n\nShe looked more than satisfied. \"I can tell you all about Ishtar,\" said\nshe, \"so long as she remained within the city walls, because I, who\nspeak with you now, accompanied the girl, for old friendship's sake,\nbeyond the southern gate, even to the Well of Palms, when she departed.\nShe rode an old and sorry camel, bearing but a skin of water and a lump\nof dates. She was veiled and clothed for a long journey. I had nursed\nher on my knees when I was scarcely more than a babe myself; and I\nhelped her, I own (for she is poor and lonely now), to beast, clothes,\nand provisions--though I begged hard of her to remain, little believing\nher earnest assurance, that if she could but find them, she had powerful\nfriends in the wilderness. Nevertheless, even at the Well of Palms a\ntall rider had stopped to water his horse, and she did but speak a word\nin his ear, when he dropped on the sand to do obeisance at her feet. I\nwas frightened, and fled to hide myself in the vineyards; but when I\nraised my head, they were riding away together into the desert with\ntheir faces towards the east. My own opinion is, that she has vanished\nfrom the earth like her mysterious mother, and gone back to the stars\nfrom which she traces her descent. And now, Beladon, that I have told\nyou all I know, I claim from you the fulfilment of your promise and your\noath.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nTHE SNARE OF THE FOWLER\n\n\nHe had sworn by the eternal wings, and there was no escape. The wisest\nmen in their dealings with women have pledged themselves, ere now, to\ngive precious metal in exchange for dross, and Beladon made no better\nbargain when he matched his wits against the keener intellect and finer\nperceptions of the queen's tirewoman.\n\nWith grave aspect, and much decreased ardour, he answered somewhat\nruefully:\n\n\"I will do your bidding--not only for mine oath's sake, but because of\nthe love I bear you. Speak, then--your servant is waiting your\ncommands.\"\n\n\"It is not much I desire,\" said she carelessly, though had there been\nmore light he might have seen the blush rising to her brow. \"We women\nhave strange fancies, you know; I would fain revisit my old haunts, and\nwalk once more by night through the palace of the Great King!\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" he exclaimed, turning pale. \"You know not what you\nask----\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" she repeated, mocking him. \"There is no such word\nacknowledged by the servants of Semiramis or Baal. Nothing is\nimpossible, nor impenetrable, nor improper in the city of the Great\nQueen!\"\n\n\"But my life would hang on your discretion,\" urged Beladon, much\ndisturbed--\"on the silence of a woman, whose very office it is to repeat\neverything she hears, whether false or true!\"\n\n\"And where could it hang more safely?\" she retorted. \"Nay, Beladon, your\nwelfare and mine are blended together like the bronze and gold of that\nbuckle on your belt. The interest of one is the interest of both.\nBesides, think of your oath! Lead on.\"\n\nThere seemed no help for it. Taking her by the hand, he guided her\nsoftly through those darkened courts and passages; urging, in impressive\nwhispers, the necessity of secrecy, laying no light stress on the peril\nhe was himself encountering for her sake. Thus gliding like shadows,\nthey passed stealthily through the great hall of the king's palace,\nimmediately beneath that _talar_, or upper chamber, into which Ninus had\nascended when he poured his last drink-offering to the host of heaven,\nand was seen by his people here on earth no more.\n\nShe could not help shuddering while she recalled that awful night, when\na great horror seemed to brood over the city, and men looked blankly in\neach others' faces, wondering what should befall them next.\n\nCatching sight of the famous carbuncle over the gate, glowing, even in\nutter darkness, like a living coal, her fortitude gave way, and she\nscreamed aloud.\n\nHowever obtained, Beladon's experience seemed to have taught him that\nvigorous measures were judicious in cases of feminine alarm. Seizing her\narm so impressively that she well-nigh screamed again for bodily pain,\nhe whispered in her ear:\n\n\"It is death for both of us if we are discovered by the priests of Baal,\nwho now guard the palace. I know my brethren, Kalmim, and I _love_ you.\nListen! I wear a knife at my girdle, and you shall die first!\"\n\nThoroughly frightened, she hung her head, and held her breath. Could\nthis be the free-spoken light-hearted Beladon, whom she had hitherto\nesteemed a mere frivolous idler, fit only to fill a place in the showy\npageants of his god? He was rising rapidly in her good opinion, while in\nher characteristic love of excitement a certain thrill of pleasure\nsweetened the terror that admonished her how many risks she ran at every\nstep.\n\nTraversing the great hall, they emerged on a terrace commanding one of\nthose pleasure-grounds for which Babylon was then no less famous than in\nafter years for the celebrated hanging-gardens that adorned the age of\nher decay. It was a wilderness of shrubs and flowers, of grove and rock\nand stream--fit haunt for the game with which it had been plentifully\nstocked--fit retreat for luxurious royalty during the heat of an\nAssyrian day--fit hiding-place to secrete the fair favourite of a\njealous lord--fit stronghold to immure the person of an imprisoned king.\n\nIts recesses were distinctly visible from the terrace twenty feet above,\non which Kalmim stood. At that elevation she looked over its entire\nlength and breadth, while a bright moon, high in the heavens, flooded\nevery nook and corner of this paradise with a light like day.\n\nIt was now dead of night, the wild bird had gone to roost, the wild deer\nwas couched in its lair, yet a dark object moved across the lawn, on\nwhich Kalmim's eyes were fixed, slowly, stealthily, with long-continued\npauses, like some feline creature prowling for its prey.\n\n\"Come away,\" whispered Beladon in her ear. \"You have traversed the\npalace; you have seen the king's garden. It is time to depart.\"\n\nShe made no answer. Her eyes were fixed and shining; her face set like\nthat of a sleep-walker, or of one horror-stricken in a dream.\n\nThe figure turned slowly round. Its garments fell disordered and awry,\nits hair was dishevelled, its mien wild and scared, but none could\nmistake the beauty of that pale startled face; and in the miserable\nobject thus stealing, shivering through the moonlight, Kalmim did not\nfail to recognise the person of Ninyas the king.\n\nSurrounded by a dense column of spearmen, on whom threats,\nprotestations, and remonstrances were alike wasted, the hapless son of\nNinus and Semiramis had no sooner entered the city of his inheritance,\nin ill-advised disguise, than he found himself a helpless prisoner under\nthe very eyes of his assembled people, shouting enthusiastic welcome of\nhis return. So wisely had Assarac's measure been taken, so skilfully had\nhe disposed the large force at his command, that Ninyas and his\nattendant, spite of their struggles, found themselves engulfed, as it\nwere, and swept away in a resistless rush of spears. Their horses'\nbridles were seized, the animals themselves urged to a gallop, the\nguards who hemmed them in drowned with noisy cheers even the\nacclamations of an excited populace; and so the whirlwind swept on\nunchecked towards the king's palace, where all Babylon was persuaded its\nbeloved queen had betaken herself, there to assume the royal diadem and\nsceptre, ere she sought her own dwelling on the other side of the river.\n\nBut Ninyas shuddered while they hurried him under the outspread wings of\nthose colossal bulls; for something told him they guarded a prison-gate,\nobdurate and impenetrable as the very granite from which their huge\nproportions were hewn.\n\n\"It is all over,\" he whispered to Sethos. \"The bow is broke and there\nare no more arrows in the quiver. This is one of the Great Queen's\nmaster-strokes. I ought not to have trusted her, and yet I thought my\nmother loved me too well to have worsted me like this!\" Whereto his\nfollower, from whose smooth and easy nature fortune, good or bad, glided\nwithout making much impression, only answered, \"A silken cushion is a\nsofter couch than the desert sand; a palace in Babylon is a nobler\nlodging than the fortress of Ascalon. Baal himself knows not what the\ncoming hour may bring, but the three wings never cease to turn their\neverlasting wheel, and the spoke that is lowest one moment comes\nuppermost the next!\"\n\nThe cup-bearer's philosophy was so far borne out, that the royal\nprisoner found no reason to complain of his personal treatment. His\nbanquets were sumptuous, his pleasures magnificent, his retinue\nsubmissive, as if he were in truth a king; but, turn which way he would,\nhe encountered the smooth faces and downcast looks of the priests of\nBaal, who answered his questions with irritating professions of\nignorance, and waited on him with a subservience maddening in its\nvigilant humility. To those whose very existence depended on the favour\nof Assarac had been confided the care of this important captive, and\nscrupulously they fulfilled their trust. Though he wandered at will from\ncourt to court and hall to hall of the roomy palace--though he might\ntake the air, when it pleased him, in its gardens, or follow the chase\nin its wilderness--he knew that never for a moment was he\nunwatched--felt that words, looks, gestures, all were noted and\nreported, that his very thoughts were known; for while many of his\nwishes seemed anticipated, his attempts at escape were foiled almost\nbefore contrived.\n\nThis constant supervision could not but tell on such a nature as that of\nNinyas, could not but injure a constitution already sapped by luxury and\nindulgence. His health gave way; his mind became affected. He drank wine\nindeed, freely, but neither ate nor slept, wandering listlessly to and\nfro, chiefly in the open air, regardless of times and season--during the\nhours of darkness, as under the glare of noon. Had it not been for\nSethos, who attended him with touching fidelity, his intellects must\nhave wholly succumbed, and perhaps the purpose of his incarceration\nwould have been accomplished. But the cup-bearer exhausted all his\ningenuity to rouse and keep alive the faculties of his lord, desponding,\nnevertheless, more than was natural to his cheerful spirit and tendency\nin all things to hope the best.\n\nKalmim, watching the king with sudden frightened gaze, marked how pale\nhe had grown and wan, how shrunken seemed his stature, how loose the\ncostly garments hung on his limbs.\n\nCould he see her? She knew not. He started indeed, and stood at gaze\nlike a frightened deer, then muttered and ran on, looking up at the\nmoon, pausing after a few steps, with drooping head and downcast eyes,\nto stare on the ground beneath his feet.\n\nShe was a hard, bold, pleasure-loving woman, yet her heart melted within\nher, and she wept.\n\n\"Are you satisfied?\" whispered Beladon, in accents of considerable\nalarm. \"I tell you, it is death to know our secrets, death to look on\nthe sight you now see. Will you not depart ere it be too late?\"\n\nBut Kalmim, it is scarce necessary to observe, had another object\nbesides that of an idle visit to the king's palace, in thus cajoling her\nadmirer and risking discovery by the dissolute priests of Baal. She had\nreason to believe that Sethos shared the captivity of his lord, and with\nSethos she resolved to speak, if such an interview could be brought\nabout by woman's wit, woman's duplicity, or woman's charms. Laying her\nhand caressingly on his arm, she shot one of her sweetest glances in\nBeladon's face, and whispered,\n\n\"Be patient with me, if you love me. I do but ask that you will take me\nhence to the cedar gallery. I know my way then to the outer court, and\nso can depart in peace.\"\n\nHer quick wits reflected, that as a communication existed between the\nlawn and the cedar gallery, Sethos would be there in attendance on his\nlord.\n\nThe young priest pondered in some perplexity. It was his turn to watch\nall night over the seclusion of this important prisoner, and he had\ncounted on the society of Kalmim to beguile the tedious hours till\ndaybreak; but the risk of discovery by his comrades was too great, the\npenalty they would surely exact too hideous, and, for her sake, he\nthought better of his enterprise, even at the last.\n\n\"You do with me what you will,\" he said, after a pause, in which she\nalmost believed she could hear her heart beat. \"If I let you go free\nnow, you will promise to steal softly out, silent as the dead.\nWhatsoever you see you will forget; whomsoever you meet you will pass\nunnoticed. All that takes place here must be as a vision of the night,\nto vanish with dawn of day. Swear it, by the Serpent of Ashtaroth!\"\n\n\"By the Serpent of Ashtaroth!\" she repeated, glad to escape on such good\nterms; and, true to her easy careless nature, added in a whisper that\nsent Beladon well-pleased to his watch, \"I am not ungrateful, as you\nknow; when shall I see you again?--to-morrow, by the temple of Dagon, at\nnoon?\"\n\nNevertheless, her cheek paled and her breath came quick while she stole\nthrough the cedar gallery, because, light and fickle as she was, she\n_did_ entertain for the cup-bearer something of that mysterious\npreference which makes a woman instinctively conscious of _his_ presence\nwhom she thus distinguishes from the rest of mankind; and, though she\ncould not see five paces before her, she felt that Sethos was there, and\nwould accost her as she passed.\n\nHe could be vigilant enough for the safety of his lord, and, if he was\nindeed slumbering, her light step brought him to his feet at a bound.\nThe next moment she was in his arms, with her head on his shoulder.\n\n\"I have risked everything to see you!\" she sobbed wildly; \"life, and\nmore than life. O, Sethos, you are a prisoner to those who know not\nmercy, suffering none to escape. Do they use you well?\"\n\nHis composure was sadly disturbed. It was startling enough to be\naccosted in the dead of night by this beautiful vision, glowing and\npanting in his embrace; but yet more surprising, surely, to find himself\nan object of such interest to the queen's tirewoman.\n\nIt is but justice to say that his first thought was for the safety of\nhis unexpected visitor.\n\n\"How came you here, Kalmim?\" he exclaimed, \"and how are you to get away\nagain? Know you not that we are closely guarded by the priests of Baal?\nIf they found you in their precincts, all the wings of Nisroch would\nscarcely save you from their wrath.\"\n\n\"I am not so bad a captain,\" said she, hanging fondly to his arm, \"but\nthat I have secured my retreat. I made Beladon guide me to this spot. I\nknow the secret passage hence to the outer court. It is guarded by a\nhundred of the neophytes, hewers of wood and drawers of water for the\ntemple. They would as soon dare question Semiramis herself as the\nfavourite tirewoman of the Great Queen. It is of _you_ I am thinking,\nSethos. It was to find _you_ I came here at the dead of night--to see\n_you_, to comfort _you_, and to consult upon some plan for _your_\nescape.\"\n\nThe moon shone faintly into the gallery. By its light she could observe\nhow sad was his brow while he answered, pointing to the terrace:\n\n\"Kings on their thrones have armies at command, and hosts are left them\nafter hosts have melted away. But this king in a prison hath but one\nsubject to do his bidding. Shall not that servant stick closer than a\nbrother, cherishing for his master a love surpassing the love of women?\"\n\n\"It is impossible to save you both,\" said she despondingly.\n\n\"Then save the king,\" he answered simply and with a cheerful smile.\n\n\"Nay, Sethos,\" said she; \"I would peril much for your sake,\nbecause--because--you never asked of me anything for yourself, and what\nyou bestow on man or woman is given freely and without an afterthought.\nBut Ninyas is one, and you are another. If I am to risk life and limb,\nit must be for the cup-bearer, not for the king. I am not like an armour\nof defence, to be put on or laid aside at will. Steel headpiece and\nlinked habergeon ward off death from this man as from that; but, trust\nme, there is some difference between a harness of proof and a woman's\nheart.\"\n\nHe looked kindly in her face, and a thought seemed to strike him.\n\n\"Even here, in our imprisonment,\" said he, \"there sometimes reaches us\nan echo, faint and feeble, of rumours that stir the outer world. Is it\ntrue the Great Queen has summoned an innumerable host to march\nforthwith on this expedition to the North?\"\n\n\"It _is_ true,\" said Kalmim; \"and she leaves me here at home--_me_,\nwithout whom awhile ago she could not lay a plait nor plant a bodkin.\nBut that you are here in captivity, Sethos, and I shall be near you, it\nwould have angered me bitterly, and I had reproached her roundly to her\nface. But let her beware! A smouldering flame is not a fire\nextinguished; and none was ever yet the better for offending Kalmim,\nwith or without a cause.\"\n\n\"In the queen's absence, there must be a governor of the city,\" he\nwhispered. \"Will the obedience of the people be given to such a one when\ntheir ruler is many a day's march away? O Kalmim, if Ninyas be ever\nrighted, ever sit on the throne of Ashur in the palace of his fathers,\nI, even I, shall stand in a dress of honour at his right hand; and who\nbut Kalmim will then really sway the sceptre, far and wide, over the\nwhole land of Shinar?\"\n\nHer eyes flashed, her cheek glowed. No woman is so empty, so frivolous,\nbut that she willingly entertains a project of ambition; and the last\nwatch of night had passed away, dawn was already glimmering on the\nhorizon of the desert, while Sethos and his visitor were yet taking\nearnest counsel together how they might restore the dynasty to its\nrightful heir, and sap, till it crumbled into ruins, the glory and power\nof her who was now supreme mistress of the eastern world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nTHE VEILED QUEEN\n\n\nIn all her reflected splendour as the wife of the great conqueror--in\nher richest lustre of youthful beauty--in her noblest state of royal\nmagnificence while she administered for an absent husband the affairs of\nhis boundless empire--never did Semiramis appear so glorious, so\nbeautiful, or so queenly, as when she passed in review, on the frontiers\nof the land of Shinar, the innumerable forces she had collected, less,\nindeed, to gratify the cravings of ambition than of a softer yet more\nengrossing sentiment, which in her woman's heart predominated over\ndesire of conquest and love of war.\n\nEven with her untold resources, unscrupulous strength of will, and\nunquestioned power, it was no light task for the Great Queen to muster\nsuch a host as might invade the strange and distant regions for which it\nwas destined, if not with certainty of victory, at least, without\nprospect of defeat. To the haughty Assyrian, polished and luxurious,\nthough fierce and warlike, that rude inhospitable country, from which he\nwas fenced by his northern mountains, seemed awful as the land beyond\nthe grave. For him, the word \"Armenia\" meant a place of horror, mystery,\nand romance. With Egypt he was familiar as with the sandy desert that\nparted him from his ancient enemy. Of Ethiopia, notwithstanding its\nscorching suns and endless wastes, he had formed his own ideas,\nsufficiently extravagant, attributing to its burning clime many demons,\nmonsters, and other prodigies, yet wholly satisfied that all the powers\nof the south, in or out of nature, were as nothing before the face of\nBaal and the might of Ashur. The warlike Philistine tribes, even the\nredoubtable children of Anak, he had fought against, with varying\nsuccess, gradually absorbing them in his own dominion or pushing them\nfarther into the wilderness. It was his custom to conquer wherever he\nfound room to drive his chariots and wheel his horsemen; but he had\nnever yet penetrated beyond the Zagros range to the snowy peaks, the\nshaggy woods, the dreary wilds of the North. That he should meet with\nperil and adventure such as the veterans of Ninus had not even dreamed,\nhe was fully persuaded; that he should overcome all obstacles, he had\nbeen no son of Ashur had he not implicitly believed; but that he was\nengaged in a formidable undertaking, and would encounter a powerful foe,\nseemed obvious from the enormous levies collected, and the gigantic\npreparations made to carry out the war.\n\nThe whole expedition was commanded to assemble within a few days' march\nof the frontier, there to receive final orders, and pass in review under\nthe eyes of the Great Queen.\n\nWearing a dazzling harness of steel inlaid with gold, and a burnished\nhelmet, on which blazed a ruby of such size and splendour that its rays\nseemed to play round her head like a plume of fire, Semiramis, standing\nin a war-chariot, revealed to her assembled host a beauty brighter than\nthe metal, richer and more lustrous than the gem. Close by her wheel, so\nthat she could mount him at a moment's notice, was led Merodach,\ncaparisoned with crimson and gold. Not a warrior in the host who looked\non him but swore that white horse with his eyes of fire was well worthy\nto carry so precious a burden. She seemed to prize him dearly, laying\nher hand on his smooth and swelling neck in frequent caresses, which the\nhorse acknowledged with arching crest, brightened eye, and quivering\near, looking about him, nevertheless, as if not wholly satisfied, and\nneighing loudly on occasion when a burst of martial music, or the tramp\nof an armed column, seemed to wake in him certain memories of the heart,\nso faithful and so touching in that creation man is pleased to call the\nbrute. Though Semiramis had broke him to her hand, and tamed him to her\nwill, she could not teach the horse to forget his rider. Perhaps she\nloved him none the less that ear and eye seemed always on the watch for\nhis absent lord.\n\nHanging diagonally against the panel of her chariot, within ready reach\nof her royal hand, swung a quiver of sandal-wood, containing but the two\narrows which the Comely King had sent in answer to her haughty demand.\nShe had sworn by Ashtaroth never to draw bow till she came face to face\nwith Aryas, and then to return him his own warlike tokens in deadly\nquittance, accompanied each with five hundred thousand men.\n\nFlashing back the light from its polished surface like a mirror of\nsteel, the queen's shield, all chased and embossed with gold, was\nsuspended at the back of her chariot. As the coveted office remained\nunfilled, every mighty man of war in the host had in turn believed he\nwould be selected to bear it before her in battle; but Semiramis, having\nlong since made her choice, kept her own counsel, determining to face\nthe weapons of her enemies unfenced until she had set _him_ free to\nprotect her person, who was never out of her thoughts; who had obtained,\nperhaps from his very indifference, so strange an ascendency over her\nwild and wilful heart.\n\nAssarac, the eunuch, well pleased to accompany the expedition, coveted\nmore than others this honourable post. When captain after captain had\nbeen passed over, a sweet intoxicating hope bade the priest's brain\nswim, and so changed his character that in a transport of enthusiasm he\ncould forget alike the exigencies of policy and the dictates of common\nsense.\n\nDescending from his chariot, he approached the position Semiramis had\ntaken up, while the flower of her armies passed by in countless\nthousands, and, making his obeisance, proffered a request that he might\nbe permitted to guard her safely with his life, in terms of the humblest\ndevotion ever offered by a subject to a queen.\n\nShe laughed in his face--a kind frank hearty laugh, that stung him to\nthe quick.\n\n\"What are you thinking of,\" said she, \"my trusty sage and counsellor?\nSurely that weight of steel on your brow has disordered the workings of\nyour keen and subtle brain. Know you not, that when Semiramis mounts her\nwar-chariot, she drives in the fore-front of the battle? I tell you,\nman, I have had shafts and javelins flying round me as thick as locusts\non a field of barley in the blade! I have seen the stoutest captains of\nAshur cower beneath that deadly hail! What would a priest of Baal do in\nsuch a storm?\"\n\nHe was deeply hurt, and showed it. Had not he, the priest, the eunuch,\nconfronted dangers in her interests at home to which the reddest\nbattlefield that ever ran with blood was but a game of play? He felt\nwithin him a spirit of fierce and reckless daring far above the animal\ncourage of the spearman, but he only answered sadly,\n\n\"I could at least die at the feet of my queen, making of my body a\npedestal for her to crush and trample, if it raised her but an inch!\"\n\nWith a cruelty, the more pitiless that it seemed so utterly unconscious,\nshe turned on him her soft alluring glance, her sweet bewildering smile.\nPerhaps, because of his very nature, she was more lavish of such\nendearments to _him_ than to others; perhaps, in sheer wantonness of\nbeauty, she cared not what they were, nor how many, whom she scorched\nto death with the fire she thus flung carelessly about; but the avowed\nregard, the frank kindness with which she treated her devoted servant,\nwere at once the provocatives and the punishment of his presumption.\n\nMeanwhile he, the counsellor, the reader of the stars, the man of\nstatecraft, of wisdom, the priest, the eunuch, was blindly, madly, in\nlove with his queen!\n\n\"Could I spare you?\" said she earnestly, even tenderly. \"Where should\nstand the pedestal from which Semiramis may look over a conquered world,\nbut on the far-sighted wisdom, the unshaken fidelity of her best and\ntruest servant? I tell you, Assarac, that you and I, beardless though we\nbe, have more skill of war than all the captains of all this marching\nhost, that rather than lose your counsel, I would send the half of mine\narmies, bows, spears, and auxiliaries, back to the homes they quitted at\nmy command. And yet look on them, priest. By the beauty of Ashtaroth,\nthese are not men to be despised!\"\n\nWhile she spoke, the chariots of Assyria were filing past her, two by\ntwo. Each, drawn by its three horses, contained its complement of\nwarriors--its heavily armed bowman, his charioteer, and shield-bearer,\nall of whom were on occasion formidable foot-soldiers, strong, fierce,\nand skilled in the use of deadly weapons. In their midst waved the\nscarlet-and-gold banner of Ashur, representing Merodach, god of war,\nstanding on a bull, with a drawn bow in his hand. Their appointments,\ntheir discipline, their very looks seemed to ensure victory. The queen's\neye sparkled, and the colour rose in her delicate cheek.\n\n\"'Tis a gallant show!\" she murmured; \"each comelier than his comrade,\nand every captain of ten thousand fit to mate a queen. Is it worth while\nto hazard all for one so little different from the rest? Yes; I hold\nthat man was made for woman's pleasure, to destroy him how and when she\nwill!\"\n\nThe eunuch, hearing her last sentence, smiled sadly. \"So be it!\" he\nanswered. \"The altar must have its victim and the flame its fuel, but\nthe votary is none the less destroyed that he is consumed in sacred\nfire.\"\n\nShe heeded him not. The war-chariots had passed on, and all her\nfaculties were concentrated on a troop of mounted auxiliaries, small\nindeed in number, but of gigantic stature, riding on horses strong,\nswift, and terrible as the desert wind with which they were accustomed\nto compete. \"What have we here?\" exclaimed Semiramis, holding her bow\nabove her head, and thus bringing the whole array to a halt. \"Have the\nwinged bulls of Ashur come down from their pedestals to march into\nArmenia? Are these riders men or giants? Were their horses bred on\nearthly plains or are they born from the fire and the simoon? Behold!\nSurely they are led by a woman! As I live by bread, another\nwarrior-queen! but veiled and shrouded like a housewife in Babylon,\nstealing out at night to the feast of Dagon. Halt them, I say! And,\nAssarac, command her hither to my chariot-wheels forthwith!\"\n\nThe eunuch made haste to obey, and the small column formed line at once,\nfacing Semiramis, man and beast quivering with repressed strength and\nspirit, held in subjection by the habit of warlike discipline. Their\nveiled leader took her place in the centre, sitting her horse tranquil\nand immovable as a statue.\n\nA tall well-armed warrior rode out, however, from her ranks, and\ndismounting, prostrated himself before the queen, while his horse,\nwaiting for him, watched his motions like a dog. Rising erect, it did\nnot escape the notice of Semiramis, that his lofty head was on a level\nwith her shoulder, as she stood above him in the war-chariot.\n\n\"Whence come ye?\" asked the queen, \"and wherefore are ye ranged under\nthe banner of Ashur, commanded by a woman like myself?\"\n\n\"Thy servants are children of Anak,\" answered the leader. \"They are free\nas the wild ass of the desert, paying tribute and owing subjection to\nnone. They came out of the wilderness at the summons of the Great Queen,\nneither for gold nor spoil, but by _her_ bidding whom their prophets\nforetold, a daughter of the stars, who has come down to lead her chosen\ntribe into the North.\"\n\n\"Doubtless, from her seat on high she could see far and wide,\" replied\nSemiramis with grave irony; \"and she has made no idle choice. By the\nbeard of Nimrod, I have never set eyes on such men! And she, that veiled\nwoman on the black horse, is your captain, then? How are ye assured she\nis indeed a daughter of the stars?\"\n\n\"By the light in her eyes,\" said he simply. \"Once before she appeared\namong us, and we knew her not, but suffered her to depart in peace,\naccording to the prophecy--nevertheless, when she came a second time,\nthe fire-god cleared our sight, and we beheld in her face the glory of\nthose whom earthly mothers bore on the mountains to the sons of heaven.\nOur fathers looked for her in vain; but she has descended for us, their\nsons; therefore at her behest have we gathered under the banner of\nAshur, in the service of the Great Queen.\"\n\n\"Trust me, you shall not be idle!\" exclaimed Semiramis: adding, with\nsome curiosity, \"And this queen of yours? Is she then always thus\nshrouded and invisible?\"\n\n\"It is death to look on her face,\" answered the son of Anak. \"When she\nunveils before the enemy, behold, he will be consumed and waste away\nlike water spilt on the sand. May the queen live for ever!\"\n\nSemiramis scarce concealed a smile.\n\n\"It is well,\" said she graciously, making him a sign to retire. \"When\nthe time comes, I doubt not you will quit you like men! Like men!\" she\nrepeated, turning to the eunuch; \"rather like the giants of our fathers'\ntime, whom ye equal in size and strength. Surely, Assarac, we may take\nthe Comely King by the beard with warriors like these--tall as camels,\nstrong as wild bulls, fierce as lions, foolish as the ostrich, true\nslaves of Ashtaroth, veiled or unveiled, eager to ride to death at the\nwave of a woman's hand!\"\n\nHe looked wistfully after the stalwart forms, sitting their horses so\nproudly, as they trampled on in a cloud of dust; and his heart swelled\nwith bitter sadness while he asked himself, which of these lusty\nchampions would pour out his life for her so freely, so gladly as he,\nthe eunuch, the priest. Must he always be tongue-tied? Would he never\nhave courage to tell her? Could she not guess it, see it, feel it? O, if\nshe knew! If she only knew!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nARYAS THE BEAUTIFUL\n\n\nThose personal advantages of strength and beauty which caused the\ncaptivity of Sarchedon in a distant land served also to obtain for him\nroyal notice and approval when he arrived at the place of his\ndestination. The merchant who had purchased him from the Anakim knew\nwell the price commanded by such specimens of manhood in an open market;\nbut he was also aware of the fictitious value the king of Armenia\nattached to men of goodly stature and comely looks, who were skilled in\nexercises of war. This wily trader laughed in his beard while he\nreflected on the excellent bargain he had made with these simple\nchildren of the desert, from whose tents he led away his Assyrian\npurchase towards the mountains of the north.\n\nSarchedon, notwithstanding anxiety for the fate of Ishtar, and sad\nforebodings of an endless banishment from his own country, had become so\nhabituated to reverses that they affected his appearance and bearing but\nlittle; while, in spite of mental uneasiness, health and strength could\nnot but increase under the care of the kindly merchant and his\ncompanions, journeying easily on, with frequent halts, breathing night\nand day the free open air, keener and purer as they neared those wooded\nmountains that formed a natural defence for the frontier of the Armenian\nking.\n\nThe trader, whose avocations led him to visit different countries\nbordering on the land of Shinar, spoke fluently the dialects of all.\nSpringing from a common root, the language differed so little from his\nown, that Sarchedon mastered without difficulty such idioms and address\nas became an Armenian slave in presence of his lord. When, therefore, he\nreached at length the rushing waters of swift Araxis, and beheld the\ntowers of Ardesh against the clear pure northern sky, he was fit,\nthought the trader, in every quality of mind and body to stand in a\ndress of honour before Aryas the Beautiful himself.\n\nUshered into the presence of the Armenian monarch, Sarchedon, lifting\nhis eyes to take note of his future master, actually started to behold a\nform and figure that seemed, as it were, the reflection of his own in\nsome magic mirror, glorifying and enhancing every quality for which he\nwas himself most conspicuous. He beheld a man of similar stature, frame,\nand countenance; but the stature was a trifle loftier, the frame even\nmore shapely, more graceful; while over the comely face, with all its\nkingly dignity, played a light smile, so feminine in its softness that\nit might well have irradiated the beauty of a twin-sister of Sarchedon.\n\nTo outward splendour of jewels and apparel the king owed nothing. His\ngarments were of the coarsest texture and the simplest shape, such as\nbecame a hunter of the mountains who would have every limb free and\nunfettered for the chase. The bow in his hand, though tough,\nwell-seasoned, and of formidable length, was rudely tipped with\nelk-horn, the sharp straight sword on his thigh hung in a frayed\nleathern scabbard, the sandals on his feet were of untanned hide, and\none of them was stained with blood.\n\nYet Sarchedon gazed on him with an admiration he was unable to control.\nHe had seen Ninus in pride and pomp of warlike power, Pharaoh dazzling\nin the blaze of his golden throne. The one, without his chariots and\nbanners, might have been a mere war-worn spearman, the other, denuded of\npriceless gems and shining raiment, a peasant or a slave; but this man,\nstanding unadorned, save by his comely face and noble bearing, looked\nevery inch a king.\n\nTwice he prostrated himself in unconscious and involuntary homage, and\ntwice Aryas the Beautiful smiled on him well pleased; for he too could\nnot but acknowledge the noble bearing and fair exterior of this stately\ncaptive, vowing in his own mind, that if the courage and intelligence of\nthe Assyrian were in any proportion to his good looks, he would promote\nhim without delay to the most honourable post in his court, that of\nbowbearer to the king on all dangerous expeditions, whether in warfare\nor the chase.\n\nAs time rolled on, there sprung up a strange feeling of regard and\nattachment between these two men, so alike in person, so different in\nall besides. Such a feeling as is indeed rarely reciprocal when race,\nreligion, and station are wholly at variance, when one is a monarch,\nthe other a captive, one master, the other slave. Nevertheless, Aryas\ntook no small pleasure in the society of Sarchedon, and the Assyrian\nentertained in return for this foreign prince a sentiment of loyal\nfidelity that bade him ignore hardship or danger, and count life as a\nthing of little cost in the service of his lord.\n\nThese feelings, the result of gratitude for kindly courtesy and gentle\nusage, grew to utter and entire devotion, from an event that took place\nsoon after Sarchedon had been appointed bowbearer to the Armenian king.\n\nWith all its feminine beauty of expression, the face of Aryas was that\nof a brave resolute man, well suited to such an athletic and graceful\nframe, as enabled the Comely Monarch to excel in bodily exercises\ndemanding strength, agility, or endurance. He was passionately fond of\nthe chase, and followed out his favourite pastime with a persistency and\nreckless daring that rendered it more laborious, and even more\ndangerous, than actual war. The Armenian lion, bred among the glens and\nfastnesses of those colder regions, was doubtless inferior in size and\nferocity to his African brother, or even to that which Ninus loved to\nhunt on the sunny plains of the country between the rivers; yet was he a\nformidable antagonist to one who went out to meet him on equal terms,\ndiscarding the advantage of horse or chariot, but advancing on foot to\ntake his enemy by the beard, opposing teeth and talons only with sword\nand shield. Such was the practice of Aryas the Beautiful, and Sarchedon\ncould not control a transport of generous admiration when he witnessed\nthe confident courage with which this royal Armenian slew the lord of\nthe forest in single combat, rousing him to spring rampant against the\nbuckler, and stabbing the mighty beast from beneath that defence, with\nwell-directed thrusts of a broad two-edged sword in its tawny sinewy\nchest.\n\nThey were together in a deep ravine of that chain of mountains where\ntradition declared the first ship to have rested with its various cargo\nand its God-fearing crew, when the raven flitted round it to and fro,\nwhen the white bird of peace came back with an olive-branch in her\nmouth, ere she left it for evermore. Crowned by the dark and silent\nforest, the gray rock rose precipitous on either side. The king's\nretinue remained with their horses at a distance, and Aryas followed his\nprey into the defile, attended only by Sarchedon in his capacity as\nbowbearer. It did not increase the Assyrian's confidence to know that\nhis quiver was empty and his bow strained. Had Aryas been overpowered,\nhe could have rendered him no assistance; and the horsemen must have\ngone round many furlongs ere they could have ridden down the\nmountain-side into this deep and dangerous gorge. Nevertheless, Aryas\nthe Beautiful, with the bright smile and jaunty step of a peasant-girl\ngoing to market, tracked the lion's footprints one by one till he came\nup with him; and when the formidable game turned at bay, observed calmly\nto his follower:\n\n\"You are strong, Sarchedon, and I will help you; but 'tis a weighty\ncarcass for you and me to carry up that steep when we have slain him.\nNevertheless, I must have his skin at any cost. I want it for a\nfoot-cloth in my war-chariot.\"\n\nEre he spoke again, the lion was quivering in its death-pangs at their\nfeet, and the king had drunk his fill from a clear cold mountain-spring,\nsparkling like a diamond on a cushion in its mossy velvet nest. With no\nlittle labour they carried the dead monster to their companions; and\nthen for the first time it occurred to Aryas that the life of his\nattendant would have been somewhat wantonly risked if he had lost his\nown.\n\n\"Up in these mountains,\" he said kindly, \"we are no longer lord and\nservant, but true comrades and brother hunters of the wood. That is why\nI love to come here. But we all take our share of sport and danger\nalike. Wherefore did you not tell me you were unarmed? Had my foot\nslipped on that strip of turf, you would have found yourself in no\nmaiden's embrace, my friend; and stout as you are, yonder, I think, lies\na better wrestler than you.\"\n\n\"It was for his servant to follow where my lord led,\" answered Sarchedon\nmodestly; adding, with the inborn pride of his nation, \"The sons of\nAshur are little given to fear; but if a man lacked courage, he might\nborrow all he needed from such an example as is afforded by my lord the\nking.\"\n\n\"Nay, my friend,\" replied Aryas, laughing, \"I have no such superfluity\nto lavish, for I see my danger clearly when I confront it. Nevertheless,\nwhere there is no fear there is no courage, as there can be no fortitude\nwhere there is no pain. But I will not suffer my followers to risk life\nfor my amusement; and when we reach the dark forest you see yonder\nacross the valley, to drive the mountain-bull from his covert and chase\nhim over the plain, you shall be as well armed and mounted as myself.\"\n\nBy such frank dealings with his inferiors, such kindly consideration for\nothers, the Comely King had so attached his attendants to his person,\nthat it was generally believed amongst his subjects he possessed some\nmagic amulet compelling all that came about his person to love him and\ndo his bidding. Perhaps they were not far wrong, and the charm he used\nhad in it much of strange and subtle power; for men cannot resist a fair\nface, a frank manner, above all, the kindly sympathy of a brave and\ngenerous heart.\n\nLeaping on his horse, the king bade Sarchedon change his bow, replenish\nhis quiver, and follow him across the defile. As he plunged down the\nsteep after his leader, over slabs of rock affording but slippery\nfoothold, and through broken ground clothed with tangled brushwood,\nSarchedon found himself wishing more than once for the sagacious\ninstinct and obedient paces of his own Merodach. The animal he rode was\nstrong, active, and full of mettle. For all common purposes he could not\nhave desired a better; but when a man is galloping at speed over\nunforeseen obstacles, where a false step is a certain downfall, he\nlearns to appreciate that electric sympathy, the result of constant\ncompanionship, which constitutes so subtle and mysterious a link between\nthe horse and its rider. Merodach would obey an inflection of the body\nreadily as a turn of the rein, would spring to the gentlest pressure as\nto the lustiest shout; but Merodach stood picketed far off under a\nsouthern sky, and Sarchedon's horse was on his head twice ere he rose\nthe opposite hill to come up with his leader, who had halted for a few\nmoments that he might look about him and observe his ground.\n\n\"We have the wind of them,\" said Aryas, pointing to a few indistinct\ndun-coloured objects glancing like shadows in and out amongst the\ntrees. \"But they are disturbed, and have left off feeding. When their\nheads are up like that, they mean moving, and pretty quickly too. Dost\nsee that broad-leafed oak standing by itself there over the waterfall?\nGallop round it, man, without drawing rein, and you will be in the thick\nof them. They will not expect danger from that quarter, and even if they\ndo make a rush for it, you will turn the old bulls to me.\"\n\nWhile Sarchedon obeyed, the Armenian king unwound the scanty fold of\nlinen that formed his head-dress, and permitted it to float at length on\nthe breeze, thus distracting the attention of the wild cattle, now\nthoroughly on the alert, from their enemy.\n\nSarchedon galloped on unnoticed so long as his horse's footfall was lost\nin the roar of the torrent. When within a bowshot, however, the herd\nbecame aware of his approach, and forming line almost like the horsemen\nof Assyria, paused for a space while they roused themselves to fury,\nthrowing the earth about them with horn and hoof.\n\nFor once the king's wood-craft was at fault. Preferring, as it seemed, a\nknown to an unknown danger, they elected to bear down on the advancing\nhorseman rather than make farther acquaintance with that long mysterious\nstrip of white which had hitherto engrossed their attention.\n\nSarchedon now found himself called on to sustain the charge of the whole\ninfuriated mass. While he fitted an arrow to his bowstring, his horse\nsnorted and trembled, its eye turning blue with terror. He could but\nhope to discharge one shaft at the foremost and then take his chance\nwith the spear.\n\n\"The fool!\" muttered Aryas, sitting like a statue, though eagerly on the\nwatch, \"not to keep on their flanks. It was my fault,\" he added; \"I\nshould have warned him.\"\n\nThen he shook his horse's bridle and charged down at speed amongst the\nherd.\n\nIn the meantime the entire mass, headed by the oldest and heaviest\nbulls, came thundering on against Sarchedon. Their leader he transfixed,\nindeed, with an arrow through its mighty neck; but the animal, with a\nroar of rage and pain, only lowered its head and made at him with the\nmore fury. Had he been on Merodach, he might have escaped; for watching\nits attack with wary eye, he would have evaded the collision, and\nstabbed it as it passed by; but the horse beneath him had now become\nunmanageable from fright, would answer neither heel nor bridle, and\nturning its flank towards the enemy, was rolled up by the wild bull in a\nconfused mass, with its prostrate helpless rider.\n\nLooking wildly out from under his horse, Sarchedon saw the conqueror's\neye glow like a living coal, felt its warm slaver streak his own\ndefenceless face, and knew that ringed, curved, massive horn, brandished\naloft with sidelong menace, would only descend to be buried in his\nentrails. Already the bitterness of death seemed past, when a horse's\nhead showed over the wild bull's massive shoulder, an arm was raised to\nstrike, and the ponderous brute went down almost across Sarchedon's\nfeet, with spine and marrow deftly cloven by one lightning stroke from\nthe sharp hunting blade of the Comely King.\n\nExtricating himself from his fallen horse, the Assyrian bowed his\nforehead to the ground, and kissed his preserver's feet.\n\n\"My life is as a prey,\" said he, \"delivered into the hand of my lord the\nking, who has saved it at the peril of his own. Therefore, in storm and\nsunshine, peace and war, good and evil, I am his slave for evermore.\"\n\nAryas was measuring the dead bull's horn with his bowstring.\n\n\"I can get slaves enough for gold,\" he answered carelessly. \"When I\nventure life, it is to buy a _friend_.\"\n\nSarchedon's voice came very low and hoarse, and in his eyes shone the\nunaccustomed glitter of tears, while he replied,\n\n\"When I fail my lord, may my steed fall, may my bowstring rot, may my\njavelin splinter, and may the woman I love betray me to another for a\nmeasure of barley or a paltry handful of gold!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nA WIND FROM THE SOUTH\n\n\nDay after day the friendship of these congenial spirits grew closer and\nmore familiar. The Assyrian had related his own eventful history to his\nnew lord, and Aryas seemed never weary of listening to the tale. Bold,\nenterprising, and imaginative, he loved to hear of the conquest of\nNinus, the prowess of the sons of Ashur, the splendour of Babylon, the\nwealth of Egypt, and the many adventures through which Sarchedon had\npassed in his long journey from the tents of the Anakim to the mountain\nfastnesses of his own northern kingdom. He would inquire minutely\nconcerning the evolutions and tactics of the Assyrian armies, the number\nof their chariots, the strength of their cavalry, the weapons of their\nmen of war, and the proportion in which they made use of sling, bow, and\nspear; but he could not be brought to take any interest, apart from her\nwarlike skill, in the character of Semiramis, paying little attention to\nthe other's glowing description of her lavish state and luxurious\nmagnificence, least of all caring to hear of her beauty, her\nattractions, the glory of her apparel, the lustre of her personal\ncharms.\n\nEven when Sarchedon poured his heart out freely on the subject of his\nbeloved Ishtar, the Comely King listened, indeed, with a certain show of\nkindly interest, as due to the emotion of his friend, but obviously\nfailed to appreciate the importance of the subject, or to comprehend the\nenthusiasm which could thus set up a pair of soft eyes and a fair face\nfor the aim of a man's whole energies, the reward of his perils and\ntoils. He did not understand how a woman's smile could possess such\nattraction as the bray of a clarion, the flaunt of a banner, or the\nmanaged leap of a horse.\n\nBeautiful exceedingly, formed to be the delight of the other, as he was\nthe admired of his own, sex, love to the Comely King seemed but a\nfoolish riddle, not worth the trouble of solving, an irksome study\ninterfering with the pleasures of the chase, unmanly, untoward, but,\nabove all, tedious and out of place when other affairs were on hand.\n\n\"Show me a woman,\" said he, smiling at his bowbearer's rhapsodies, \"with\nan eye like my falcon and a heart like my dog; so will I too drink\nmyself drunk with this folly as with wine, to get sober again as surely,\nif not so soon. Till then, give me horse and hound, bow and spear. I\ntell you, Sarchedon, the whitest arm that was ever thrown round a man's\nneck could not yield me such a thrill of triumph and rapture as the\nlion's claw that tore me from loin to shoulder over my buckler while I\nstabbed him to the heart with my short sword, ere we carried him, you\nand I, up the mountain-side, and skinned his tawny carcass under the old\noak-tree!\"\n\nSarchedon sighed.\n\n\"I love the chase well,\" said he, \"and warfare better, and Ishtar best\nof all.\"\n\n\"Warfare!\" repeated Aryas, catching and kindling at the word like a\nwar-horse at ring of steel; \"talk to me of that till sundown, if you\nwill! Ah, war is something to live for, something to die for, something\non which to wage sceptre and kingdom and all, if only the foe be worthy\nof the venture. Could I but see the sons of Ashur drawn out fairly\nbefore me in battle array, I would fall willingly in their midst, and\nhold my fame was crowned since I had lived to measure swords with the\nconquerors of the South. But what do I say? These are dreams and unreal\nvisions. Too many ranges of impassable mountains, too many leagues of\nscorching desert, lie between the gaudy pinnacles of Babylon and my rude\ntowers here in Ardesh. I have not power to go to _him_; and I think,\nwith all his courage, all his lust of conquest, the fierce Assyrian dare\nnot come to _me_!\"\n\nThey had spent the morning since sunrise in the chase, and had been so\nsuccessful as to regain the palace in Ardesh by noon. After a rough but\nplentiful repast, the king and his bowbearer were sitting over the\nembers of a brazier, each with an untasted cup of wine beside him,\nconversing as above. Scores of warriors and retainers, shaggy, tall,\nathletic, clothed in furs and skins, crowded round a huge wood fire in\nthe outer court under the open sky; for although the sun was fierce and\npowerful, a storm of sleet had lately swept across the heavens, and\nthese hardy champions laughed while they wrung their beards to dash the\nfrozen drops away. There was a shade of despondency on the young king's\nbrow, and he shook his comely head, while he reflected on the remote\nposition of his kingdom, and suggested the impossibility of an Assyrian\ninvasion.\n\nSarchedon started to his feet and listened.\n\n\"It is the tramp of a horse at speed,\" said he. \"For good or for evil,\nthere comes a messenger bringing tidings in hot haste to my lord the\nking.\"\n\nEven while he spoke, a stir in the outer court denoted some unusual\nexcitement, while the fire was deserted for the gate, where a crowd had\nalready gathered round a travel-worn horseman, dismounting from his\nreeking beast, panting and jaded with fatigue.\n\nSarchedon's face fell, and there was at least as much of self-reproach\nas of gratitude in his tone while he exclaimed:\n\n\"Cursed be my day, and oh! that I had never been born! Something tells\nme I have brought evil to the hand that fed and the roof that sheltered\nme. I know too surely that the enemy is at the gate, that the sons of\nAshur are bending their bows against the safety of my lord the king.\"\n\nAryas smiled, and his eyes glittered like a hawk's.\n\n\"Bring in the messenger,\" said he in calm sonorous accents; adding in a\nlower tone to his bowbearer, \"When, in return for fair words, costly\ngifts, and a dishonourable demand, I sent two arrows to the land of\nShinar, the one a headless shaft, the other barbed and pointed, it was a\ntoken that Armenia, though desirous of peace, would never shrink from\nwar. Had a dog sought my protection, he should have been safe behind a\nnation of horsemen. Shall I deliver up my _friend_ at the whim of a\nproud lascivious woman, though she be twenty times a queen?\"\n\n\"Alas,\" replied the other, \"my lord knows not the might of Semiramis.\nShe is immovable by pity, she is insensible to fear. All the hosts of\nheaven could not turn her purpose, nor thwart her desire. I will be the\nbearer of an embassy speaking words of peace from my lord the king. I\nwill go back to put my neck under her foot, and abide my doom.\"\n\n\"Let her come and take you!\" was the gallant answer. \"By the sword we\nworship, she shall find the task a hard one!--ay, if for every bodkin\nshe looses from her head-gear she can set in array a hundred thousand\nmen!\"\n\nThe messenger, a rude and hardy horseman of the north, had now arrived\nin the king's presence. Prostrating himself but once, and with scanty\nceremony, he stood erect to deliver his tidings in frank bluff tones.\n\n\"I have ridden night and day from the southern frontier,\" said he.\n\"Thiras the governor sends greeting to the king. He bids me tell him the\nsouth wind has brought up a flight of locusts, that darken heaven and\ncover earth with their swarms. Shall I speak yet farther in the ears of\nthe people who throng the gate?\"\n\nAryas shot one glance of intelligence at Sarchedon.\n\n\"Say on,\" he exclaimed; \"I have no secrets from those who sit at meat\nwith me in the city, and stand beside me in the field.\"\n\nThus adjured, the messenger proceeded:\n\n\"The sons of Ashur have come up in their might from the land between the\nrivers. Their war-chariots shake the mountain as they pass, their horses\ndrink the streams dry where they ride through. Thiras cannot count their\nnumbers, and what could he do but offer earth and water for tribute,\nseeing that they muster under the banner of the Great Queen?\"\n\nAryas started as if he were stung. The comely face flushed dark red, and\nrarely as he lost his self-command, some outburst of anger would surely\nhave followed, but that another messenger arrived on the heels of his\npredecessor, if possible more hurried, more jaded, more travel-worn than\nthe first.\n\nHe, too, scarcely prostrated himself in the royal presence, and through\nthe shaggy locks which fell across his brow his eyes shone with the\nterror of some wild forest creature hunted by the wolves.\n\n\"From Sambates, governor of Beznun,\" he stammered, \"to the king\ngreeting. They have cast a bank against Betlis, they have surrounded the\ngreat lake, and called it by the name of their queen. They have overrun\nthe province, taking fenced cities, burning villages, laying waste\ncornland and vineyard, slaying men, and carrying into captivity women\nand children. They are swifter than the south wind that brings them,\nfiercer than leopards, more terrible than the lightning, and numberless\nas the stars of heaven. What could Sambates do but offer earth and water\nfor tribute, seeing that they muster under the banner of the Great\nQueen?\"\n\nOnce again Aryas winced and coloured, but controlled himself the more\neffectually for the emergency of the situation. In the same instant he\nrealised his peril, resolved to meet it, and calculated his powers of\nresistance. His first aim was to inspire his followers with confidence.\nFilling his scarcely-tasted goblet to the brim, he advanced to the outer\ncourt, and standing in their midst, bade them follow his example, while\nhe drank the national pledge--\"To the Men of the Mountain and the Sons\nof the Naked Sword!\" Then, taking his bow from Sarchedon, he broke it\nacross, and cast the fragments at his feet in token that war was\ndeclared, while he thus addressed them:\n\n\"The wolves of the wood came up against the mountain-bull, and thought\nto slay him, saying, We are fierce and daring, my brothers, because we\nlive on blood; and this creature cannot resist us, for his food cometh\nup under the dews of heaven, and he slakes his thirst in the murmuring\nstream of the hills. Also, we outnumber him a hundred to one. Therefore\nwill we encircle him, and leap on him, and pull him down; so shall we\nfatten on his carcass, and drain the warm life-blood from his throat.\nLet us go up against him without fear, in an open space, rejoicing that\nhe has been delivered unto us for a prey.\n\n\"But a herd of wild deer were feeding in the plain, and when the wolves\napproached they took to flight; so the mountain-bull, grazing far above\nthem, raised his head, and was aware of his enemy crowding and circling\ntowards him, like the waves of the Northern Sea. Then he withdrew into a\nthicket, where he set his back against the solid rock; and when the\nwolves made at him, fiercely, but one by one, they dashed themselves to\npieces in vain against his shaggy front, writhing under his feet,\nfalling pierced and mangled by his mighty horns.\n\n\"Men of the Mountain and Sons of the Naked Sword, is not Armenia strong\nand tameless as the wild bull of her hills? Are not the sons of Ashur\ninnumerable and pitiless as the wolves that scour the forest, leaving\nonly bones white and bare where they have passed? Ye have learned by\nthese messengers that our country has been entered and our honour\nassailed. The banner of Assyria is flaunting in Armenian breezes, the\nsons of the Mighty Hunter are trooping in by thousands from the south,\nto slay and ravage and destroy. Therefore I call on you at my need,\ntherefore I bid you to council; not to deliberate on a question of peace\nor war, for the bow is already broken and the sword unsheathed, but to\nadvise with your king and leader how best we shall rid us of our enemy,\nand drive the wolf back, cowed, mangled, halting, and howling, to his\nden!\"\n\nWilder, fiercer, louder with every peal, rose the shouts that greeted\nthe Comely King's harangue, while he paused and looked about him,\nstately and graceful, like a master-stag at bay. Brawny arms were\ntossed, and naked swords brandished aloft in very ecstasy of warlike\ndefiance, nor, of all those manly russet-bearded faces, was there one\nthat failed to express intense hatred of the stranger, implicit trust\nand confidence in the might of Armenia, with a fixed resolve to die, if\nneed be, at worst, fighting hard to the very end.\n\nWhen the council which Aryas had summoned took their places for\ndeliberation, there seemed but one opinion--that, gathering all their\nforces without delay, they should pour down into the plain, like their\nown rivers in flood, and, overwhelming the foe in their onslaught, sweep\nhim back to the place from whence he came. Who could stand before the\nhosts of the North? Were they not Men of the Mountain and Sons of the\nNaked Sword?\n\nIt was the king's bowbearer whose skill and experience tempered this\nbold resolve with a degree of caution, resulting from his own knowledge\nof the Assyrians' warlike resources. When it came to his turn to speak,\nthough somewhat mistrusting his advice as an alien, none could gainsay\nthe soundness of his argument, agreeing as it did with the\nhalf-expressed opinion of the Comely King.\n\nInsisting strenuously on the countless numbers of the enemy, and their\nover-powering strength in chariots and horsemen, he urged that it would\nbe the height of imprudence to meet them in the open plain, where they\nwould too surely be encircled and crushed by their enemy in a\nresistless girdle of steel.\n\n\"The wild bull,\" said he, \"in the words of my lord the king, hath his\nrock, and the Men of the Mountain have their fastnesses. The wolves of\nthe wood may dash themselves to pieces against the one, and the sons of\nAshur spend their might in vain against the other. Let them advance here\nto meet us in the heart of Armenia, and so, falling on them weary,\nimpoverished, and exhausted, let us fight a decisive battle under the\nvery walls of Ardesh, and so destroy them, once for all, never to bend a\nbow nor lift a spear again.\"\n\nAfter much discussion, the stranger's advice was allowed to be sound and\ngood. It was resolved, therefore, that the Armenian forces should be\nconcentrated in the very centre of the kingdom, there to await the\nattack of Semiramis with her innumerable hosts; and the same decision\nseeming also good when discussed, according to Armenian custom, over the\nwine-cup, every man went home to sharpen his sword and fit his bowstring\nfor the coming fray.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nTHE FENCED CITY\n\n\n\"The storm has broke at last,\" said Aryas, stooping to lift a headless\narrow that had fallen at his feet. \"If it hail no deadlier missiles than\nthis, there will be little glory in sheltering under buckler and\nheadpiece, behind stone buttress and unbroken wall.\"\n\nSarchedon took the arrow from the king's hand.\n\n\"Behold,\" said he, \"the feathers are dipped in blood. Such a token is\nthe deadliest of all defiance from my countrymen. My lord the king hath\never measured glory by danger. Trust me, he will have enough of both who\nholds a fenced city against which the armies of Assyria come up to cast\na bank.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" was the dauntless answer. \"The god of our nation hath never\nfailed us yet, and those can scarce refuse to accept the award of battle\nwho worship no other power but that of the naked sword!\"\n\nThey were standing on the wall of Ardesh, scanning anxiously the lines\nof the Assyrian camp, which now encircled them. The Comely King had here\nconcentrated all his forces, and the hosts of Semiramis, disappointed,\nit may be, that they met so little resistance on their march, completely\ninvested the capital of Armenia, where the men of the north had taken\ntheir stand, determined to put forth all their strength in a single\nblow, and finish the struggle once for all.\n\nThe Assyrians had surrounded the city by night. At dawn their trumpets\nsounded about it on all sides, and ere noon the siege had so far\ncommenced, that the headless arrow, formerly dispatched to the Great\nQueen as a token from Aryas, was shot into his stronghold, to alight at\nhis very feet, wet and stained with blood.\n\n\"She is here in person,\" observed Sarchedon in a low grave voice, while\nhe turned the arrow round and round in his hand. \"None of her servants\nwould have dared to send such a messenger as this. It means war to the\ndeath, no ransom for the captive, no mercy for the wounded, no burial\nfor the slain.\"\n\n\"Is she, then, so pitiless a conqueror?\" asked the Comely King,\nrepressing certain hideous misgivings, that he had undertaken a task\nbeyond his strength, and that not only his own life, which he was always\nwilling enough to wage freely, but the safety of his people and the very\nexistence of his kingdom were in the utmost peril.\n\n\"Merciless!\" repeated Sarchedon. \"An eagle has mercy when she turns from\nthe dead carrion, a lion has mercy when he is gorged; but how shall men\nlook for mercy from the solid impenetrable rock? That woman has, indeed,\nthe lion's courage and the eagle's ken; but her heart is stone. And yet\nshe is so beautiful,--so beautiful,\" he added, while a tide of wild and\nthrilling memories imparted a mournful tone to his revilings; \"I have\nseen a poor wretch she has condemned turn on her his last look, full of\nlove and worship, ere they covered his face and led him forth to die. Is\nshe not more than woman? Is she not Ashtaroth, Queen of Light, come\ndown to lead the sons of Ashur to their doom?\"\n\nThe king was straining his eyes towards the camp of the enemy. He cared\nas little for the beauty of Ashtaroth as of Semiramis.\n\n\"If she is with her armies in person,\" said he, \"and leads the attack, I\nwill slay her with mine own hand. Behold, when I have cut the string,\nher captains and men of war shall bend the bow in vain. Look out yonder,\nSarchedon, over the eastern slope. You know the array of your countrymen\nin camp or line of battle. Surely where the chariots of iron are massed,\ndown yonder by the waterside, between the lines of horses, should be the\nabiding place of the Great Queen.\"\n\nFrom the rampart whereon they stood, a bluff face of rock descended\nprecipitously towards the camp of the Assyrians. Such, indeed, was the\ndefence of Ardesh on every side; the natural difficulties of the\nstronghold being enhanced by a solid wall of masonry, against which,\neven after a bank had been raised by the besiegers to the necessary\nheight, their battering-rams might be plied for a considerable period\nwithout effect. Save on the eastern quarter, the fall was nearly\nperpendicular, affording no encouraging prospect to an attacking force;\nbut here the cliff sloped off in an incline, up and down which a goat\nmight travel freely, or an active man unencumbered with armour might\npass to and fro. If Ardesh were to be carried by assault, this was its\nonly practicable point, although the inequalities of the surface were so\ntrifling, and the angle so imperceptible, that the ascent looked\nperfectly smooth and upright from below.\n\nLeaning over, with his attention riveted on the camp of the enemy, the\nking let his helmet fall from his head at this very spot. It rolled\nseveral cubits down the incline, till caught by a projecting corner of\nrock, where it hung bright and glittering, like a morning dew-drop on a\ndead autumn leaf. Aryas looked after it and laughed.\n\n\"Token for token,\" said he. \"A headless helmet in answer to a headless\nshaft. If it ever gets down to their camp, they may summon their wise\nmen to read the riddle in vain.\"\n\n\"It must not remain _there_!\" answered Sarchedon. \"The flash of steel\nwill draw every eye in the host to the only joint in our harness; and I\nknow their cunning of warfare well. Let my lord the king shelter for a\nspace beneath the wall, lest I draw on him a storm from yonder dark\ncloud of archers in the vineyard when I show myself. We shall have no\nmore headless arrows shot into Ardesh to-day.\"\n\n\"I would I had known in time!\" muttered Aryas. \"Not a leaf had been left\non the vines to screen a marksman, not a hand's breadth of green but had\nbeen scathed and shrivelled by fire within a bowshot of the walls. Well\nclimbed, Sarchedon! By the sword of my father, the Assyrian hath a leap\nand a footfall like a goat!\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the royal bowbearer crept cautiously down the precipice,\ntaking advantage of every inequality that afforded foothold, of every\ntuft and fibre of vegetation that he could grasp. Slinging the recovered\nhelmet round his neck with a bowstring, and thus leaving both hands at\nliberty for his ascent, he returned even less laboriously than he\ndeparted; and surmounting the wall, stood by the king's side, panting,\nbreathless, but exulting with boyish glee in the achievement of his\nexploit.\n\n\"And they marked me not from below!\" said he triumphantly; \"though I\ndared not often trust myself to look down, I could have seen if bow had\nbeen bent or arrow pointed from the camp. Surely the Assyrian sleeps on\nhis post; surely they have lost their discipline since I carried a spear\nin the guards of the Great King!\"\n\n\"We will give them a lesson in warfare ere long,\" answered Aryas, but\nthough his tone was bold enough, his eye wandered uneasily over the\nmighty array of tents and banners that covered the plain below. \"We can\nhold them at our pleasure till the snow winds come to help us from the\nnorth, unless they give the assault at this very spot beneath our feet,\nand here, too, we are guarded by the river, shallow though it be, for if\nto-day it steals smoothly and gladly through the water-flowers, like a\nyouth wooing a maiden to the dance, to-morrow it comes roaring down in a\nseething flood, unbridled and irresistible as a host of northern\nhorsemen with a broken enemy in their front.\"\n\nBut the king's prevision and the keen eyes of his bowbearer were alike\nat fault. Thus it fell out that the only assailable point in the\ndefences of Ardesh was laid open to an enemy who never failed to strike\nhome without delay at the weakest place.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt had been the custom of the Great Queen, during their long and\ntoilsome progress from the country between the rivers to the mountain\nregions of Armenia, to inspect with her own eyes the camp-life of her\narmies, and to satisfy herself of their nourishment, their comfort,\ntheir general efficiency, above all, their loyalty to her person and\nfidelity to the standard under which they marched.\n\nFor this purpose she would assume the disguise of a simple archer,\nhiding her face, as if to screen it from the sun, with the folds of a\nlinen head-dress, such as has always been affected by inhabitants of hot\nclimates, and so, often without a single attendant, would stroll\nunrecognised through the camp, listening to the rude talk of the\nspearmen, and noting for future reproof any instances of negligence,\ntyranny, or misconduct that took place within her observation. Men\nwondered how an ill-yoked chariot, a trodden and turbid watering-place,\nan over-loaded camel, all came under notice of the Great Queen; so that\nthe prevalent belief in her godlike birth and more than human attributes\ngained ground day by day from these examples of a knowledge that seemed\nat once ubiquitous and infallible.\n\nNo sooner had she disposed her forces, with all the skill her experience\nsuggested, round the stronghold of her enemy than she determined to\nexamine for herself the actual state of the wall which fortified it,\neven if she had to venture within bowshot of the defenders. For this\npurpose she stole from her own magnificent pavilion in the attire of an\nAssyrian archer, and covering her face as usual, passed slowly through\nthe lines where the flower of an army lay encamped, which, though sadly\nweakened by the toil and hardships of its protracted march, seemed yet\nformidable antagonists to any power on earth.\n\nThe men were scattered about in groups, already making preparations,\nthough noon was not long past, for their principal meal at sundown. Here\na brawny warrior, with arms bare to the shoulder and legs to the thigh,\nwas shredding herbs in his headpiece, the homeliness of his occupation\ncontrasting ludicrously with the warlike nature of his cooking vessel,\nas did the nudity of his extremities with the proven harness that kept\nhis mighty chest. A comrade, lying on his back with arms folded over his\nface, kicked his legs in the air, while he watched the proceedings with\na listlessness that denoted he was for evening duty, and would have no\nshare in the result. A score of others, ungirt, unsandalled, half-armed,\nhalf-dressed, were gathered round a dying camel, vociferating many\nopposing remedies for the poor beast's treatment, while the roar of an\nirritated stallion, the peal of a trumpet, the stamp and snort of a row\nof feeding horses, mingled with the hum of voices rising from a circle\nof stalwart warriors sitting, though the sun beat fiercely down, round\nthe embers of their camp-fire.\n\nIt was not in the nature of Semiramis to pass these magnificent\nspecimens of manhood without notice. Half unconsciously she lingered in\ntheir vicinity, marking their ample beards, fine stature, and robust\nproportions, agreeing well with their deep full tones, while they\ndiscussed freely enough the chances of the expedition and the stirring\nevents of their daily life, sparing not the captains of ten thousand,\nnor forbearing to criticise the great leader herself, who stood by and\noverheard.\n\n\"'Tis a strained bow they bid us bend, my brothers,\" observed a scarred,\nwar-worn veteran, whose mien and bearing displayed all the fierce pride,\nthe overweening self-confidence assumed by those who had served under\nthe Great King; \"a strained bow and a frayed cord--peradventure, a\nheadless shaft to point, as well; but that makes little odds against\nsolid masonry and bare rock. I doubt, if we are to get at the kernel of\nthis date here over against us, we must crack the shell with our teeth.\"\n\n\"I can tell thee that mine are blunt for want of use,\" retorted a\ncomrade, hammering busily at a broken link in his habergeon. \"How are\nmen to be fed on the march through a country that grows nothing but oaks\nand brushwood? There is grass, indeed, between the hills, and game for\nthose who can hunt it in the woods, but of corn and cattle the valleys\nare bare as the palm of my hand.\"\n\n\"And empty as his belly,\" laughed a third. \"He liketh well to have store\nof good things in both.\"\n\n\"But Semiramis forbade pillage,\" interposed his neighbour, grinning.\n\"They took an auxiliary with a shield full of barley that he snatched\nfrom an old man's threshing-floor, and she impaled him on the spot.\"\n\n\"Fool! that was in our own land of Shinar, before we crossed the\nfrontier,\" said the first speaker. \"The Great Queen never forbade\npillage in an enemy's country till we marched into this wilderness,\nwhere there is nothing to take. Besides, the rogue slew the old man in\nhis own vineyard, and he was only an auxiliary after all.\"\n\n\"And an ungainly wretch to boot, I will wager my share of supper\npresently out of that scanty pot,\" added a handsome young spearman,\narranging his curly beard in the breastplate he had polished up to the\nbrightness of a mirror for that purpose. \"A comely youth of proper\nstature, be he captain or camel-driver, need never fear but he will find\nfavour in the sight of the Great Queen.\"\n\nHis fellows laughed loud and long.\n\n\"Hear him!\" shouted one, clapping the speaker on the back, \"the\nfavourite of Ashtaroth!\"\n\n\"The dainty lotus-flower of the host!\" exclaimed another; while a third,\nturning on him with mock gravity, bade him,\n\n\"Go to for a fool, who must be answered according to his folly.\"\n\n\"Dost thou verily believe,\" said he, \"that because of thy bull's head\nand shoulders, thy foolish leer like a sheep in a sacrifice, and the\nperpetual grin of a southern ape eating a sour pomegranate, thou wilt\nget preferment at her hands, who knows a man when she sees one, and\ntreats him like the arrows in her quiver? Lo! the bow is bent, the mark\nis struck or missed, another is fitted to the string; but the same shaft\nnever comes into her royal service again. Though thy turn of duty takes\nthee daily to the great pavilion, I doubt if the queen hath ever seen\nthee yet.\"\n\n\"She shall hear of me, nevertheless,\" said the other, with a glance at\nthe beleaguered town.\n\n\"Knocking that empty head of thine against the wall!\" returned the\nveteran. \"I tell ye, my brothers, that of all the wars yet undertaken\nby the sons of Ashur, this is the most untoward and ill-advised. What\nsaid the Great King when he turned back from the Zagros range, taking\nearth and water of the Men of the Mountain, but refraining to occupy\ntheir country? 'I would be lord of all below,' said he, pointing to\nthose snow-whitened hills that mingle with the clouds, 'while I leave to\nmy fathers the dominion of the sky!' He has gone to join them at last;\nbut could he come back to us this night, I tell ye by to-morrow's sunset\nwe should be a day's march on our journey towards home!\"\n\n\"Then why are we here now?\" was asked by two or three voices at once.\n\nThe answer came in a grave important tone:\n\n\"Because of a treasure within those walls that Semiramis would wage life\nand empire, and you and me, and the whole might of Ashur to attain. What\nit is, I know not; if I knew, peradventure I dared not tell. But this I\nwill uphold of the Great Queen, that her lightest wish is to the fixed\nresolve of another, as a man walking in armour to a maiden washing her\nfeet in a stream.\"\n\nHis listeners nodded approval, and scanning the lofty towers above them,\nbegan hazarding many conjectures as to the nature of that possession so\ncoveted by their queen. A strong opinion seemed to prevail that Ardesh\ncontained some illimitable store of spoils hoarded by Armenian kings for\nages; and this impression served partly to counteract their general\nfeeling of despondency and disheartening belief in the impregnable\nstrength of the place. The youngest of these men of war spoke the most\nhopefully.\n\n\"I will never admit,\" said he, \"that the might of man can shut out the\nsons of Ashur under the banner of our Great Queen. A rock is steep. Go\nto! shall we not cast a bank against it? A wall is thick; shall we not\nundermine it from beneath? Give me a high curved shield to keep my head,\na steel pick, and an iron crowbar; behold, I will sit like a partridge\nin the barley, and burrow like a coney amongst the rocks.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" answered the veteran moodily. \"The sooner our trumpets sound\nto the assault the better. I tell thee, man, though the guards still\nshow a goodly front, the hosts of Assyria are wasting and waning day by\nday, like that river in Egypt I passed over dry shod, like a flagon of\nDamascus wine, my brother, standing betwixt thee and me.\"\n\nThe archer turned thoughtfully away, walking through the lines with\nfolded hands and head bent down in earnest consideration.\n\nThere was food for reflection, even for anxiety and alarm, in the light\ntalk of these careless spearmen. When they touched on her personal\nweaknesses, her predilection for stalwart warriors, and especially her\nindomitable strength of will, the queen could not forbear a smile; but\nit faded into an expression of deeper gravity than was often worn by\nthat bright face, while she pondered on the cost and peril of this\nadventurous expedition, so wild in its object, so disastrous in its\nresults, confessing to her own heart that its impolicy was as obvious to\nher meanest followers as to their leader. Had not Assarac himself\nexpressed the same opinion, almost in the same words?--Assarac, to whom\nshe had never given a problem so hard but that he could solve it, a task\nso difficult, but that, for her sake, it was fulfilled.\n\nHer armies melting away daily, her men of war dispirited and\nill-supplied, a strongly-fortified city in front, a barren desert in\nrear! Not a captain of her host but would have quailed at the prospect,\nand had he been chief in command, would have commenced a fatal and\ndisorderly retreat.\n\nThe character of Semiramis, however, was one on which danger and\ndifficulty produced the effect of a hammer on glowing steel, welding and\nforging it, indeed, to the ends in view, but tempering it to an\nexceeding hardness and consistency the while. The desire of the present\ntoo, whatever it might be, became her master-passion for the time, and\nwhile sanguine and impetuous like a very woman, she possessed the\ncourage, foresight, and obstinate perseverance of a man; also she\nenjoyed unlimited and irresponsible power as a queen; therefore it never\nentered her mind to abandon her task, or forego her intention of taking\nSarchedon out of Ardesh by the strong hand, and marching the Comely King\nback to Babylon, a fettered captive at her chariot wheels.\n\n\"But to lie here inactive, waiting till he surrenders,\" thought the\nqueen, \"is like staring at ripe fruit in an orchard, till it drop down\ninto the mouth. If a man hunger, let him climb the bough; I am but a\nwoman, yet I think I can at least shake the tree.\"\n\nSo she resolved that, at all hazards and all loss, the place must be\ncarried by assault without delay. Thus musing, she passed through the\nvineyard occupied by her own archers to within an arrow's flight of the\nbeleaguered fortress, unnoticed by those who believed her to be a simple\nbowman like themselves, and so proceeded to scan the wall, with an eye\ntrained to detect the slightest point of advantage at a glance.\n\nIt was strong, very strong. Here, perhaps, a bank might be cast against\nit to some purpose; but the besiegers would suffer fearful slaughter in\nthe work. There, covered by their large wicker shields, and plying their\nmining-tools, her heavy-armed spearmen might sap the foundations of the\nwall; but could they climb, and fight, and work, all at once, where\nthere was scarce foothold for a goat? It must be done, nevertheless; but\nhow to do it? She taxed her memory and her invention in vain.\n\nAccident, however, came to her aid, when all her warlike skill was\ninsufficient. Gazing steadfastly on the place, she marked the king's\nhelmet drop from the wall, and her heart leaped with triumph when she\nbeheld his bowbearer, who recovered it, reascending with little\ndifficulty to return it to his lord--with triumph, and with a sharper,\nkeener, sweeter sensation still; for in that bowbearer she recognised\nhim for whom she was thus willing to risk life and empire; while the\nsame glance revealed to her at once the desire of her eyes, and the path\nby which it was to be attained. She felt her cheek burn and her pulses\nthrob; but even in that glowing moment, the instincts of the commander\ndominated those of the woman, and her brain was never clearer, nor her\neye more accurate, than while she measured the height of the steep, and\nnoted every fall of ground, every inequality of surface, that could be\nturned to account in moving the strength of her army at this point to\nthe attack.\n\nAshtaroth, she knew, would always be ready to do her bidding, but it\nneeded prudence, self-restraint, and a steadfast heart to force Merodach\nto her will.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nSONS OF THE SWORD\n\n\nOn the brow of the Comely King lowered a cloud of anxiety and concern.\nHe sat in the great stone hall of his rude palace, surrounded by chiefs\nand followers, to take counsel with them for the turning of this\noverwhelming tide, and foiling of the enemy at his gate.\n\nThough, contrary to the custom of his nation, he rarely tasted wine\nhimself, mighty flagons and capacious drinking-cups stood within each\nman's reach, so that while they pondered and stroked their beards, and\nshook their shaggy heads with ominous wisdom, many a deep draught was\nquaffed by these rugged heroes in silent pledge to the weapon they\nprofessed to worship, and of which they boasted themselves the\noffspring. In the middle of the hall, on a massive stone altar,\nspringing as it were from a groundwork of ferns and mosses, stood a\nnaked broadsword, pointing to the roof; and not Baal himself, thought\nSarchedon, in his stately temple of Babylon, with countless victims,\nstreams of blood, libations of wine, and all the pomp of his white-robed\npriests, could have boasted a more sincere devotion than was offered by\nthese rugged champions to the warlike symbol of their faith.\n\nHis bowbearer stood on the king's right hand. It did not escape him\nthat, although treated by Aryas with marked confidence and\nconsideration, angry brows were bent and suspicious glances levelled at\nhim from many in the assembly, who seemed to take exception at this\npromotion of an alien to such a post, more especially at a time when the\nstranger's own countrymen were pressing them so hard.\n\nThe haughty Assyrian winced and chafed under these symptoms of ill-will\nlike a gallant steed, whose rider dare not trust his mettle, resolving\nthat, ere long, some daring act of valour in the field should reinstate\nhim in the good opinion of warriors, to whom success was a convincing\nproof of merit, and desperate courage the only test of worth.\n\nTo rush fiercely against the ranks of his own nation, hewing, sword in\nhand, at the very men with whom he had heretofore broken bread in the\ncity and marched to conquest in the field, went indeed sorely against\nthe grain; but Sarchedon reflected that, besides the ties of gratitude\nwhich bound him to Aryas the Beautiful, there were many reasons, hardly\nless weighty, for his desertion from the banner of Ashur, and\nabandonment of his service under the Great Queen. To become once more a\nmere toy and plaything at the caprice of Semiramis was a thought too\nhumiliating to be endured, even could he escape the usual doom of those\non whom she cast a favouring eye, while it was probable that she would\nat once take cruel vengeance for the vexation and disappointment of\nwhich he had been unwittingly the cause. So long as she remained\nmistress of the world, it was hopeless for him to think of honour and\nsafety, above all, of Ishtar, liberty, and love. But if the Assyrian\nhost could be defeated under the walls of Ardesh--if, baffled,\nscattered, and disorganised, they could be driven back on the rugged\ndefiles and barren deserts that lay between them and their home--what\nwas there to prevent an Armenian army from marching to the gates of\nBabylon? and how could Ishtar escape his search, who, at the conqueror's\nright hand, would scour the land of Shinar through its length and\nbreadth, till he found the woman whom he had never ceased to love?\n\nWhile such thoughts were teeming in his brain, he was not likely to\nendure with patience doubts of his fidelity to the cause he had\nespoused.\n\nMany and opposite were the opinions of the warlike council. Sar\u00e6us, a\nwealthy chieftain, arrayed with something more of luxury than his\nfellows, and lord of many a fertile valley beyond Mount Aragaz, as yet\nunoccupied and unheard of by the Assyrian, urged strenuously the\nprudence of standing a siege.\n\n\"We have fuel,\" said he, \"we have shelter; casks of wine to broach,\nherds of beasts to slay. Let us eat, drink, and be merry, while the\nenemy perishes with hunger at our gates. The river runs between us, our\nwalls are strong, our rocks are steep. Like the eagle on her eyrie, I\nwould sit with folded wings and scream my defiance to the leopard\nprowling below.\"\n\n\"Scream till thou art hoarse!\" exclaimed Thorgon, a giant from the\nnorthern desert, armed in chain harness and clad in undressed skins,\n\"but remember, 'He who hath the gullet of Sar\u00e6us, should have his larder\nto keep it full.'\"\n\nThere was a general laugh at this application of a well-known proverb,\nfounded on the wealth and fertility of the last speaker's dominions, and\nthe luxurious habits of their owner. Thorgon proceeded, much pleased\nwith the effect of his unaccustomed eloquence:\n\n\"When thy father summoned me to council, O king, he never paused to take\nmy vote on a question of peace or war. Aramus knew and trusted his old\ncomrade well. 'Thorgon' said he, 'is a steed always saddled, a bow\nalways bent.' I am ready, as I have ever been, to lead my long-swords\ninto the fore-front of battle. But let not the king deceive himself: we\nhave an enemy down yonder in the plain accustomed to conquer, inured to\ndanger, skilled in all the arts and artifices of war. This is no\nbroad-leafed oak into which we must drive the old Armenian wedge, but a\nfront of solid earth-fast rock!\"\n\nMen looked in each other's faces, discouraged and alarmed. It was\nsomething new to hear this fiery patriarch express doubts of victory. A\nhint of caution from Thorgon was tantamount to forebodings of defeat\nfrom milder spirits; and a short but ominous silence fell on the\nassembled council, while each realised the danger he had hitherto shrunk\nfrom acknowledging even to himself.\n\nIt was broken by the king.\n\n\"There is a courage to endure,\" said he, \"as there is a courage to\nassail. When the snow-winds come, they will rid us of our enemy, without\nbending of bow or shaking of spear. But our grapes are yet green in the\nvineyards, our barley scarce whitening on the plain. How many days,\nthink you, my brothers, will meat and drink be forthcoming if we elect\nto remain up here, cooped within the walls of Ardesh like a swarm of\nbees in a hive?\"\n\nAgain opinions varied; some thought they might hold out a hundred, some\nbarely a score. Thorgon offered to break through the lines of the enemy,\nand bring in sheep and horses from the wind-swept plains of his home.\n\n\"When we have eaten the last down to their hoofs,\" growled the fierce\nwarrior, \"we can always run out, sword in hand, and take what we want\nfrom the tether ropes of this scolding housewife whom they call the\nGreat Queen!\"\n\n\"Sarchedon,\" said Aryas, turning to his bowbearer, \"you have held your\npeace too long. Give us your counsel, man; for you best know the\nstrength and the designs of our enemy.\"\n\nThere was a stir in the hall at this appeal to the stranger, and more\nthan one sword leaped a hand's-breadth from its scabbard. Murmurs of\n\"Traitor, traitor!\" rose by degrees to louder outcries. \"Out with him!\"\n\"Down with him!\" \"Slay him and cast him over the wall to his own people,\nwho have come hither at his desire!\" were the mildest of these\nrevilings, while a scuffling of feet and crowding of shoulders about his\nplace at the king's right hand denoted no good-will to the Assyrian,\nsmall chance of mercy or even justice if national prejudice and panic\nshould get the upper hand. Aryas flushed dark red with anger; but\nThorgon interposed his massive person between the bowbearer and those\nwho threatened him, while his deep hoarse voice cried \"Shame!\" in\naccents that might have been heard by the besiegers outside.\n\n\"A stranger, and treated thus in the king's council-chamber!\" he\nshouted. \"By the sword that begot our nation, I will stamp the life out\nof the first man who steps across the hall! What! the Assyrian came to\nour gates a captive and a suppliant, and shall we deliver him up, were\nhe ten times a traitor, at the bidding of the loudest-tongued shrew that\never wore a smock? Nay, my brothers, stand back, I say; give every man a\nfair hearing, and room to swing a sword!\"\n\nThus adjured, the assembly subsided into their places, and Sarchedon\ntook advantage of restored order to protest earnestly against the\nsuspicions of those with whom he had come to dwell.\n\n\"I am an Assyrian,\" said he, facing boldly round on such as had been\nmost vehement in their outcries \"and I am proud of my birth as of my\nnation. But I was also a soldier of the Great King, who could never be\nurged to war within the confines of Armenia, and I owe no allegiance to\nher who has taken unlawful possession of his throne, who would\nestablish herself thereon with tyranny and injustice. I came here a\nweary footsore slave; I was fed, comforted, and raised to honour by my\nlord the king. Every drop of my blood shall be poured out to do him\nservice. Bethink ye too, Men of the Mountain, if the Assyrian takes me\nfighting in your ranks he will strip the skin from my body to make\nsandals for his feet. Those strike fierce and hard who have no retreat;\nand if honour, good faith, gratitude, count for nothing, at least you\nmay trust him for whom defeat is a cruel and shameful death. My lord the\nking hath demanded my counsel. To so noble an assembly it is not for me\nto offer advice, but I am enabled to give information. I have returned\nbut a short space from the outer wall. Since daybreak the enemy hath\nbeen busied in turning the course of the river, that he may advance to\nthe assault dry shod. You yourselves best know to what purpose you can\ndefend the city from an attack on its weaker side; but my lord the king\nhath demanded counsel of his servant, and it is not for me to shrink\nfrom speaking because of angry threats and scowling brows. Were I King\nAryas of Armenia, as I am his faithful bowbearer, I would go down to\nbattle with the Assyrian, and strive with him, man to man, outside the\ncity-walls!\"\n\nLoud shouts of applause greeted this daring speech, and Thorgon,\nstriding across the hall, laid his broad hand on the Assyrian's\nshoulder, with a gesture of unqualified approval and respect. The\nenthusiasm became general, so that even Sar\u00e6us, shouted and gesticulated\nwith the rest; but Aryas, stepping proudly into the midst, drew his\nsword from its sheath, and kissing its handle, raised its point towards\nthe roof. Each man present followed his example, and thus, with naked\nweapons gleaming in their hands, they listened in silence to the words\nof the Comely King.\n\n\"It is well spoken!\" said he. \"Surely the bowbearer hath shot his arrow\nhome to the mark. If indeed the river be turned, steep rock and solid\nwall will avail us little against the huge engines and innumerable\narchers of the Assyrian. It is wise to attack when it seems hopeless to\ndefend; and who shall stand against Armenia coming down in her might,\nlike one of her own torrents from the snow-topped hills? I am a free\nking, ruling over a free people, yet can I count on you, my friends and\nfollowers, as on the steel in my own right hand. Let us set the battle\nin array, and fight the quarrel to the death. The stranger never turned\nfrom our father's gate in peace, nor entered it in war. Shall we forget\nwhose sons we are to-day, because of a fierce people, riding on horses,\nworshipping strange gods, and mustering countless as the snowflakes in a\nstorm? I call on you, as Aramus would have called on your fathers, to\nrally round his son; and I pledge you in that sacred cup to which, since\nArmenia became a nation, traitor or coward hath never dared to lay his\nlips!\"\n\nWith these words, the king filled a mighty bowl with wine, and bringing\nthe edge of his sword so briskly across his naked fore-arm that the\nblood spouted from the gash, suffered a few drops to drain into the\nliquid; then, raising the vessel to his lips, drank heartily ere he\npassed the bowl to Thorgon, who, following his example, sent it round\namongst the rest, each man quaffing his share with the zeal and gravity\nof one who partakes in a religious rite. When at last the bowl reached\nSarchedon, there was scarce a mouthful left; but the Assyrian, catching\nthe spirit of this strange ceremony, pierced his own arm without\nhesitation, and thus pledged his new comrades in a draught of blood.\n\nAny lingering suspicions they might have entertained were completely\ndissipated by so ready a compliance with their ancient custom, and not\none but went out from the presence of his lord to prepare for battle\nwith a confidence as implicit in the fidelity of the stranger as in his\nown.\n\nWith measured steps, lowered weapons, and a grave aspect, as having\nbefore them a task it would tax all their strength to accomplish, these\nMen of the Mountain departed one by one, each, as he left the hall,\nturning with grim salute to do obeisance to the Naked Sword. When the\nlast had vanished, Sarchedon, looking into the face of his lord, felt\nhis heart sink and his blood run cold; for on the brow of the Comely\nKing, though courageous and serene as ever, there was imprinted the seal\nof the destroyer--there seemed to sit that cloud, so awful and so\nmysterious, which is the shadow of coming death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\nFAITHFUL UNTO DEATH\n\n\n\"It is our only course against such a foe,\" said Aryas, after a gloomy\nsilence, during which lord and servant seemed to have been following out\nno cheering train of thought. \"For any nation on earth to oppose thy\ncountrymen in warfare is to wield a shepherd's staff against a blade of\ntempered steel. But one heavy blow from the club, well-aimed and\nunexpected, may sometimes shiver the deadlier weapon to its hilt. Our\nlong swords of the mountain bite sharp and true. The wedge of Armenia\ncan pierce a column, however dense, and the gap widens as we fight on.\nSurely it will cleave the might of Assyria, as a woodman's axe cleaves\nthe sturdy oak of the hills.\"\n\n\"But the oak is rooted to its place,\" objected Sarchedon, \"while the\nAssyrian can wheel and stoop and strike like a falcon in the air. His\nhorsemen will open out, and bend their bows till they have wrapped the\nadvancing wedge in a storm of deadly hail--till its men fall thick, and\nits might is loosened from the rear. Then will Semiramis order up her\nwar-chariots on either flank; and, once broken, as well he knows, there\nis no rallying for the long swords of my lord the king.\"\n\n\"They shall _not_ be broken,\" exclaimed Aryas. \"With Thorgon to lead\nthem on foot, with their king to direct the battle in his chariot, with\nthy skill of warfare, Sarchedon, and our own good cause, I commit the\nresult to that power which hath ever befriended Armenia, in attack and\nin defence--the might of the Naked Sword. Yet I would we could fight\nthem at a vantage, nevertheless,\" he added, his enthusiasm changing to\ndeep anxiety and concern. \"Their armour, their weapons, their horses,\nare better than ours, and they outnumber us ten to one.\"\n\n\"True, O king!\" replied Sarchedon; \"therefore must we fall upon them\nunawares. Behold! In their ranks every spearman hath been taught to\nhandle spade, every slinger uses the pick deftly as he whirls the thong,\neach third man carries a mattock or a shovel; and the Great Queen\nvalues their labour no dearer than their lives. This night one half her\nhost will be employed to turn the course of the river that keeps your\ncity on its eastern side. Let my lord the king summon his men of war in\nthe hours of darkness, and at daybreak go down to battle. If he conquer,\nit will be with the first onslaught. If he fail, then may Sarchedon, his\nfriend and servant, pay back the life he owes, and die at his lord's\nfeet.\"\n\nAgain that ominous shadow passed over the king's face: he laid his hand\nkindly on the other's shoulder, and spoke in a low sad voice.\n\n\"Sarchedon,\" said he, \"when I shielded thee from the demand of an\nAssyrian embassy, it was for jealousy of my father's honour--for the\ncause of the stranger and the oppressed. When I took thee out from under\nthy horse--ay, from off the very horns of the wild bull--it was for care\nof a faithful servant risking life at the pleasure of his lord. Now we\nare master and slave, crowned king and belted bowbearer no more, but\nfriends in esteem and affection, brothers in confidence and love. I tell\nthee that the days of Aryas, the son of Aramus, are numbered, and the\nMountain Men must choose them another king to guide their counsels and\nlead their long swords into battle. Last night I dreamed a dream; and it\nneeds no wise man, no cunning soothsayer, to read the interpretation\nthereof. Behold, I was hunting in the mountain, riding to and fro with\nbow in hand and hound in leash, seeking to take a prey. In vain I\ntraversed hill and valley, rock and river, stately forest and scattered\ncopse--leaf, grass, and flower were alike scathed and blighted. It\nseemed that a flight of locusts had passed over all. Then I cursed the\nnakedness of the land in my wrath; and while thrice I shouted 'Barren,\nbarren, barren!' mine own voice sounded hideous in mine ears. So I rode\nslowly on, and beneath my horse's feet I beheld three things that caused\nmy blood to curdle and the hair of my flesh to stand on end.\n\n\"The first was a slain eagle pierced by a headless shaft; the second was\na wild bull noosed in a woman's girdle; the third was a dead man lying\non his face with the king's sandals on his feet, the king's baldrick on\nhis shoulders, and the king's quiver at his back. I tell thee,\nSarchedon, the warning lies betwixt thee and me. Let us drink a cup of\nwine in fellowship to-night; for if we go down to battle with\nto-morrow's dawn, one of us shall have quenched his thirst for ever by\nnoon of day.\"\n\n\"On my head may it fall!\" exclaimed Sarchedon. \"Let the slave perish,\nand let his lord, who raised him from the dust, ride forth to victory!\"\n\n\"Nay, hear me,\" replied the king; \"for I have already told thee lord and\nslave are no words between Aryas and Sarchedon. If I accept the vision\nfor myself, I am willing to face its interpretation freely as I would\nface the horsemen of Assyria and the chariots of the Great Queen. I\nmight die many a baser death than to fall in battle with Thorgon and his\nlong swords at my back. But if it is for thee that the dream has been\nsent, I tell thee, my faithful friend and comrade, I cannot bear to\nthink that thy share in our joint venture should be all loss and no\ngain. When I took thee into my palace, rude and homely though it seem, I\nswore its halls should be a harness of proof and a tower of defence for\nthe stranger who sought its shelter. When I gave thee a place in my\nheart, I resolved I would bring thee to promotion and honour--not to\ndanger, defeat, and death. Go out from among us, Sarchedon, ere it be\ntoo late. Return, as of thine own free will, to the Assyrian, with fair\nwords and costly gifts. Buy their favour and the safety of thy body with\nthat fair province of the south that lies by the Glassy Lake. Behold, it\nis a gift from me to thee. Tell them that the open hand of Aryas is\nheavy as his clenched fist. Bid the Great Queen depart in peace; but if\nshe must needs come to buffets, there is space enough to fight a kingly\nbattle beneath the walls of Ardesh. If she desires to seize my father's\ncrown, she must take it off my brows by force where I stand, in my\nwar-chariot armed with bow and spear.\"\n\nFor all answer, Sarchedon stripped the quiver from his shoulders, took\nthe sword from his thigh, and laid the weapons at his lord's feet.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said he. \"If the king can believe his servant capable of\nthus ransoming one poor life at the cost of honour, I have served him\nalready too long. There are many brave men among his subjects better\nfitted than Sarchedon for the highest post Armenia has to offer. Poor\nand naked as he came, let the Assyrian return to the station from which\nhe was raised by the favour of my lord the king. Yet, if true service\nand a grateful heart may plead for him, even now he will but ask to take\nhis place to-morrow in the fore-front of battle, and, habited like a\nsimple soldier of Aryas, march with the Men of the Mountain to his\ndeath.\"\n\nThe king's features worked with emotion. \"Not so,\" he exclaimed in\nhoarse and broken accents. \"True and faithful servants I can number by\nscores, but such a heart as this cleaveth to a man, be he king or\nherdsman, once in a lifetime. Surely it sticketh faster than a brother.\nI have proved thee, Sarchedon, as one proves the harness that is to keep\nhis life. I tell thee, we will go down to battle side by side; together\nwe will bend the bow and point the javelin. Honour, danger, and triumph\nwe will share alike; and when the end comes, as something warns me come\nit will, peradventure in death we shall not be divided.\"\n\nThen he lifted belt and baldrick from the stones, and with his own hand\nfastened the quiver at Sarchedon's back, girt the sword on his thigh,\nthus reinstating the bowbearer in all the honours he had voluntarily\nresigned.\n\nStanding side by side in this reversal of their relative positions, it\nchanced that the servant caught sight of his own figure and his master's\nreflected in the burnished surface of an empty wine-flagon over against\nhim. Remarking, not for the first time, their extraordinary similarity\nof form and features, Sarchedon now ventured on a request that only the\nhigh favour in which he stood, and the humility of his tone while\nproffering it, could have rendered palatable to his listener.\n\n\"Let not the king be wroth with his servant,\" said he, hesitating, like\none who tries a plank with his foot ere he commits it to the whole of\nhis weight, \"if we ask yet another proof, in addition to all the honours\nheaped on him, of the trust in which he is held by his lord. Behold,\nlike the sand that sucks the desert spring, he thirsteth yet for more!\nLet the king grant him the desire of his heart, and live for ever!\"\n\n\"Say on, man!\" replied Aryas, somewhat impatiently; \"surely there needs\nnot all this ceremony between thee and me. By to-morrow's sunset,\" he\nadded, in a lower, sadder tone, \"the same wild dog may be scaring the\nvultures from us both.\"\n\n\"Then, if we are to meet our death together,\" replied Sarchedon, \"let it\nbe in the same habit and the same armour. This is the boon I earnestly\nbeg of my lord to grant. Men have said, ere now, that armed and in the\nfield there is some such resemblance between Sarchedon and him who is\ncalled Aryas and Beautiful, as between the illusive verdure of the\ndesert and those groves and waters that it represents. Let me take upon\nme then to array myself in such attire and harness as are worn by my\nlord the king; so, in the press of battle, the advantage of his presence\nand conduct shall be double, while the risk from his enemies--for my\npeople strike ever at the head--will be but half.\"\n\nAryas pondered.\n\n\"And if I fall,\" said he, \"wilt thou bring on the Men of the Mountain\nlike a free Armenian king, leading the long swords to the charge again\nand again, even unto death?\"\n\n\"I will do my best,\" replied the other; \"for, indeed, whither am I to\nretreat? and what will be my fate if I am made a captive? Surely I have\nnothing to fear but defeat. If the long swords will follow, I ask no\nbetter than to lead them through the ranks of Assyria--to the very\nchariot of the Great Queen!\"\n\nThe king's eyes blazed with unwonted fire.\n\n\"Swear it!\" he exclaimed vehemently.\n\n\"I swear it by the everlasting wings!\" answered Sarchedon; and so they\nmade their compact with death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\nA FOOL IN HIS FOLLY\n\n\nIt is not to be supposed that the warlike skill which assisted Ninus to\nform his plans, and the courage which rivalled his own in carrying them\nout, would fail Semiramis now that she was unfettered by the counsels\nand commands of her lord. The sons of Ashur had never yet been led so\njudiciously, organised so carefully, as in this daring expedition to the\nnorth, under conduct of the Great Queen.\n\nAryas little knew with whom he had to deal, when he spoke of surprising\nher by sudden onslaught, or hoped to rout her in the fury of his attack.\nHer watchmen were posted, her defences prepared, her dispositions made\nto meet his wiliest stratagems; and all the time, while every\nworking-party was covered by a guard of twice its number, the labour\nprogressed steadily, and the river, on which the besieged chiefly\ndepended for security, waned cubit by cubit and hour by hour.\n\nNone knew better than this woman-warrior how the presence of a commander\ninfuses spirit into the operations of an army, how the ubiquity of a\nleader promotes that attention to details which alone insures success:\nthere was no period of the day or night but the queen's white horse\nmight be seen flitting through the lines of her innumerable host, while\nthe lovely face smiled its calm approval, or expressed displeasure, no\nless fatal because so grave and quiet; always pale, immovable, and\nserene, under gleam of moonlight, flash of torches, or glare of day.\n\nMen wondered when she ate and slept, inclining to believe that this\nsupernatural beauty must be above such human wants, tended and nourished\nby the stars from whence it came.\n\nOnly Assarac perhaps, in all that host, knew too well that the Great\nQueen's passions and affections were of earth, earthly; that the flame\nwhich scorched her heart and blazed in her eyes was no enlightening\nradiance, but a devouring fire to wither and consume--knew too well, yet\nloved her all the more; for the eunuch's whole being was now saturated\nwith a sentiment noble in its origin, disastrous in its results, that\nyet springs from the fairest and sweetest instincts of man's nature, as\npoison may be distilled from flowers.\n\nIt caused him to labour and watch, to endure hunger, thirst, heat and\nfatigue. It bade him forget pride, ambition, self-respect. It made him a\nwarrior, a hero, and a slave. It rendered him brave, pitiful, generous,\nand unhappy.\n\nTwice since sundown had the queen ridden out through the camp with\nAssarac at her rein. Once more she was astir an hour before daybreak,\nyet, as she mounted at the entrance of her pavilion, the eunuch stood\nthere in waiting to help her to the saddle, and attend her in her ride.\nWithout a word she galloped through the lines, at such speed as the\ndubious light permitted amongst the numerous obstacles of a camp, nor\ndrew bridle till she reached a spot by the river, where certain masses\nof shadows looming against the sky denoted that the walls of Ardesh\nwould be visible with dawn of day. Here she halted and broke silence.\n\n\"A city of defence,\" said she with a gentle laugh, \"like a blade, or a\npitcher, or a woman, or anything else you please, is no stronger than\nits weakest place. On this side alone is Ardesh not impregnable. I have\nmade thee a warrior, Assarac, as a girl spins her hank out of a tangle\nof flax, with the patient heart and the gentle hand. Show me thou hast\nprofited by my lessons, and tell me why I brought thee here at a gallop\nbefore dawn?\"\n\nBrightening as he always did with the sound of her voice, Assarac\nanswered, reasonably enough, \"To scan the place warily as soon as it is\nlight: to learn every bush and stone, count every blade of grass on the\nground where we mean to give the assault.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" she answered, in the same light tone. \"All that was done in\nthis poor head of mine when first I marked the spot. No; the\nwarrior-eunuch has yet much to learn from the warrior-queen. It is not\nenough to set your own host in array, and mark your own plan of battle;\nyou must also fight for your enemy, put yourself in his place, and so,\nanticipating him in every plan he can devise, force him at last to\naccept the contest when and where you choose to offer it. The reason\nwomen always foil men is, that they _cannot_ put themselves in our\nplaces, nor foresee what we may or may not do in the plainest situation.\nBut this concerns neither thee nor me. I think I have even less of the\nwoman than thou, Assarac, of the man.\"\n\nHe answered not a word, moving uneasily in his saddle, as if from a\nsudden hurt.\n\n\"Nay,\" she added, guessing his discomposure from his silence; \"I meant\nwe are both above the weaknesses of our fellows--kindred spirits\ntreading down all obstacles in our path, knowing no law but our own will\nand our own desires. Listen, then, thou priest of Baal in harness of\nproof--listen, and learn while I teach thee that which shall be of more\nservice to-day than all the lore aching neck and dazzled eyes ever yet\ngathered from the stars. Is not this the weak side of the fortress, and\ntherefore the better for our assault?\"\n\n\"Aryas must know it also,\" replied the eunuch, \"and will have mustered\nhere his chief power of defence. Peradventure we might surprise him,\nwith less loss, on a stronger quarter.\"\n\n\"An apt scholar,\" replied the queen, \"and worthy to be a captain of ten\nthousand; nevertheless, in so far at fault that he sees not with the\neyes of his enemy. Behold! The Armenian, hopeless of defending his city\nfrom such a host as mine in the process of a regular siege; and seeing\nthe river in which he trusted turning to dry ground beneath his eyes,\nwill determine to hazard a battle here on this narrow strip where he can\nfight at a vantage, while half the attacking army is engaged with\npickaxe and spade. Listen, priest. I hear the tinkle of their tools even\nnow, borne on the light breeze that steals in advance of day. He little\nguesses the work was all completed by the middle watch of night; that\nevery company is bending, armed, over a feigned task in order of battle;\nthat, at the first note of a trumpet from the queen's pavilion, be it\ndark or daylight or gray uncertain dawn, the hosts of Assyria will set\nthemselves in array without hesitation or confusion, every bow bent,\nevery horse mounted, every man in his place.\n\n\"Since my tent was pitched yonder by the stream, I have not found a\nmoment till now to breathe the cool night air and loose the buckle of my\nbelt. Is it not grand and joyous, this pause before the storm? At such a\nmoment I feel how noble it is to lead the sons of Ashur to battle.\nTo-night, Assarac, I _know_ that I am the Great Queen!\"\n\nShe seldom thus divulged her own thoughts, her own sentiments. The tones\nof that voice, always so bewitching, thrilled to his heart's core; and\nwith irrepressible admiration he burst out, \"Queen of the sons of\nAshur! Queen of the whole earth! Were there indeed crowns of fire above,\nqueen of the host of heaven! What have I to offer in earnest of such\ndevotion as never worshipper yielded to his god? It is little enough to\ngive this poor brain in council, this poor body in battle; but O that I\ncould take the heart out of my breast now, this moment, and lay it down\nbefore thee there, to trample beneath thy feet!\"\n\n\"It is too much,\" she answered, almost in a whisper. \"I may tread\nwarriors in the dust, but I make no footstool of a servant's heart, be\nhe man of war, eunuch, or priest of Baal. Keep it in thy harness, good\nfriend, and see that to-day it turn not to water in the face of the\nComely King.\"\n\nDawn was still below the mountain, and he could not read her\ncountenance; but on his ear, sharpened by intense emotion, there jarred\na something in her voice that broke its full melodious ring. Was it\nkindness? Was it pity? Maddening thought! was it the insult of covert\nmirth?\n\n\"I am not like others,\" said he. \"I know it too well; and yet my\nadoration of my queen is less the blind man's yearning for the day he\nhath never seen than that desire of the spirit for some star it must not\nhope to attain, which yet raises it, by the very agony of its despair,\ntowards the light for which it longs.\"\n\nShe had a brief space of leisure before the joyous revelry of battle\nwould commence. There was no better pastime, she thought, at hand. Why\nnot examine into so strange a phase of human suffering, and learn how\nmuch the heart, even of such a man as this, could be made to bear,\nbefore it maddened him past all endurance? Surely such studies, so\ncurious in themselves, enhanced the flavour of that pursuit she\ndignified with the name of love; a pursuit far inferior, no doubt, to\nwar, equal though, and perhaps in very hot weather preferable, to the\nchase. Here a memory of Sarchedon came to disturb her equanimity; but so\nmuch of bitterness and vexation mingled with the thought, that her heart\ngrew all the harder for its indulgence. What had she to do with pity,\nshe who had slain beasts by scores and men by hundreds to pass an idle\nday? Had she ever wished her shaft recalled when it pierced the lion\nthrough from shoulder to shoulder; and were these human creatures half\nso brave, so noble as the brutes? Was she not the Great Queen,\nanswerable to none on earth, and fearless of the very stars in heaven?\nBesides, it amused--more, it interested--her. So she, the conqueror of\nthe world, thought no shame to trifle with him as a village maid trifles\nwith her peasant lover, as a cat trifles with its paltry little prey.\n\n\"There is a light,\" she said, reverting gently to his wild confession of\nidolatry, \"that blinds a man's eyes, besides burning his fingers. It is\nnot that by which he sees his way clearly to safety or success.\"\n\n\"And of what avail are safety and success to _me_?\" demanded Assarac,\nstriving in the early twilight to read his doom on that remorseless\nface. \"Success, the prize of him who hopes; safety, the desire of him\nwho fears. If I am below hope, surely I am also above fear. My queen,\nlook on that shadowy mass of wall and tower, darkening every moment\nagainst the coming light of dawn. How many bold warriors, think you, are\nwithin that city who to-day will draw the sword and throw away the\nscabbard once for all? I too have drawn the sword and rushed upon my\nfate. Like one who leaps into air from the tower of Belus, I cannot\nrecall my plunge. Great Queen, I have dared to love the very dust\nbeneath your feet. Here, in the day of battle, I dare to tell you so.\nEre set of sun, Semiramis shall be ruler over all the world, from the\nwarm river of Egypt to the bleak snow-deserts of the north; or Assarac\nshall be down in the strife of horsemen, trodden out of all likeness to\nhumanity. Enough! I can but serve her at the end as I have served her\nfrom the beginning; and for wages I do but ask, great glorious queen,\nlook kindly on me ere I die!\"\n\nHis voice came hoarse and broken, his smooth face worked convulsively\nfrom chin to eyebrows. Surely any other woman must have been moved--at\nleast to compassion; but Semiramis, pulling her horse's head up from the\nwet morning herbage he was cropping with avidity, gazed intently on the\nwalls of Ardesh, now visible in the light of dawn.\n\nWas not the great stake for which she played enclosed within those\ntowers, the desire of her eyes, the treasure of her wilful heart? She\ncould understand, she thought, those longings on which the eunuch laid\nsuch stress, but of pity, save for her own sufferings, she had none to\nspare.\n\n\"Listen!\" exclaimed the queen, turning round on her companion with one\nhand held in air, as though she had not heard a syllable of his appeal,\n\"they are mustering even now within the place. Stand still, Merodach!\nGood horse, the ring of steel stirs thee like thy mistress! What say\nyou, Assarac--can we creep on a bowshot nearer to make sure? The light\nis behind them, and we may defy their archers for a few moments yet.\"\n\nThus speaking, she moved her horse forward a score of paces, followed by\nthe priest, vexed, smarting, dizzy with anger and shame.\n\nBut his tortures were not over, his punishment not yet complete. Sitting\ncalmly on her horse, though day was breaking fast, and every instant\nbrought nearer the certainty of a storm of arrows from the wall,\nSemiramis looked round with a careless smile, like some light-minded\ndame chattering with her tirewoman.\n\n\"What think you, Assarac?\" she whispered. \"Is he waking yet, this Comely\nKing?--of whose beauty they make such a prate you would suppose he was\nShamash, god of day. I would fain see him rise from his couch; for I\nlike well to look on beauty, both of man and beast.\"\n\nThen she patted Merodach on his swelling neck, sighing and smiling too\nwhile she caressed her favourite: the sigh was for memory, the smile for\ntriumph and for hope.\n\n\"We shall rouse him to some purpose,\" answered the eunuch, mastering his\nemotion bravely. \"And the Great Queen shall judge of his beauty for\nherself, naked and a prisoner, bound at her chariot-wheels.\"\n\nHe spoke firmly, even gaily, as behoved one who had made up his mind for\nthe worst. That day, he resolved, should see the end of all this doubt,\nand longing, and misery. In the front of battle he would perform such\ndeeds of valour as should force the queen's regard for _him_, the\neunuch, who could thus put to shame her stoutest men of war, or in the\nranks of the long swords he would find out the great secret, and start\nfor yonder place, wherever it might be, that Ninus and Sargon, and so\nmany others, had reached long ago.\n\nSemiramis caught up her rein with an exclamation of delight.\n\n\"I was sure of it!\" she said; \"I knew it from the first! They will fight\nin the plain--they are moving the host down even now. Behold, I can see\ntheir archers on the wall! It is time for you and me, Assarac, to prove\nthe mettle of our horses and the surety of their archers' aim.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she urged Merodach to a gallop, while an arrow whistling\nby her cheek quivered in the ground a spear's length farther on. The\ngood horse only sped the faster, and ere morning had brightened the\nmountain's crest, Semiramis reached her pavilion, and her trumpets rang\ngaily out, to set the sons of Ashur in array.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI\n\nBOW AND SPEAR\n\n\nIt was a goodly sight, could the queen have waited to behold it, that\ndownward march of the Armenian host to meet their enemy in the plain.\nThe flower and pride of all the north, formidable in size, number, and\nlength of weapons, they deployed, squadron by squadron, and company by\ncompany, under cover of their archers on the wall, till they found space\nnear the river's empty bed to form that wedge, or solid triangle in\nwhich it was their custom to offer battle. This mass consisted of\nspearmen, who with levelled points and raised bucklers seemed to present\nbut an impervious hedge of steel to the efforts of an adversary. It was\ndesigned to penetrate and cleave asunder by sheer weight and pressure\nthe opposing force, while Thorgon and his long swords, mounted on their\nswift hardy horses, held themselves in readiness to cut up and destroy\nin detail the fragments of an enemy thus riven the wider the more it\ngave ground to its assailants.\n\nSuch a method of fighting was considered by the mountain men to insure\nvictory; and the queen's eye sparkled, her cheek glowed, when she beheld\nthe hosts of Aryas the Beautiful thus eager to engage her own on a\nsystem of which she had mastered all the details, prepared to worst it\nat every point.\n\n\"The lion is astir,\" she said, \"and walking deliberately into the toils\nwithout an effort at escape. By the light of Ashtaroth, I will have his\nclaws pared, his fangs drawn, and the beast as tame as a kitten, before\nclose of day!\"\n\nSplendidly armed, ablaze with gold and jewels that flashed in the\nmorning sun, she stood in her chariot, looking like the goddess by whom\nshe swore, her beautiful face radiant with pleasure, her heart beating\nhigh with courage, triumph, and the wild tumult of unbridled love.\n\nHer shield-bearer's place still remained vacant, and save a youth to\ndrive her horses, she was alone in the chariot; for Assarac, who\nremained as usual in attendance, occupied another at her side.\n\nThe eunuch's face was very grave and sad; its fleshy outlines had\nfallen, the eyes were sunk and haggard, while about the lips care and\nsorrow had carved those anxious lines that age itself fails to imprint\nwhen the heart remains at ease.\n\nHe looked little like a priest of Baal, less like a warrior of Ashur:\nbut never prophet burned with fiercer fire, never were nerves of\nchampion strung to more desperate courage, than glowed in the vexed\nheart and wounded spirit of Assarac the eunuch, thus waiting on\nSemiramis the queen.\n\nHe had galloped back with her to the camp before sunrise, and at the\nfirst trumpet call ascended into his chariot, that he might aid her with\nhis counsel, perhaps shield her with his body in the press of battle.\n\nIn the disposal of her power she had shown her accustomed skill. Dark\nmasses of horsemen gathered like clouds on either flank. Her spearmen,\nin a solid column, occupied the centre, protecting a bristling array of\nwar-chariots, ready to be launched against the enemy so soon as he\nadvanced into the plain; while forming her own guard and a reserve to be\nhurled, as it were, at the critical moment on any point she should\nselect, rode a picked body of warriors clothed in blue, shining with\ngilded armour, and chosen from the flower of her men of war by the\nqueen herself.\n\nAryas the Beautiful, surveying from his chariot the line of battle thus\nopposed to him, felt, while his courage rose with its very hopelessness,\na sad conviction of the impossibility of his task. He whispered as much\nto Sarchedon, who accompanied him.\n\n\"Behold,\" said he, \"how the wolves are gathering to hem in the mountain\nbull on every side. I knew not they were so many, nor so fierce. Surely\nhe is a daring leader who joins battle with the sons of Ashur.\"\n\nThe other, while acknowledging so obvious a truth, could not repress a\nthrill of exultation in the fair and formidable array of warriors with\nwhom he had heretofore gone out to victory.\n\nAt the same moment Semiramis turned to Assarac, whose chariot now stood\nby her own, and pointed with a radiant smile to those long lines of\nsteel glittering in the morning sun.\n\n\"The blade is out,\" said she, \"and balances so well in my hand, I can\nsmite when and where I will. Who would care to be a queen, but that the\narm which sways a sceptre has such strength to draw a sword? Behold, the\nvery auxiliaries stand fast, as if they too felt they carried on their\nspears the honour of Assyria!\"\n\n\"Trust not their patience too far,\" urged the eunuch. \"Great Queen, they\nare clamouring to engage even now!\"\n\n\"Fools,\" she returned gaily, \"I mean to sacrifice them soon enough. But\nI can scarce trust them in the first shock of the assault, or I would\nleave our own people to come in and reap the victory.\"\n\n\"Let not the Great Queen scorn the words of her servant,\" replied\nAssarac, \"humble man of peace though he be. The children of Anak, led by\ntheir woman-captain, claim the advance as their right. Behold, they are\nfierce champions, tall as palms, greedy as beasts of prey, acknowledging\nno law save the customs of their tribe. How shall these be satisfied\nwhen the fight is over, the victory gained, and the spoil divided? Grant\nthem their wish: let them hurl themselves against the enemy. If they\nloosen his formation, it is well; if they turn back in confusion while\nhe smites them hip and thigh, it is better. Assyria can do without them\nin the day of triumph as in the day of battle.\"\n\nThe queen scanned him from head to foot.\n\n\"Do you think I cannot rein a steed,\" she asked, with a scornful laugh,\n\"because it is strong and wilful, or rule a handful of horsemen because\nthey stand a span higher than their fellows? Go to, Assarac; I thought\nyou knew me better. I have a task in store for these same Anakim, and I\npurpose leading them myself. They shall help me to take this Comely King\ncaptive from the very midst of his host. I tell you I mean to look at\nhis beautiful face before sunset, as close as I am to you!\"\n\n\"May the queen live for ever!\" was his reply, for Assarac's whole\nattention seemed now engrossed by the strength of Armenia advancing to\nthe attack.\n\nThe wedge came on, solid and impenetrable as if it were indeed a living\nmass of metal. Thus it crossed the level ground by the river's bed,\ndirecting its point steadily for the centre of the Assyrian line; and so\nlong as it moved upon an even surface, nothing could be more warlike\nthan the mechanical regularity of its advance--nothing, perhaps, save\nthe discipline of the Assyrian archers, whom the queen kept so perfectly\nin hand, that in spite of a tempting proximity to the Armenians not a\nman moved in his saddle, turned his rein or bent his bow. But when the\nhuge triangular phalanx reached the channel, now dried up indeed, yet\nrough with broken banks, sandy ledges, shingle, and boulders of rock, a\nshiver seemed to pass over it like that which ripples the hide of some\nhuge monster in its death-pang, and Aryas drove furiously down in his\nchariot to rectify the disorder ere it was too late.\n\nIn compliance with his bowbearer's entreaties, the attire and harness of\nthe Comely King, though less simple than usual, were such as might be\nworn by any captain or leader of his host. There was nothing about him\nto identify his royalty but the handsome form and face. Sarchedon also\nwas armed and dressed in a precisely similar manner, so that at the\ninterval of a spear-length it was impossible to distinguish one from the\nother. The bowbearer too had divested himself of the quiver that\ndenoted his office, and while he stood upright and brandished a spear in\nthe war-chariot, Aryas covered him with a shield. Even old Thorgon,\nriding up to his lord for final orders, rubbed his eyes and pulled his\nshaggy beard in angry confusion at its success, while he admitted the\nwisdom of this stratagem.\n\nWith voice and gesture, Aryas and Sarchedon strove in concert to restore\nthat dense consistency to the mass which constituted its strength and\nsafety; but eyes as quick, and skill more practised, were watching their\nopportunity, so that as the leading Armenian spearman made his first\nfalse step, the arm of Semiramis went up, a trumpet sounded, and the\nhorsemen of Assyria set themselves in motion by thousands, with bows\nbent and arrows drawn to the head.\n\nThere is a moment, and none knew it better than the Great Queen, on\nwhich the tide of battle turns.\n\n\"In the toils _now_!\" she murmured viciously, \"and that fair head of\nyours will be at my mercy to-night, as sure as I hold this bow in my\nhand. Assarac,\" she continued, in the calm ringing accents with which it\nwas her wont to issue her commands in battle, \"let them feed that force\nof archers thousands by thousands, as they want them, from the columns\non their flanks. When the Armenian host arrives at yonder white stone,\nbring up the reserve of spearmen, and I will attack with the whole\nline.\"\n\nEre this landmark could be reached, she was well aware that the\nadvancing phalanx, stumbling at every step, galled on all sides by\nmounted bowmen, who, circling swiftly round, wrapped it in a deadly\nstorm of arrows, must become so loosened and disorganised as with one\nwell-supported charge to be broken up and cut to pieces in detail.\n\nAlready darting an upward glance at the towers of Ardesh, she was\ndoubting whether to occupy it with a strong Assyrian garrison or to burn\nits palace, and level its defences to the ground. For a space all went\nas she desired. Wheeling in clouds, succeeded and relieved by squadron\nafter squadron, each fresher, fiercer, more daring than the last, it\nseemed to Aryas that the horsemen of Assyria were inexhaustible and\nintangible as the locusts of their own fertile land. With each discharge\nof arrows, his phalanx hesitated, tottered, and opened out. It was no\nlonger a solid wedge, but an irregular mass, melting and crumbling like\na snow-wreath in the southern breeze. There was not a moment to lose,\nand the Comely King, whose habits of wood-craft had at least gifted him\nwith that promptitude of decision which is so necessary in war, saw the\ncrisis and prepared to meet it.\n\n\"Sarchedon,\" he exclaimed, \"leap on my horse, the bay standing there\nbehind the chariot! Ride down to Thorgon like the wind. Bid him bring up\nhis long swords steadily, but without delay. At the first step taken by\nthe enemy's spearmen, he must charge and drive them back amongst their\nchariots. It is the last chance left. Away! Two Armenian kings are\nfighting side by side this morning; Sarchedon, if at set of sun there is\nbut one left, my faithful friend and servant, fare thee well!\"\n\nTouching his lord's hand reverently with his lips, the bowbearer flung\nhimself into the saddle, and galloped off at speed; while Aryas,\nsnatching reins and whip from his charioteer, shaking the former and\nplying the latter to some purpose, flew towards that white stone which\nthe keen eye of Semiramis had already marked as the turning-point of\nconflict.\n\nWhen they parted, scarce a bowshot intervened between the king's chariot\nand the handful of Anakim who were drawn up in the position they had\nclamoured to occupy, waiting with fiery impatience an order to begin.\n\nTheir queen sat motionless at their head, her face concealed as usual,\nher eyes intently scanning those hostile ranks in search of the man she\nloved.\n\nSuddenly she dropped the rein and clasped her hands upon her heart.\nSurely that was his figure yonder, riding, as he alone could ride, along\nthe river bank! A dead archer lay in his path, and the bay horse,\nswerving wildly aside, brought his rider round with a swing that showed\nhis front to the enemy.\n\n\"Sarchedon, Sarchedon!\" she cried, in a stifled voice, then stretched\nher arms out piteously, and, gasping for breath, flung the veil back\nfrom her face.\n\nIt was the signal they had expected since daybreak, the gesture by which\nthey were taught to believe their enemies would be consumed like thorns\ncrackling in a fire. The wild blood of the desert would take no denial\nnow; and with a shout that rang round the towers of Ardesh, reins were\nloosed, spears lowered, while, sweeping their bewildered leader onward\nin their centre, the children of Anak carried all before them in a\ndesperate and irresistible charge.\n\nThe brow of Semiramis turned black for very anger, while the beautiful\nfeatures were distorted with a spasm of rage and scorn.\n\n\"The fools!\" she hissed between her teeth. \"If but one comes out of the\npress alive, I will impale him in the centre of the camp! And for their\nleader--if she be wise, she will die on those Armenian spears, rather\nthan answer this mad frolic in the face of the Great Queen!\"\n\nThe next moment, with smooth calm smile and royal dignity, she beckoned\nAssarac to her chariot, and gave her directions in that calm assured\ntone which with Semiramis denoted a crisis of extreme peril, and perfect\nconfidence in her own powers to meet it.\n\nWhat she anticipated did indeed come to pass. The common saying, \"Who\nshall stand before the children of Anak?\" had doubtless grown into a\nproverb because of its undisputed truth. Individually, the champions of\nArmenia went down before these stalwart horsemen like corn under the\nsickle. Iron buckler made no better stand than wicker shield against\ntheir mad thrusts and crashing strokes, linked harness proved no\nstronger fence than linen gown, and bearded men of war seemed as but\npuny infants contending with this gigantic foe. Charging against the\nhead of the Armenian phalanx, they drove its leaders back upon their\nfellows; and while they hewed and shouted and smote without remorse, the\nlittle band reared about them a barrier of ghastly mutilated corpses,\nrising to their very girths.\n\nBut while thus pressing sore against the front of their enemy, they\ncondensed him into his original formation; and the Great Queen, always\nintolerant of shortcomings in discipline, had the mortification to\nwitness her well-digested plan destroyed, her whole order of battle put\nto confusion, by this untoward advance of a force she intended\nreserving to the last moment for a purpose of her own.\n\n\"And ten more spear-lengths would have sufficed,\" said she, veiling her\nvexation as best she might. \"Behold, Assarac! In war, as in peace, it is\nbetter to trust a haltered ass than an unbridled steed!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII\n\nLOST AND WON\n\n\nSarchedon, galloping furiously on his mission, yet cast more than one\nglance over his shoulder at the battle raging behind him. He too marked\nthe overwhelming charge of the Anakim, and its effect on that solid mass\nagainst which its might was hurled. Trained in the subtlest school of\nwar, by the great captain of the age, he perceived at once that if ever\nthey were to be routed, now was the critical moment at which the\ndiscomfiture of his countrymen must be achieved. The bay horse reeked\nwith foam and reeled from want of breath when it reached Thorgon's side;\nand Sarchedon, deeming not an instant should be lost, ventured so far to\nextend the command he had received as to urge on that old warrior the\nnecessity of putting his men in motion at a gallop. Thorgon frowned and\nbit his lip. \"Go to!\" said he. \"I am not to be taught by an Assyrian\nyouth how to set the battle in array. Nevertheless, if thou wilt share\nin a death-ride to-day with the children of the north, pull that knife\nof thine out of thy girdle and come with me.\"\n\nThus speaking, he drew his own long heavy sword, and waving it round his\nhead, placed himself in front of his horsemen, and led them against the\nenemy at a rapid pace, which, when within a bowshot distance, he\nincreased to their utmost speed.\n\nThe Anakim had now penetrated so far into the ranks of the Armenians as\nto be nearly surrounded, while victorious, by the very foe they were\nengaged in defeating. It needed but this charge of Thorgon and his grim\nlong swords in their rear to complete the circle that hemmed them in.\n\nSemiramis, from her chariot, marked the crisis and the manner in which\nit must be met. \"Assarac,\" said she, in her calm modulated voice, \"I\ncannot trust the children of the desert. They would not retire if I bade\nthem, and so weaken the wedge by drawing it after them in pursuit. We\nmust check these wild cattle of the mountain, nevertheless. Bring up my\nspears in solid column of a thousand men in front, masking the chariots.\nWhen I raise my bow, let them open out and every driver urge his horses\nto a gallop. I will not give the signal till I see my opportunity, so\nwatch me like a falcon over a fawn. Send for my horsemen clothed in\nblue. Ten squadrons may serve to bring the Anakim out of peril, and with\nthe rest I will myself make a dash for the person of this Beautiful\nKing.\"\n\nHer commands were implicitly obeyed. With a shout that denoted their\ncourage and unshaken confidence, the chief strength of the Assyrian army\nadvanced steadily to the attack.\n\nMeantime the Anakim were fighting at considerable disadvantage. Hemmed\nin by falling foes, encumbered by dead of their own slaying, they had no\nspace to turn their horses, scarce elbow-room to swing their swords.\nTwice had Ishtar's rein been seized by a dismounted enemy, and her horse\ndragged down to its knees; twice had his veiled queen been rescued by\nsome tall champion, who pierced her assailant to the heart, or clove him\nto the chin. But, nevertheless, the farther these desperate giants\nfought their way towards the centre of the Armenians, the more difficult\nbecame the task of extrication, the more hopeless their chances of\nretreat. It seemed that all was indeed lost when Thorgon and his long\nswords came pouring down upon their rear.\n\nTo Ishtar the events passing before her eyes were but as the horrors of\nsome ghastly dream. Faint, gasping, terrified, stunned with the din,\nchoked in the dust, blinded by the flash of weapons, sickening at the\nsmell of blood, she was only sensible she had seen Sarchedon, as in a\nvision, and had cried to him for assistance in vain.\n\nHelpless and bewildered, she must have been slain a score of times but\nfor the chief of the Anakim, whose weapon kept her assailants at bay,\nwhile his hand guided her horse through the press of battle; but even\nthis protection failed her when that formidable champion found himself\nengaged with Thorgon hand to hand.\n\nWary and experienced, hardened and toughened by continual toil in\nwarfare and the chase, the old Armenian knew every wile of the\nswordsman, every turn of the horseman, familiarly as he knew the spring\nof a panther or the rush of a mountain bull. But he was no match for the\nlarger frame and lengthier limbs of an opponent who was a younger,\nstronger, and quicker man, riding a better horse. While he waved his\nlong sword round his head to cleave his adversary to the girdle, the\nother smote him sharp and true below the fifth rib, and, with a loud\ncurse on the only god he acknowledged--the weapon that had failed\nhim--Thorgon fell headlong from his saddle, dead before he reached the\nground.\n\nMen, horses, flashing weapons, reeling banners--all swam before Ishtar's\neyes; and, swaying blindly forward, she was scarcely conscious that a\nprotecting arm supported her, a careful hand guided her bridle, towards\nthe outskirts of the fight.\n\nThe fall of their leader seemed in no way to discourage the mountain\nmen; rather they fought with greater fierceness and obstinacy than\nbefore. The children of Anak too, considerably out-numbered, and\ndisheartened by the helplessness of their Veiled Queen, began to give\nway, striking furiously about them indeed, without a thought of flight,\nyet obviously bent on effecting a retreat, if possible in good order,\nbut at any sacrifice a retreat.\n\nIn this imminent crisis of battle, the Comely King and the Great Queen\nwere moved simultaneously with a conviction that now was the moment at\nwhich to throw all the weight attainable into the scale. If either side\ncould be driven back but a score of spear-lengths, it might be made to\ngive ground imperceptibly, till wavering grew to flight, and flight\nculminated in defeat. For Armenia, it seemed the only hope to push\nforward the wedge till it penetrated and divided the queen's solid\ncolumns of spearmen; for the sons of Ashur the sure path to victory lay\nin a breaking up of that dense obstinate mass, already weakened and\nmutilated, while its nucleus should be annihilated by their chariots,\nand its component parts cut to pieces by their horsemen hovering on its\nflanks.\n\nTherefore Aryas, standing erect in his chariot, encouraged his men of\nwar, with voice and gesture, in the very fore-front of battle. Therefore\nSemiramis, scanning with undisguised approval the ranks of her\nbody-guard clothed in blue, placed herself joyfully at their head. The\nArmenian monarch had resolved to save crown, kingdom, and friend, or\ndie, like a true mountain man, in his war-harness; while the Great\nQueen, thirsting for victory as the drunkard thirsts for wine, was urged\nby her longing after Sarchedon and the spur of a feminine desire to\nbehold Aryas the Beautiful face to face.\n\nThey were now scarce ten spear-lengths apart, on the dried-up river's\nbrink.\n\nThe ground was rough and broken, the wheels of her chariot drove\nheavily, and Semiramis found herself more than once in danger of being\nthrown from her elevated position between the horses that plunged and\nlaboured over slippery rock or yielding sand.\n\nAgainst the carved and inlaid panel beside her hung a quiver with its\nsingle arrow--one of those sent to Babylon in return for her embassy,\nand which she had sworn by Nisroch to plant in the breast of Aryas the\nBeautiful with her own hand. She snatched it from its case, made a sign\nto the attendant who led him, leaped on Merodach, and, looking proudly\nround, raised her bow aloft to brandish it over her head.\n\nThen, while spears went down and bridles shook, a shout rose from the\nwarriors in blue raiment that was caught up by the whole Assyrian army,\nand every man called lustily on Baal, swearing a mighty oath that he\nwould fight to the death for the Great Queen.\n\nAiming, as was her custom, at the heart of the enemy, Semiramis broke\nfuriously through the opposing long swords, now deprived of their\nleader, with the view of first extricating the Anakim from their\nperilous position, and afterwards directing all her force against the\nArmenian king in person.\n\nAssarac too had done his part like a practised warrior. The deep array\nof spears, a solid column many furlongs in length, strong in its front\nof a thousand marching men, was nearing the conflict every moment, with\nthat smooth and even step, that mechanical regularity of approach, which\nseems the very impersonation of discipline and power. Concealed behind\nits masses, betrayed only by an unceasing jar of iron and roll of\nwheels, came on those formidable war-chariots, so irresistible by an\nenemy who had sustained a check that caused the slightest confusion in\nits ranks; and wielding the whole array, governing at once each element\nof the storm, drove Assarac the eunuch--he of the cool brain, the\nsteadfast courage, the pitiless heart, who could be moved but by one\nsentiment on earth--his mad infatuation for the queen.\n\nAryas marked it all, and knew that now the end was very near. Glancing\ntowards Sarchedon, he beheld his bowbearer, scarce ten spear-lengths\noff, in the hottest of the struggle, defending, as it seemed, from\nstroke and thrust some object at his side. The Anakim gathered about\nhim; while the long swords, shouting \"Aryas! Aryas!\" were making\ndesperate efforts to approach, believing, no doubt, they were rallying\nround their king.\n\nSemiramis neared her object with every stride. Aryas had stooped to take\nanother arrow from his quiver, and, as he raised his head again to\nconfront his enemy, looking boldly over his shield, behold! for the\nfirst time, he stood face to face with the Great Queen.\n\nDeceived by the likeness, duped by her own wild heart and reckless\nlonging, she called on him she loved by the name she had learned to\nwhisper in her dreams; but the hoarse shriek that cried \"Sarchedon,\nSarchedon!\" was so different from the full soft tones in which she was\nused to doom a culprit or direct a battle, that her guards pressed\nfiercely in, thinking their leader must have been stricken with a\ndeath-hurt.\n\nCasting down horse and rider in the fury of her career, she urged\nMerodach towards the chariot, every consideration of war and policy, all\ncare for herself, her army, her people, lost in a fierce thrill of\ntriumph that the desire of her eyes had not escaped her, and she had\nfound him even at the last.\n\nSurrounded by the chosen horsemen of Assyria, over-matched,\nout-numbered, and now at his sorest need, Aryas shouted to his bowbearer\nfor help; and Sarchedon, still struggling in the strife as a swimmer\nfights and reels amongst the breakers, answered lustily to the call.\n\nThe Great Queen, making, as she believed, for another, was now within\nten paces of Aryas the Beautiful himself.\n\nIn that hideous din of battle she neither heard his cry nor the voice\nthat replied to it; but the white horse with the eyes of fire had a\ntruer memory and a sharper ear. Recognising his master's accents, he\nswerved aside to reach him, but meeting the wrench of the queen's\npractised hand on his bridle, reared high with tossing head, and plunged\nblindly forward against the king's chariot, struck himself and his rider\nheavily to the ground.\n\nAs the good horse rolled over a maimed Armenian, the dying mountain man\nshortened the sword he grasped fiercely even then, and buried it in the\nanimal's bowels.\n\nAgile as a panther, Semiramis extricated herself, and was up like\nlightning; but when she saw the beast she prized so dearly dead at her\nvery feet, her heart burned, and her eyes blazed with a fury wilder,\nfiercer, madder, than the rage of any beast of prey.\n\nBaffled, stunned, bewildered, she only knew that Merodach lay slain\nbeneath her; that an armed enemy stood above with shielded face and\njavelin raised to strike; that here across the body of her horse was the\nturning-point of battle, and that she held a bow and arrow in her hand.\nUnconsciously, she fitted the one to the string, and drew the other at a\nventure, as it were, in self-defence.\n\nIt was the Armenian arrow, cut in Armenian forests, tipped with Armenian\nsteel. It had travelled to Babylon and back as a symbol of dignified\nremonstrance and royal self-respect; now the white cruel arm impelled it\nstraight and true, to find its home in the heart of an Armenian king.\n\nStricken below the buckler, he felt his life-blood oozing down to wet\nits feathers, drop by drop.\n\n\"Turn thy hand out of the battle,\" murmured Aryas to his charioteer,\n\"since I am hurt even unto death!\"\n\nBut he never spoke again; for the Great Queen's men of war, making in to\naid their leader, hurled him from his chariot, gashing with pitiless\nsword-strokes the comely face so fair even in death, crushing under\ntrampling hoofs the stately form that, maimed, bruised, and mangled, was\ngrand and kingly still.\n\nSo the horsemen of Assyria triumphed; her spears made victory secure,\nher chariots rolled over the slain. The blue mantles smote and spared\nnot; the Anakim extricating themselves, not without considerable loss,\ndeparted in good order; and the pursuit rolled on till the sons of Ashur\nsacked the town of Ardesh--to burn, pillage, and destroy, even unto the\ngoing down of the day.\n\nBut men looked in vain for her who had led the attack and achieved the\nvictory, asking each other with eager looks and anxious faces,\n\n\"What tidings of the Great Queen?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"SHE KNELT BESIDE THE BODY OF A DEAD HORSE.\"]\n\nHer armour lay, piece by piece, beside her; there was dust on her\nlustrous hair, the pride of her royal garment was rent from hem to hem,\nwhile bowed down in anguish, with fixed eyes, white face, and rigid\nlips, she knelt beside a dead horse, over the body of a dead king.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII\n\nSHARING THE SPOIL\n\n\nIn the palace of Ardesh, where the naked sword stood for men to worship,\nthey set up a golden image of Baal; where a free monarch sat amongst his\nfree warriors, the servant of a despotic mistress now lorded it over a\nconquered race. Between rise and set of sun a king had perished, an army\nhad been cut to pieces, and a warlike people ceased to hold its place\namong nations.\n\nIn the court of that royal dwelling, under the soft evening sky, Assarac\nstood in state to receive the captains of the host, take note of their\nprisoners, and count the spoil. He had borne him all day like a warrior\nof might--cool as the wariest of leaders, bold as the fiercest of\nspearmen. None the less was his practised eye scanning the material\nresults of triumph, his active brain plotting to consolidate the fruits\nof victory.\n\nThough himself unwounded, the eunuch's harness was riven and dented, the\nlinen garment, which, in right of his priestly office, he affected even\nin battle, was streaked and spotted with blood. Fed by the fire within,\nhis look was keen and piercing; there seemed little more trace of\nfatigue on his care-worn face than it had worn day and night since the\nhost marched out from the northern gate of Babylon; and, conscious he\nhad borne him like a true son of Ashur, under the eyes of the Great\nQueen, his aspect, lately so dejected and morose, was brightened by a\npassing gleam, as from the light of hope.\n\nIt looked a ghastly task on which his mind was bent. Files of Assyrian\nspearmen, passing proudly before him, laid down the heads of enemies\nslain in arms or taken prisoners after the combat; so lavishly and with\nsuch precision, that a pile of these hideous trophies had already risen\nto the height of a man's girdle. Two scribes, tablet in hand, took note\nof their exact number; while Assarac, as the queen's chief counsellor,\nrecorded the names of the successful warriors, and apportioned the share\nto which each would be entitled in dividing the spoil.\n\nNot a murmur rose against his award; for it was still fresh in men's\nminds how at the turning-point of battle, when victory hung doubtful in\nthe balance, all that fierce energy and daring which had rendered Ninus\nsuch a successful leader seemed to have descended on the priest of Baal\nwhom the old king so mistrusted and reviled.\n\nMan by man the champions of the Assyrian host passed by. One laden with\nthe spoil he had already gathered, rude in workmanship, yet precious in\nits barbaric splendour and intrinsic worth. Another, dragging some\nhapless foeman, whom he had bound securely with his girdle, and whose\nfate hung on the eunuch's nod; for the conqueror, with bared arm and\nnaked steel, held himself ready to pierce, flay, or decapitate at the\nlightest sign. A third, leading a comely mountain maid, white and ruddy,\nwith shy blue eyes and tangled locks of gold, scared, trembling,\nweeping, yet sometimes blushing, not without conscious triumph, that\nshe had herself taken captive the strong fighter in whose power she\nseemed to be.\n\nFor the vanquished, Assarac now showed a clemency unusual in the\ntraditions of his people, not entirely in accordance with his own\nnature, as it had hitherto appeared, hard, practical, uninfluenced by\nfeeling, and looking only to results. It was observed that he spared all\ncaptives save only such warriors as had been taken fighting against the\nbodyguards of the Great Queen; while for the Armenian women, in this\ntheir hour of sorrow, he manifested a pity and consideration that\nelicited certain ribald comments from his countrymen, and no small\nsurprise from the prisoners themselves. But censure, praise, and\nridicule were alike unable to affect him to-day. With that power of\nconcentration which constitutes the principal element of success in war,\ngovernment, or indeed any business of life, his energies were engrossed\nin the important task of so disposing that great Assyrian army, as to\nprovide for security and good order in the captured town.\n\nLeader after leader therefore he summoned and dismissed, receiving their\ntale of spoil and captives, giving directions for the distribution of\ntheir men. \"Where has he learned his skill of warfare,\" said the old\ncaptains to each other, \"this high-priest of our Assyrian god? Surely\nBaal comes down to him by night and speaks with him face to face.\"\n\nSo strongly was national pride and self-confidence imbued with a\nreligious belief in their gods, that this opinion seemed to the sons of\nAshur extremely probable and well-conceived. It reflected honour on\nthemselves, their worship, and their triumph; above all, it invested\nAssarac with an influence and authority most essential in the absence of\nthe Great Queen. Not a line of the eunuch's face, not a turn of his\nbody, was permitted to weaken this impression of superhuman strength and\nsagacity, of holiness fresh from the fount of fire itself. Calm,\ndignified, imperious, moved by no casualty, equal to all occasions, he\nissued his commands with a foresight and wisdom that elicited order from\nthe very excesses of a victorious army in a city taken by assault; and\nyet at Assarac's heart, though stifled and suppressed by the strong will\nwithin, raged a tumult far more difficult to deal with in its unbridled\nfolly than the wildest license of warriors drunk with wine and blood.\n\nWhere was the queen? Again and again had that question presented itself\nin the hour of victory, and now, though the stars were out, he could not\nanswer it yet.\n\nWhile driving the Armenians back upon the town of Ardesh, and entering\ntheir capital with a routed enemy, he never doubted but that Semiramis\nwas performing her part of the battle, and that they would meet at\nsunset in the Comely King's palace, where he would receive from her some\nacknowledgment of the valour he had shown, some word of thanks for the\nservice he had done. For a time the exigencies of such a success left\nhim not a moment to make inquiries concerning the mistress of nations,\neven had it been prudent to do so. It was necessary to assume supreme\nauthority, and wield it without scruple; but when a clear head, an\nundisputed will, and an unequalled organisation had disposed of their\nimmediate necessities, and the Assyrian host with its captives was\nsecurely established for the night, Assarac's anxiety became maddening\nas hour by hour passed on, but brought no tidings of the Great Queen.\n\nIt never entered his head that she could be slain. To him, Ashtaroth was\nno more an impersonation of light, beauty, and unearthly power than\nSemiramis. That she might have been taken up at the moment of victory,\nto join the stars of heaven in a chariot of fire, he was perhaps the\nonly man of all the host who did _not_ believe; but none the less was it\nimpossible for him to realise that imperial glory as shadowed by defeat,\nthat matchless face as pale and fixed in death.\n\nThus was he spared more than one hideous pang; yet perhaps it is a\nquestion whether the suspense that racked him now, with all its\nmaddening possibilities, was not fiercer torture than would have been\nthe certainty that she was gone from him for ever, and he must grovel\nbefore his idol no more.\n\nWhile the stars shone coldly down on the scene of conflict, while a new\nmoon shed her gentle light on fire-scathed tower and blackened wall\nabove--on writhing sufferer and stiffened corpse below--on riven\nharness, prostrate horses, chariots broken where they fell--on the\ntents of the conquerors, the lines of the vanquished, the wounded, the\nsleeping, the dying, and the great banner of Ashur drooping sullenly\nover all,--Assarac wrapped himself in a dark-coloured mantle, and\nleaving the royal palace of Ardesh, stole down to the plain below,\nhoping that on the field of battle, where he had last seen her, he might\nrecover some traces of the queen.\n\nAlready, ere he proceeded half a bowshot, he had disturbed a jackal at\nits loathsome feast. The eunuch shuddered and hurried on. Was this,\nthen, the end and climax of all the pomp of war, the glory of the host,\nthe thunder of chariots, the shouting of captains, the sword, the\nshield, and the battle?\n\nA nation rising in its might at sunrise, going forth to conquer, and at\nnightfall--lo, a wild dog mumbling a bone!\n\nHis pursuits, his profession, the juggleries that deceived the people,\nthe pseudo-science that professed to read the stars, had taught him,\nperhaps, to ponder and reflect, where others of his nation were content\nto act and to enjoy. Looking from the scene of carnage at his feet to\nthat summer's night so fair and pure above, the great question thrust\nitself upon his mind, which his experience, his reason, all the\ntraditions of Ashur, all the mystic lore of Baal, seemed unable to\nanswer.\n\nWhat was this confusion on earth, this order and regularity in heaven,\nand why were these things so? Did Nisroch take thought for that Armenian\nwoman, wailing in the darkness over the body of her dead lord, or Baal\npity the maimed swordsman yonder, trailing his length like a crushed\nreptile towards the stream that, in his agony of thirst, he forgot had\nbeen drained and turned aside? Was there indeed a motive power to govern\nin heaven? And if so, did it leave the evils of earth to right\nthemselves as best they might, by force, fraud, and subtlety, the strong\narm and the cunning brain? A thrill of triumph passed through him, while\nhe murmured,\n\n\"It must be so! Let him lord it up yonder who will, man is the god\nbelow; and he who never flinches from his purpose shall not fail in his\ndesire. Such a one stands here to-night in these my garments. Conqueror\nof the north, Assarac the eunuch has to-day taken his place among the\nmighty ones of earth, and who shall say him nay? Hath he not led the\nhosts of Assyria to victory? Hath he not adjudged to each triumphant man\nof war the meed of his deserts; and shall not he also take his share of\nthe spoil? Costly jewels, treasures of gold, herds of camels, horses,\narmour, and cunning needlework--the common needs of common men--he\ncareth for none of these; and yet to-night, surely to-night, shall he\ngarner the harvest that has been sown in fire, and reaped in blood.\nAshtaroth, Ashtaroth, queen of love and light, hast thou ever known a\nworshipper who flung before thee all he had to give, taking his heart\nout, to lay it at thy feet, and asked only in return for one approving\nglance, one soft and kindly smile? Surely she to whom I pray cannot\nwithhold these from me in such a time as this! Surely there is a goodly\nmeed in store for him who has to-day placed her crowning victory on the\nbrows of the Great Queen!\"\n\nHe had nearly reached the river's bed, where the battle had been\nhottest, where the carnage lay thick and reeking in broad swathes of\nslaughter; a few more steps brought him to where Merodach lay stiff and\ncold, with a vulture feasting on his eyes, and a wild dog tearing at his\nflank. The bright stars and the young moon afforded light enough to\ndistinguish the dead white horse with its ghastly attendants. Assarac's\nbrain reeled, his blood ran cold, while he remembered that he had last\nseen its rider charging furiously through the battle, on the back of her\nfavourite.\n\nThe vulture croaked and flapped its wings, the wild dog growled, glared,\nand slunk away. Like a man chained in a nightmare, half conscious that\nhe is dreaming, yet wholly unable to resist the petrifying spell,\nAssarac felt as if some unseen power compelled him to remain and\nconfront the nameless horror that he so dreaded, yet was so resolved to\ndisbelieve. He tried to shout, but his tongue clave to the roof of his\nmouth; to draw his sword, but his hand hung powerless, and his flesh\ncrept, so that the very hair rose in the nape of his neck; for gliding\nthrough the gloom, scarce half a bowshot off, there passed him a\nghostly procession, such as the spirits of the dead might form, in their\nland of shadows beyond the grave.\n\nFour tall dark figures, moving with solemn gait, bore aloft, on one of\nthe long wicker shields used by assailants of a fenced city, such a\nshrouded burden as denoted the presence of death under the cloak that\nveiled its ghastly truth.\n\nBehind them, with drooping head, clasped hands, and a bearing that\nbetrayed the utmost abandonment of woe, walked a female mourner,\nmajestic even in the hour of sorrow that bowed her to the earth. Assarac\nstarted into life now, if indeed that could be called life which was but\nrestoration to consciousness under the smart of a deadly stab; for in\nthe folds hanging about the corpse he recognised a royal mantle--in the\ndrooping and dejected mourner, beheld the person of the Great Queen.\n\nWith fixed and rigid face, with hands clasped tight, with steps that\nseemed borne up and guided by some extraneous power, independent of and\neven dominating his own will, the eunuch followed through the darkness,\nas a sleep-walker follows the immaterial object of his dreams, never\ndecreasing the space that intervened, never turning aside from the\nfootprints of those who led, passing without heed over mailed corpse and\nbroken chariot, through sand and shingle and shallow pools of blood.\n\nSo the procession laboured gravely on, away from the battlefield, across\nthe vineyards, up the rocky path that led to those mountain forests in\nwhich the dead king of Armenia might have found safety from his foes.\n\nThe bearers neither increased their speed nor halted, nor stinted for\nlack of breath, but moved calmly forward with even measured pace, symbol\nof a haughty reverence and respect, rather than of pity or distress; for\nhe whom they bore feet foremost had been a warrior like themselves, and\nlay warlike in his riven harness, with a broken bow in his hand. He had\nfallen, as was meet for a stout champion, in the fore-front of battle,\nand though the horsemen of Assyria slashed it cruelly with their swords,\nhis comely face had never turned one hair's-breadth from the foe.\n\nTherefore the sons of Ashur thought no shame to carry him sternly and\nproudly to his rest, at the command of their mistress; therefore in\ntheir hearts they told themselves, how at Nisroch's appointed time, it\nwould be well for them too that they should die in their armour, and\nthat their last end should be like his.\n\nThe frogs clamoured in the marsh, the night wind moaned in the pines,\nfilmy clouds swept over the crescent moon, and the corpse went ever\nupward into the mountain, while the queen followed after it, weeping,\nmute, unconscious, and Assarac, giddy and bewildered, followed blindly\nafter the queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV\n\nCOUNTING THE COST\n\n\nEver as their path grew steeper, and they penetrated farther into its\nrecesses, the forest became more gloomy, while its trees assumed more\nhideous and fantastic shapes. The sky was dark and wild, the air loaded\nwith those murmurs of the night that are to sounds of waking life as\npassing shadows to real objects of flesh and blood; gigantic faces,\ngrim, gray, and indistinct, blinked and peered from naked crag or\ngnarled and wrinkled trunk; while here, there, everywhere around,\nbrooded a presence, no less awful because so vague and impalpable, that\nwould have curdled and chilled the boldest human heart. It seemed to\nAssarac, he was treading the border-land between here and hereafter;\nthat at every step he might come face to face with some departed spirit,\nfor which the universal experience was no longer a problem to be solved,\nwhich could tell him the secret all his life had been but an effort to\ninquire.\n\nA white owl flitted noiselessly through the darkness, and the eunuch's\nheart stood still with something less debasing, yet far more horrible\nthan fear. Nevertheless, as the shadowy train moved before him,\nmechanically he followed on.\n\nIn a gorge of the mountain, where night was blackest, a red light glowed\nsuddenly across the sky. Wheeling round the stem of a rugged oak, the\nbearers halted with their burden, in an open space where four glades\nmet, converging on an indistinct mass, that seemed, in the fitful\nglare, some rough rude altar reared of unhewn stones.\n\nReverently they laid the dead hero down. Rising erect, when he touched\nthe earth, Assarac recognised in their lofty frames and costly armour\nfour spearmen from the body-guard of the Great Queen.\n\nSemiramis stood apart, peering eagerly into the gloom, only the outline\nof a white face visible in the deep folds of a mantle, that shrouded her\nhead and figure.\n\nWild yells and piercing shrieks rose from the forest, while the flash of\nmany torches danced fitfully among the trees. A score of hideous figures\nnow came leaping into the open space, and formed themselves in a circle\nround the queen, the spearmen and the dead warrior laid upon his shield.\n\nInterest and curiosity had somewhat mastered the eunuch's over-powering\nsense of horror, so that, waking, as it were, from the oppression of a\ntrance, he seemed to resume his faculties of body and mind.\n\nHe knew the shapes at last, recognising them for those frantic votaries\nwho, electing to worship Abitur of the Mountains, disowned all human\nties and interests, abjured all other creeds and professions, that they\nmight serve the great principle of evil in the wilderness.\n\nThese men were naked to the waist, their hair and beards were matted and\ntangled in foul disorder, they tossed their lean arms aloft with frantic\nvehemence, and their eyes glared in the torchlight with the fierce\ncunning of insanity.\n\nThey might have been themselves the demons they adored, so strange and\nunearthly was their appearance, while dancing, gibbering, howling, they\ncame and went, now opening out, now closing in, their circle, now\nretiring among the trees, now advancing towards the altar, but still,\nlike vultures about a carrion, converging gradually round the corpse.\n\nThe queen held up her hand; immediately the torches gave a steadier\nlight, the wavering shapes were still, and prostrated themselves before\nher with mute signs of submission, reverence, even abject fear.\n\nShe had protected the sect, respected their tenets, even joined in\ntheir worship, from motives of policy long ago.\n\nNow, in her great need, she clung to this desperate resource, and had\ncome to wring from Abitur of the Mountains that which the host of heaven\nseemed unable to bestow.\n\nWith the increased light afforded by a score of torches, no longer\nwhirled and brandished in the air, Assarac observed that, in the rock\nover against him, was hewn an entrance to some vast cavernous temple,\nornamented with rough symbols and grotesque representations of the demon\nworshipped within. This cavity seemed partly natural, partly hollowed\nout from the bowels of the earth, by the same rude labour that had\nerected the altar in its front.\n\nFour of the wild men raised the burden recently laid down by the\nAssyrian warriors, and, preceded by two of their companions with\ntorches, disappeared in the entrance of the temple or mouth of the\ncavern. While they lifted the corpse, Semiramis passed her hand, with a\ngesture of exceeding tenderness, over the dead face, and followed close\nbehind, succeeded by the rest of the torch-bearing troop, leaving the\nspearmen without, as if to guard the threshold.\n\nAn irresistible impulse drove the eunuch onward in his strange\nadventure, yet it seemed that he could not have uttered a word to save\nhis life. With every faculty strained, every sense painfully sharpened,\nspeech was alone denied him.\n\nThe sons of Ashur crossed their spears to bar his entrance; but throwing\nthe cloak back from his face, though still without a word, he caused\nthem to recognise him that stood at the right hand of the Great Queen,\nand thus passed unimpeded into the temple of the fiend.\n\nIn a vaulted cavern, so lofty that the glare of twenty torches scarce\nillumined the shadowy masses of its roof, stood four unhewn blocks of\ngranite, supporting, at the height of a man's knee a rough slab of the\nsame, on a flooring of rock, over which nature had spread a deep\ncovering of sand. There was here no appearance of shrine or altar, none\nof those attempts at ornament, by which even the rudest of worshippers\ndo honour to their deity with hand and brain. The walls of this natural\ntemple were of bare bulging stone, its roof was reared far into the\nbowels of the mountain; it had but one aperture, through which a dim\nthread of light might be seen at noon-day, and where, if he ever did\nvisit them, the worshippers of Abitur were taught to expect the\nappearance of their master.\n\nBuried in the depths of the forest, beneath those wild shaggy hills,\nthis dwelling of the evil principle was as dark and shadowy compared\nwith the temple of Baal, as that shrine of the Assyrian god, glowing in\nvermilion and gold, seemed poor and paltry to the starry dome above, of\nwhich it professed to be the type.\n\nFrom behind a jutting boulder of rock, forming, as it were, a natural\nbuttress of the cavern, Assarac watched in horror. The dew stood on his\nbrow, damp and chill as the slime on the surface against which he\nleaned.\n\nSemiramis snatched a torch from one of the wild figures at her side, and\nwith its unlighted end described a triangular figure, while keeping\nherself carefully within that mystic border, around the broad flat stone\non which the dead man lay.\n\nA wild unreasoning terror then seemed to take possession of the\nworshippers, they trembled from head to foot, and cowered back as far as\nthe limits of the cavern would allow. In the silence that succeeded this\nmovement, even Assarac expected some tangible horror to appear.\n\nThe Great Queen planted her torch firmly in the sand at the corpse's\nhead, stripping off at the same time its enshrouding mantle, while her\nown cloak fell from her shoulder in the act, revealing at one stroke her\nmatchless beauty and the glittering splendour of her attire.\n\nIt was a ghastly contrast--the same wavering light that played on the\nqueen's jewels imparted a flicker of life and motion to the dead man's\nface, gashed and seamed with the sword, drawn and distorted with spasms\nof mortal pain. He seemed to gasp, to gibber, to be about to speak, as\nif the longing eyes that looked down on him were indeed able to draw his\nvery soul back from those unknown regions to which it had taken flight,\nas if the force of a woman's will, the desire of a woman's love, must\nneeds have power to bridge the gulf that parts the living and the dead.\n\nWas it indeed Sarchedon who laid there disfigured into so maimed and\nunsightly an object? And did she love him so dearly, that now to-night,\nin the very hour of her triumph, she could forego her royal pomp and\nglory, could stoop her neck and bend her pride for such a thing as this?\n\nThen Assarac felt at his heart that keen and searching stab to which\nevery other pain is but as a dull outward bruise to a serpent's venomed\nsting.\n\nWith dropped jaw, fixed eyes, and rigid limbs, he watched like a man\nturned to stone.\n\nShe plucked an amulet from her neck, gazing on it for an instant ere she\nlaid it softly, tenderly, in the dead man's breast. Then she looked\nupward, moving lips and hands, like one who pleads hard for life, though\nnot a sound came forth. This was the second time she had bartered away\nher mystic charm. Surely all her resources of peace and war must stand\nher in some stead! Surely the dove and the arrow would not fail her now!\n\nWhen she turned her eyes again to the body, they gleamed with the light\nof hope. On her face was the smile that welcomes some dear one's\nhome-coming, and she stretched her arms, as if to invite the wanderer\nback to her loving heart.\n\nBut while still he moved not, lying there stark and rigid, without word\nor sign, it seemed strange to Assarac, that the Great Queen, whose\nnature was so imperious, manifested neither anger nor impatience at this\nprotracted opposition to her will. Sorrow indeed came down over the\nbeautiful face like a veil; but through it there shone the exceeding\ntenderness of a love that owns no limit of time or place, that\nacknowledges no barrier, even in the chasm of an open grave.\n\nOnce more her lips and eyes moved wildly, once more she looked around,\nas if to plead for that fiendish help she had come here to implore; then\nwhile her bosom heaved, and her throat swelled high, she burst into a\nstrain of melody that rang through the remotest corners of the cavern,\ncausing the wild men's senses to thrill with a strange intoxicating\ndelight, and the eunuch's heart to quiver with a fierce intolerable\npain.\n\nIt was the incantation by which, in sight of all the gods of her people,\nshe protested against her loss, calling on the parted spirit to return\nfrom its place beyond the grave.\n\nLaying her right hand on the dead man's forehead, her left upon his\nheart, she raised her head and sang:\n\n    \"By the power of the Seven\n      Great tokens of light;\n    By the Judges of Heaven,\n      The watchers of night;\n    By the might of those forces\n      That govern on high,\n    The Stars in their courses,\n      The hosts of the sky;\n    By Ashur, grim pagan,\n      Our father in mail;\n    By Nebo and Dagon,\n      By Nisroch and Baal;\n    By pale Ishtar contrasting\n      With Red Merodach,\n    By the wings everlasting,\n      I summon thee back!\n\n    From the ranks of a legion\n      That files through the gloom\n    Of a shadowy region\n      Disclosed by the tomb;\n    From the gulf of black sorrow\n      Of silence and sleep,\n    Where a night with no morrow\n      Broods over the deep;\n    By desire unavailing,\n      And pleasure that's fled;\n    By the living bewailing\n      Her love for the dead;\n    By the wish that endears thee,\n      The kisses that burn,\n    And the passion that sears thee,\n      I bid thee return!\n\n    Thou art cold, and thy face is\n      So waxen at rest,\n    In my fiery embraces\n      Seek warmth on my breast.\n    Through the lips that caress thee\n      Draw balm in my breath,\n    And the arms that compress thee\n      Shall wrench thee from Death.\n    Though he boasteth to spare not\n      For ransom or fee,\n    Yet he shall not, he dare not,\n      Take tribute of me.\n    Then if love can restore thee,\n      Though bound on the track,\n    From the journey before thee,\n      Beloved, come back!\"\n\nWhile the last syllables died on her lips in long pathetic tones, she\nsank across the dead body, brow to brow, breast to breast, and mouth to\nmouth. Surely, if but one spark of life had been left, that wild embrace\nmust have drawn and kindled it into flame.\n\nBut Assarac's brain reeled, and the cavern swam before his eyes.\nStaggering, suffocated, he hastened from the place, passing the men of\nwar at the entrance as he rushed blindly out into the darkness. Said one\nspearman to his comrade, \"Surely it is a spirit. Behold how it vanisheth\nin the night!\" To which the other, leaning thoughtfully on his shield,\nreplied,\n\n\"It is the demon who hath entered, and taken possession of the man, and\ndriven him forth, and fled with him into the wilderness.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV\n\nTHE VOICE OF THE CHARMER\n\n\nIt was not the custom of an Assyrian army to leave its work half done.\nThe day after the great battle of Ardesh, the Armenians were scattered\nto the four winds of heaven. Thorgon and his long swords indeed lay on\nthe field in regular lines of rank and file, as they had fallen; but,\nthough resisting bravely while his crest could be seen above the tumult,\nwhen their king went down, the remnant of the mountain men broke up and\nfled in confusion to their homes. The very stratagem that had, as it\nwere, doubled his presence for their encouragement, served perhaps but\nto dishearten them the more, when they no longer beheld the royal form\nwhich had hitherto seemed ubiquitous in the fight. Every portion of his\nhost was satisfied it had taken its orders directly from the monarch;\nand when at last those two mailed figures, each of which was believed to\nbe Aryas himself, came together in the hottest of the conflict, men lay\nso thick about the spot, that few indeed were left to observe the fall\nof one and disappearance of the other warrior, either of whom might have\nbeen their king.\n\nThrough many a league of mountain pass and tangled brake, fording the\ntorrent or scouring the wind-swept plain, fled broken bands of\nfugitives, panting, scared, disarmed, looking wildly over their shoulder\nfor the fierce and terrible foe, who spared not where he conquered, and\nwhen he lifted sword or javelin, never failed to drive it home.\n\nBut there was one troop of horsemen, scanty in number, yet formidable in\nappearance, that although fighting on the side of victory had suffered\nconsiderable loss. Returning towards the south in fair and orderly\nretreat, it yet bore no symptoms of discomfiture or flight. The children\nof Anak presented rather the appearance of assailants proceeding on some\npromising expedition than of a solitary force wilfully deserting the\ncause it had espoused. They restrained their invincible little horses to\na steady regulated pace, halting at frequent intervals to show a bold\nfront in case of pursuit from friend or foe. Their arms were bright, and\nheld in readiness; their bearing was haughty and full of confidence;\neven the wounded sat firm and upright in their saddles, and at any\nmoment all seemed prepared to resume the fray.\n\nIn the centre rode their Veiled Queen, accompanied by one in Armenian\narmour, who seemed less a prisoner than a guest.\n\nWhile the battle raged at its fiercest round the white stone which\nSemiramis had marked at its turning-point, Ishtar found herself carried\non its tide against the very person of him whom she had come to seek. It\nneeded but a wave of her arm to rally round her those champions who\nbelieved so simply in her supernatural attributes, with whom no horsemen\nin the world could counter stroke for stroke. Pressing in on their\nleader, they soon encircled Ishtar and Sarchedon, soon cut their way to\nthe outskirts of the battle, and merging alike their compact with\nSemiramis and their own love of fighting in blind obedience to their\nqueen, drew off in perfectly good order, to commence a steady retreat\nfor their southern home.\n\nThe Assyrian had seen Aryas fall in fight, had noted the destruction of\nthe long swords, the total rout of those hardy warriors who hoped in\nvain to make head against his countrymen. What was left him now, but to\ndrift with the stream of fate in the arms of the woman he loved?\n\nThe Anakim soon recognised him as the companion of their leader, when\nfirst she appeared among their tents and they knew her not. This was\nenough to insure their protection and regard. At the first halt, there\nwas even a question of receiving him as an adopted brother in the tribe;\nbut he wanted more than a span of the necessary stature, and that\nproject was unwillingly abandoned. Nevertheless, every man felt pledged\nto do him homage and defend his person to the death.\n\nIt seemed to Sarchedon that he was riding through some unreal paradise\nin a dream. He told Ishtar as much, while she related her trials, her\nsorrows, and her undeviating constancy since they parted in the desert\nafter their flight from Ascalon. He feared to wake, he said, and find\nhimself again in that Egyptian dungeon, from which escape seemed\nhopeless as from the tomb.\n\n\"Beloved,\" she answered, \"the queen of heaven will not permit us to be\ntried yet farther. Behold! twice has she brought you deliverance through\nme her servant in your hour of greatest need. It is enough. We shall be\nparted no more. We will cast in our lot with these children of the\nwilderness: they are brave, generous, faithful; they will fence us from\nour enemies with a hedge of steel.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" he answered, looking fondly in the dear face that was\nunveiled only to _him_. \"Better a goats' hair tent with Ishtar in the\ndesert than a painted chamber and an empty heart in the palace of a\nking. And yet,\" he added somewhat wistfully, \"I would fain see the\ninside of great Babylon again before I die.\"\n\nThey were crossing a fair and level plain, the mountains above Ardesh\nwere already sinking on the horizon, and the children of the desert\nwelcomed that smooth unvaried surface, as reminding them of the\nboundless tract they called their home.\n\nPresently the chief, riding warily in their rear, shouted to halt.\nForming towards the point of danger, they observed a column of dust\nrising in the distance, as of an armed party proceeding rapidly on their\ntrack.\n\nTo those observant eyes, prompt and reliable information was afforded by\nthe lightest tokens of earth or sky. While Sarchedon could detect but a\nrolling yellow cloud, the sons of Anak told each other of ten score\nhorsemen and a war-chariot travelling at speed.\n\nThey bore down, therefore, in the direction of the approaching party,\nforming carefully round Ishtar and her companion in case of conflict.\n\nWhen within a furlong of each other, both troops somewhat slackened\npace, and a chariot, driven furiously towards the Anakim, was stopped at\na spear-length from their chief.\n\nStanding in it, erect and fearless before drawn bows and levelled\nspears, with head bared, shield lowered in token of amity, Assarac\nraised his unarmed hands, and cried in a loud voice, \"Is it peace, O my\nbrother?\"\n\n\"Let there be peace, my brother, between thee and me,\" answered the\nchief of the Anakim; and the eunuch, getting down out of his chariot,\nproceeded to explain the reason of his coming and his absence in the\nhour of victory from the army of the Great Queen.\n\n\"Semiramis,\" he said, \"had been grievously wounded at the very moment of\ntriumph. If not hurt to the death, she was at least unable to retain\ncommand of the host, or even to provide for the government of her empire\nat home. Therefore must he hasten back to Babylon, that he might rule\nwisely and in accordance with the laws of Shinar, while the queen's\nauthority was thus for a space in abeyance. New times were coming--a new\npolicy, perhaps a new dominion. Those who were so skilful to rein a\nsteed and wield a sword must ever be welcome to a warlike government,\nsuch as could alone control the sons of Ashur. He had it in his power to\noffer the Anakim a tract of fertile country, a land of corn and wine and\noil, in which to dwell at ease, ruled by their hereditary chief and\nsubject to their fathers' laws. Would they not hold it of the Great\nQueen by service of bow and spear, each man sitting under his own vine\nand his own fig-tree, doing that which seemed good in his own eyes?\"\n\nThe Anakim glanced doubtfully at each other; their chief pointed to the\nmare from which he had dismounted, and shook his head.\n\n\"I could not breathe Lotus-flower,\" said he, \"in the confines of such a\ntract. Like the wild ass, whose speed she laughs to scorn, her limbs\nwould stiffen if she might not stretch them on a plain boundless as the\nsky that meets it on every side.\"\n\n\"There is rich spoil to share,\" urged the eunuch. \"Herds of sheep, oxen,\nand camels, droves of captives--men, women, and children--wine, jewels,\ngoodly raiment, and gold to be had for the asking.\"\n\nThe other stooped his tall person to bend his bow against the hollow of\nhis foot and ease its string.\n\n\"All these,\" he answered, \"I can have by the tightening of this weapon\nin my hand. What need I more than the inheritance of my fathers--the\ndesert sun, the trackless sand, and the goods of every man whose spear\nis a span shorter than mine own? Go to, thou lordly son of Ashur! my\nportion is better than thine. I have spoken. Take a gift from thy\nservant, and depart in peace.\"\n\nAssarac would never have been in his present position had he admitted\nthe impossibility of an enterprise because of its first failure.\n\n\"I will accept the gift of my brother,\" said he, receiving with\nexceeding courtesy a loaf of barley-bread and a handful of dried dates,\noffered by one of the Anakim at a signal from his chief. \"May it be\nreturned to him a hundredfold when he encamps without the gate of\nBabylon, and I, even I, Assarac, governor of the city, bow my head at\nthe door of his tent to do him honour! If we may not draw bow again side\nby side in battle, at least let there be peace between thy people and my\npeople, so that a son of Ashur, meeting a child of Anak in the\nwilderness, shall cast his spear down before him and say, Is it well\nwith thee, O my brother?\"\n\nPausing to mark the effect of these friendly sentiments, and observing\nthat they were well received by his listeners, the eunuch turned to\nSarchedon, and continued in a lighter tone:\n\n\"There is indeed a new dominion in Babylon when those laws of the land\nof Shinar have been set aside which sentence to death that Assyrian-born\nwho shall be found arrayed in war-harness against the banner of Ashur.\nAnd therefore, Sarchedon, if thou art a prisoner among these my\nbrethren, I will ransom thee at a royal price. If a friend, I will bid\nthee leave them for a space, to their profit and thine own. If a captain\nand leader, I will promote thee to yet higher honour in the great army\nthat has never known defeat.\"\n\nSarchedon, glancing doubtfully at Ishtar, noted the colour fade from her\ncheek ere she drew the veil over her face. Nevertheless, the tempter was\nskilled in his art; and the prospect of once more bearing arms with his\ncountrymen was too welcome to be dismissed.\n\n\"I would fain return to the land of my fathers,\" said he, \"and ride to\nbattle with my brethren in burnished armour and costly raiment once\nmore. But yet it is better to dwell in the desert with a whole skin than\nto writhe on a stake in the sun, even though it be over against the\npalace of a king. If I came in the light of the Great Queen's\ncountenance, behold, she would consume me in her wrath. If Ninyas\nreigned in her stead, my death might peradventure be more merciful, but\nmore speedy also, and no less sure.\"\n\nAssarac had a purpose to serve, and the lie glided smooth and facile\nfrom his lips.\n\n\"Semiramis,\" he answered--and even now, in this his hour of fierce\nrevenge and mad disloyalty, he could not speak that name without a\nquiver of the lip, a tremble of the voice--\"Semiramis sickens in her\ntent with a death-hurt. Ninyas her son, sunk in sloth and pleasure,\nlover of the garland, the wine-cup, and the couch, would soon weary of\nthe sceptre as he wearied of the sword. The Assyrian ruler needs a wise\nbrain and a long arm. The Assyrian people look for qualities in their\nkings that are the attributes of their gods. Ninus will never return to\nus from the stars; but Ninus was less powerful than Nimrod, even as\nNimrod himself was weaker than Ashur, from whose loins he sprang. Why\nshould we, his descendants, owe allegiance to any earthly power? Why\nshould kings, queens, and princes come between Baal and the people of\nhis choice?\"\n\nThe audacious project of wresting from the line of Nimrod that dynasty\nit had held with so strong a hand, and substituting a hierarchy of\nwhich he should himself be the head, had long appeared to Assarac a\nfeasible project enough--one worthy of his own tameless energy and\ninsatiable ambition, although the temptation had been stifled hitherto\nby his loyalty, his devotion to the queen. Now, in the torture of a\nvexed heart and wounded spirit, he swore to cast aside every sentiment\nbut revenge, at least till Semiramis was at the mercy of him whose\nfidelity she had used, and scorned, and outraged without remorse.\nTherefore, it would be well, he thought, to strengthen his hands with\nall the weapons he could seize, to make such friends for himself on\nevery side as should become willing tools, to ply at need, and cast away\nat will. When he met them by chance in the plain, it struck him that the\nAnakim would be no contemptible auxiliaries; when he found Ishtar and\nSarchedon in their midst, he reflected that the former might still be\nmade a bait, if necessary, for the allurement of Ninyas; the latter,\naccording as events fell out, might form a snare, a bribe, or a\npunishment for the Great Queen. That she believed him to have been\nkilled, and in her agony of sorrow thought to raise him from the dead,\nhe knew by the evidence of his own senses, and although the Armenian\nhabit, in which he now recognised Sarchedon, convinced him of her error,\nthe bitterness of his anguish seemed rather enhanced than modified by\nthis discovery that the object of her desire was not yet wholly out of\nreach.\n\nIt was scarcely jealousy he experienced, for jealousy implies\npossession, past, present, or prospective; it was rather that morbid\nrecklessness of despair, which pulls down the whole edifice on its own\nhead, if only the idol may be crushed and buried in the ruins of its\nshrine.\n\nCould he have hated her as sincerely as he wished, he would, perhaps,\nhave triumphed, and, favoured by circumstances, might have held the\nproud Semiramis in his power, if only for a day; but when did man ever\nsucceed in any perilous enterprise who suffered his heart to paralyse\nhis arm, the outcry of his affections to drown the promptings of his\nbrain?\n\nNevertheless, it was his present object to gain over Sarchedon, and\nafter a pause, as of deep consideration, he spoke out with a semblance\nof the utmost frankness:\n\n\"Hearken, my son. Let nothing be kept back between thee and me. Baal,\nthough he lead a host in heaven, needs also an army here on earth. That\narmy must have a captain. He who has set the battle in array for friend\nand foe, at home, in Egypt, here among the mountains of the north, is\nsurely well fitted to command the warriors of the Assyrian god. When\nAssarac declares his will from the altar before his temple at home,\nSarchedon shall stand forth in shining raiment, chief and Tartan of the\ngreat Assyrian host. Said I well, my son? and wilt thou not follow me in\nall haste to Babylon?\"\n\nHe had bought him, he thought, for a price, and, through him, that\nfoolish girl, together with this formidable tribe of stalwart\nsimple-minded warriors.\n\nAgain Sarchedon glanced at Ishtar; but her veil was down, and she made\nno sign.\n\n\"To lead the host!\" he muttered thoughtfully. \"To have the power of\nNinus, and wield it wisely, as did Arbaces!\"\n\n\"Ponder it well, my son,\" said the eunuch solemnly, \"while I speed on to\nprepare the way. What art thou here?\" he added, lowering his voice. \"A\nhostage in a foeman's camp, at a woman's will. Behold, I can make thee\nthe noblest leader on earth, and she, this veiled queen of a handful of\nhorsemen, shall sit on the throne of a province larger than the great\nnorthern land we went out to conquer. What Baal offers, do not thou\ndespise. Go to! Stretch forth thy hand, and take it whilst thou canst.\nTo-morrow it may be too late. I have spoken.\"\n\nThen, with a courteous farewell to the Anakim, he mounted into his\nchariot, and was gone, speeding, like some pestilent wind, towards the\nsouth on his mission of treachery, rebellion, and revenge.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI\n\nREQUITED\n\n\n\"I have cast stones in the air to fall on mine own head! I have knelt at\nthe stream, and, lo, the waters were bitter and defiled! O Kalmim,\nthere is neither faith, nor honour, nor gratitude in Ninyas, the son of\nNinus. May the king live for ever!\"\n\nShe laughed outright. It was a rare jest to behold Sethos in a vein of\nserious reflection; above all, to hear him revile the prince to whom,\nthrough good and evil, he had been a devoted servant, notwithstanding\nthe vices, caprices, and heartless ingratitude of his lord.\n\n\"You are but a child,\" she answered lightly, \"and for all your downy lip\nand shapely limbs, not yet fit to run alone. Trust a strained bow, a\nfrayed string, a blown horse, or a baffled woman--all these will quit\nthem better in the hour of need than a king on the throne, whom you have\nserved when he was a captive in the dungeon.\"\n\nThey were standing together on a terrace of the royal palace in Babylon,\nlooking over many a league of gardens, vineyards, lofty palms, thin\nsilvery streams--vast tracts of desert sand beyond--all shining and\nglowing in the bright morning sun, while their own comely faces and\nsplendid attire were rich and deep in colour as the surrounding hues of\nearth and sky.\n\nA great change had indeed taken place at home, since the queen's\nexpedition to Armenia left the city without a ruler, while its lawful\nprince languished a weary prisoner, losing health, energy, and all the\ndignity of manhood, under supervision of the priests of Baal. The return\nof Assarac, bearing, as he affirmed, full powers and authority on the\npart of Semiramis, sickening even to death in the far north, had\nextricated Ninyas from captivity, and placed him on the throne to which\nhe was entitled by the laws of Shinar, the eunuch, in a secret\ninterview, extorting a solemn oath of vengeance on the mother who had\ndeprived him of his liberty and his empire. Broken in health and courage\nby close imprisonment, acting on a frame already yielding to the effects\nof unbridled indulgence, the young king was but a tool in the hands of\nAssarac, who soon conceived the idea of making him also a mere\nstepping-stone to the attainment of supreme power at which he aimed.\n\nThough scrupulous in practising the usual forms and observances towards\nhis lord, the eunuch scarcely affected to ignore his own real\nsuperiority, affirming only that his words and deeds were prompted by\nthe immediate inspiration of his god.\n\n\"And Baal bids him store up goodly treasures for himself, you may be\nsure,\" observed Kalmim, discussing with her old admirer the character of\ntheir new and arbitrary ruler; \"so that at any time he may win over the\nspearmen with spoil, as he secured the priests by promises, and the\nprophets of the grove by threats. Gold and steel, Sethos--these are the\nonly real forces on earth, and I sometimes think there is no power that\ncan dominate them in heaven.\"\n\n\"Good faith,\" answered Sethos, \"is precious as the one and true as the\nother. I have never wavered, Kalmim, in my loyalty to Ninyas, nor my\nlove for _you_.\"\n\n\"And what have they profited you?\" she retorted lightly. \"You stood by\nthe prince in good and evil, eating with him the bitter morsel and\nsharing the cup of affliction. One fine morning, Baal forsooth sends a\nfat man in white to pull the king of nations out of a prison-house and\nput him in a palace with a royal mantle on his shoulders, and a golden\nsceptre in his hand. Then comes the cup-bearer, who has proved his\nreadiness to go to the gates of death with his lord, and asks to be made\nleader of the host and to stand on the king's right hand, in the day of\nhis glory as in the night of his bondage. What said Ninyas to the poor\nyouth, in answer to so modest a request?\"\n\n\"He laughed in my face,\" replied the other, with considerable\nirritation. \"And if there is justice in heaven it will be repaid him\nfourfold. May the king live for ever!\"\n\n\"So much for loyalty to a prince,\" she continued. \"Now for truth to a\nwoman. Have you _really_ kept faith with me, Sethos, all this time? It\nis many a long day since you and I first met by a strange chance in the\nqueen's paradise, and you told me--I forget what you told me, but it was\nsomething very foolish, no doubt.\"\n\n\"You know I have,\" said Sethos bitterly, almost fiercely, turning his\nhead away while he spoke.\n\nIt was a short answer, but to a woman's ear worth a whole series of\nprotestations. In perception of such matters, Kalmim was no whit behind\nher sex.\n\nIf he had but looked at her, he would have seen her blush, and surely in\nno encounter whatsoever should a man take his eye off his enemy.\nSethos, alas, was completely at the adversary's mercy, and she trampled\nhim accordingly.\n\n\"Well, and what has this service, also, profited you for your pains?\"\nshe asked in taunting accents, wholly unable to forbear the pleasure of\ntormenting him. \"You have stood by _me_ at my need faithfully, nobly,\ngrudging nothing, keeping nothing back. When the time comes, you will\nask _me_ too to make you my captain and leader, to seat you on my right\nhand till I die, and, Sethos, I too--I shall laugh in your face!\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" he answered in a grave quiet voice, so unlike his usual\ntones that she glanced anxiously towards him. He seemed sad and\ntroubled, yet looked like a man whose loyalty was still unshaken and\nunimpeachable.\n\n\"And you are tired of it at last?\" she asked, in the same mocking\naccents.\n\n\"It is too late to change now,\" was his answer, with a wan and weary\nsmile.\n\n\"Ninyas refused you?\" she continued, looking straight into his eyes.\n\nHe bowed his head in silence.\n\n\"But _I_ have only laughed at you,\" she murmured, drawing her veil\nhastily over her face. \"And, Sethos, have you passed your life in\nBabylon and not found out that liking grows with laughter as blossoms\ncome with rain? _I_ am not a king, I am only a woman; and I cannot deny\na faithful servant who asks the reward he has toiled through storm and\nsunshine to attain.\"\n\nHe would have passed his arm round her waist, but with a dexterous\ntwirl, the result, perhaps, of considerable practice, she placed herself\nout of reach.\n\n\"No,\" she said with imposing force and gesture, \"my friend, and more\nthan friend, this is not a time for follies such as these. Some day,\nwhen the heavy hand of Baal has been taken off this unhappy city, when\nmen's flocks and herds and wives and children have ceased to be at the\ncommand of those who are but hewers of wood and drawers of water in the\ntemple, I may peradventure suffer you to--to--well, to touch the tip of\nmy finger with your lips. But now, the first duty of every son of Ashur\nis to cast off this hateful yoke that bows his nation to the dust. O\nthat the old lion had but lived to see the white robes lording it in\nhis well-beloved city! He would have cleared them out with fire and\nsword, ay, though all the host of heaven had come down from the stars to\ntake their part.\n\n\"Look at _me_! O, I know well you never take your eyes off me if you can\nhelp it; but I am serious now. Look at _me_, I say--a woman who in her\nlife before never knew a thought nor care weightier than the smoothing\nof a plait, the planting of a bodkin: I tell you I would take up spear\nand shield to-morrow, if I might help to lay Assarac and his priests in\ntheir blood at the altar before which they serve. What have they done\nfor us? What has Baal himself done for us since he has governed from the\nthrone of Nimrod? Corn is dear, water scarce, the people starve, and the\npriests wax fatter, prouder, fiercer, day by day. Even Beladon, who used\nto be meek and gentle as a weaned child, and was indeed a personable\nyouth, and one of my truest friends--even Beladon, I say, holds that we\nare to be at his beck and call without question or murmur, you and I,\nand every one within the hundred gates of the city wall.\"\n\n\"May Nisroch tear him limb from limb!\" exclaimed Sethos, in high wrath;\nfor he had long been jealous of the comely young priest's intimacy with\nKalmim, and it was in no ignorance of his feelings that the latter now\nworked upon her listener with the hated name.\n\n\"Yes, Beladon,\" she continued, \"though he be not so bad as some of the\nrest. But how long are we to bear this? How long are we to be trodden on\nand kept down, not by a conqueror of worlds like old Ninus, wielding bow\nand spear as I would handle a needle, but by a slothful priest, a eunuch\nforsooth, in flowing robes and linen tiara, who never lifted weapon\ndeadlier than gilded fir-cone or fresh-gathered lotus, never bore\nheavier burden than jewelled casket, nor faced a fiercer enemy than the\npoor sheep he slays to please his god!\"\n\n\"Nay, there you wrong him,\" argued honest Sethos. \"If all that comes out\nof Armenia be true, never bolder champion mounted war-chariot than\nAssarac, the priest of Baal.\"\n\n\"Armenia!\" retorted Kalmim, with infinite contempt--\"a desert peopled by\na few half-starved wretches, doubtless naked and without arms. Besides,\nwas he not warring in the mountains under the banner of the Great Queen?\nI pray you, when did Semiramis ever fail to conquer where she set the\nbattle in array? And now, by his own confession, she languishes with a\ndeath-wound, and he is not ashamed to be standing here within the brazen\ngates in a whole skin! O, it passes all patience! But I know my mistress\nwell. Surely never yet was that shaft feathered which could drink her\nlife-blood. Once I loved her dearly, and she repaid my faithful service\nwith the gratitude of--of a Great Queen, I suppose! But for all that is\npast and gone, I will never believe, wounded or unwounded, she could\nabandon the sceptre of Nimrod, or license Baal himself to usurp her\nauthority in the land of Shinar and the city she loves to call her own.\"\n\n\"But Ninyas sits in the royal palace,\" observed Sethos, \"under the\nmystic circle and the wings of gold. It is before Ninyas that the\nspearmen defile at noon, and to Ninyas that the people cry for justice\nin the gate at sunrise, when he is sober enough to hear.\"\n\n\"And how often is that?\" exclaimed Kalmim. \"Not once in twenty days. But\nare you too blind to perceive, O simple youth, that while Ninyas wears\nthe tiara, Assarac holds the sceptre; while Ninyas fits the arrow,\nAssarac draws the bow? It is time Babylon were rid of both. The fire\nthat crowns that sacred tower burns doubtless night and day; but what is\nthat to me if it be so high up I cannot thread my needle in its light?\nWhen Baal means to rule over us in person, let him come down and show\nhimself. I am tired of a god who never answers, call on him loudly as\nyou will.\"\n\nSuch liberal sentiments would have astonished her companion more, but\nthat Sethos, during his lord's captivity, had dwelt long enough within\nits sacred precincts to have lost much of his former reverence for the\nmysteries of the temple, of his early confidence in the unseen power of\nits god. He felt somewhat bewildered, nevertheless, and astray in this\nuprooting of a faith that seemed like a birth-right to every son of\nAshur, and asked helplessly,\n\n\"If Baal cannot, and Ninyas must not, and Assarac will not, succour us,\nto whom then are we to look?\"\n\n\"To the Great Queen,\" answered Kalmim proudly: \"never believe but she\nwill come again in her majesty, beautiful as morning, fierce and\nterrible as the storm that rises with midday. I have seen her angered\nonce, only once in all my life. I tell you, Sethos, I would rather stand\nin the presence of Nisroch to be consumed than face the blaze of those\neyes again. She spoke not, scarcely moved a limb; but I felt as the lamb\nmust feel when the leopard has made her spring, and there is no escape.\nIn her love, her hatred, and her desire, she knows no bounds and\nacknowledges no check, yet never sunlight was welcomed by captive in a\ndungeon as would be that beautiful face to-day in Babylon by the people\nof the Great Queen.\"\n\nWhile she spoke, she looked wistfully out over the desert towards the\nnorth; Sethos, watching her eager face, saw it brighten with a sudden\ngleam of triumph and hope. Following the direction of her eyes, he\nobserved the flash of spears through a dense cloud low on the horizon,\nthat denoted a body of horsemen on the march.\n\nPointing towards it, Kalmim burst into tears.\n\n\"It is the Great Queen!\" she sobbed. \"For my sake, Sethos--for my sake,\nwill you not be on our side?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII\n\nBETRAYED\n\n\nPacing to and fro in the familiar cedar gallery, vexed, troubled, and\nimpatient, Assarac shot glances of anger and defiance at the four-winged\nimage of Nisroch, as though reproaching the god in whom he did _not_\nbelieve for withholding aid he would have considered it childish folly\nto implore. Though he had dispatched a messenger in eager haste to seek\nout the tents of the Anakim, and renew the offer of promotion he made to\nSarchedon, so preoccupied was he, that Beladon had already prostrated\nhimself more than once, ere his superior seemed conscious of his\npresence. The younger priest wondered to see the resolute and subtle\neunuch so changed, so worn, so saddened. He marked the restless step,\nthe sullen gesture, the moody unquiet eye, remembering, not without\npity, a caged wild beast that had been trapped and brought into Babylon,\nlong ago by certain hunters of the mountain, as a gift to the Great\nQueen.\n\nThough a faithful servant enough, while a keener intellect and firmer\nspirit held him in subjection, he bethought him somewhat remorsefully it\nwas time to leave his master now.\n\nAssarac's eyes wandered over the other's figure with the unconscious\nstare of a sleep-walker ere they lighted into recognition, then he\nstarted and exclaimed, \"How now, Beladon? Returned so soon? What tidings\nof Semiramis--I mean of Sarchedon, and the children of Anak with whom he\ndwells?\"\n\n\"Let not my lord be wroth,\" was the answer. \"Though his servant fled\nthrough the waste like an ostrich, yet was he wiser than that foolish\nbird, which plies her long legs and helpless wings to meet the storm of\nthunder and lightning she dreads. I have heard the thunder of the\nqueen's chariots; I have seen the lightning of her spears. Instead of\nscouring the desert to seek the Anakim, lo, I turned bridle, and\nhastened back that I might warn my lord of her approach.\"\n\nThough something seemed to tell him the information was tantamount to a\ndeath-warrant, his heart leaped up with a wild unreasoning joy.\n\n\"The queen!\" he exclaimed, while the blood flew to his wan heavy cheek.\n\"Is she then so near?\"\n\n\"She will encamp to-night beneath the city walls,\" answered Beladon\nimperturbably. \"She marches with the vanguard of her army; but the\nconquerors of Armenia cannot be many furlongs in her rear; and when the\nsun goes down to-morrow, the hosts of Ninyas will be increased fourfold,\nwhile the Great Queen lays her trophies and her sceptre at the feet of\nher son. May the king live for ever!\"\n\nSomething in the cold sneering tones seemed to recall the eunuch's\nenergies and wake him, as it were, from a dream.\n\n\"Never!\" he muttered between his teeth; and seizing the other's arm in a\ngripe that caused him to wince with pain, he hurried out of the\ncorridor, past the golden image of Baal, across the court of the\ntemple, and so, through leafy thicket and level lawn, threaded its cool\ngreen paradise to the palace of the Great King.\n\nHere Beladon, notwithstanding a sufficiently good opinion of his own\nmerits, would have excused himself from entering; but Assarac's grasp\nwas never relaxed, and ere the younger priest could realise the\nimprudence of such an intrusion, he found himself in the presence of one\nfor whom he had been alternately spy and gaoler, yet who held over him\nirresponsible power of life and death.\n\nNinyas was seated in the shade on a chair of state, ornamented and\nembossed with the symbols of Assyrian sovereignty, under a trellis-work\nwhereon had been trained the luxuriant tendrils of a vine, already\nbending and blushing in clusters of ripening grapes. A fountain\nscattered its silver spray in the sunshine, while female forms, with\njetty locks, transparent veils, and glancing eyes, flitted through the\nshade. Soft airs murmured among the flowers, birds carolled from the\nthicket, and the king held a half-emptied goblet in his hand. With a\nhasty inclination of head and body, far short of the usual ceremony\nobserved on entering the royal presence, Assarac placed himself in front\nof his lord, and looking him full in the face, arrested the cup that\nNinyas was raising to his lips.\n\n\"Is this a time,\" said he, in grave sonorous accents, \"for bubble of\nwine and sound of timbrel--for dance and song and careless revel--the\nmirth that goes before destruction--the folly that is a sure fore-runner\nof death? Rouse you, my lord, rouse you! Take bow in hand, gird you\nsword upon your thigh; for the watchman cries out on the wall, and even\nnow your enemy is at the gate!\"\n\nThe king's eyes, once so bright, looked dim and dull, the handsome\nfeatures were flushed and sodden with excess; but he set his goblet down\nuntasted, while there seemed something of interest, even apprehension,\nin the tone with which he asked, \"What enemy, and whence? I have but one\nin all the kingdoms of the earth, and she is sick unto death beyond the\nmountains of the north.\"\n\nAgain, while he smiled in scorn, came a glow of triumph on the eunuch's\nweary face. \"Semiramis,\" he answered, \"is encamped within bowshot of the\nwall--Semiramis, the mother of my lord the king--Semiramis, who never\ncast a bank against a city but she razed it to the ground--who never\ndrew bow but she shot her arrow home--who never took account of an\ninjury but she requited it with death! O my queen, my queen!\" he added\nin a broken murmur, \"even now the lord of earth trembles and cowers at\nthe very whisper of your name!\"\n\nNinyas turned pale. \"Counsel me, Assarac!\" he exclaimed, while his eye\nroved helplessly over all the splendour and luxury that surrounded him.\n\"If my mother enters the city, I am undone.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" answered the eunuch. \"Let my lord the king go out to meet her\nas a son should welcome the mother of his affections bringing home the\nwife of his desire. Let the gates be thrown open, and the people give\nher greeting as she passes by. The hosts of the Great Queen are yet many\na league off in the desert. Her vanguard, few in number, must be wearied\nsore with travel. When she enters her own city, who so fitting to\nprovide for her safety as the son of her vows? Let him guard her like\nthe apple of his eye, and relieve her of all care in the government of\nthe people whom he rules.\"\n\n\"You know her not!\" exclaimed Ninyas, much disturbed. \"Where is the\nprison-house in Babylon that could hold her for a single day? Where is\nthe son of Ashur who would not leap to the saddle with bow and spear at\nthe first wave of the Great Queen's hand?\"\n\nThe eunuch's answer came in firm and measured accents, though his face\nwas distorted as with a hidden agony of pain.\n\n\"There is a prison-house from which not Ashtaroth herself could break\nout--from which old Nimrod might not be delivered by all the horsemen of\nAssyria. When my lord's servants shall surround and hew her in pieces,\nthen may every son of Ashur bind on his headpiece a shred of the Great\nQueen's garments, whom he loved so well.\"\n\nNinyas laughed aloud, and, seizing his discarded goblet, drained it to\nthe dregs.\n\n\"Enough!\" he exclaimed. \"She sinned against Nisroch and Baal, when she\ntook the sceptre of Nimrod from the hand of his descendant. What am I,\nthat I should interfere to avert her doom? And yet, I would it might be\ndone without shedding of blood. Can we not lead her forth from the city\ninto some desert place, and so dispose of her in safety, where she shall\ndisturb the king no more?\"\n\n\"Will my lord trust his servant?\" asked the eunuch.\n\n\"I will remain here at the banquet in my palace until it is over,\"\nanswered Ninyas brutally. \"Let Baal be his own avenger, and let Assarac\nsee to vindicating the honour of his god. I have spoken.\" Then, clapping\nhis hands, Ninyas summoned back the women who usually surrounded him at\nhis revels, to dismiss the whole matter from his mind in a deep and\nstupefying carouse.\n\nLeaving the royal presence, Beladon felt his arm seized once more in the\neunuch's painful gripe, while Assarac muttered, half-unconsciously, such\nbroken sentences as served to disclose the plot he had constructed, and\nthe means by which it was to be carried out. Presently, in a few simple\ndirections, he imparted to his subordinate the outline of his purpose,\ncommanding him to muster all the priests and prophets in the city at the\ngreat northern gate by which the queen should enter, with knife and\nlotus-flower in hand; to surround these with so strong a force of\nspearmen as it would be impossible for the populace to break through;\nand then, at a given signal, to fall on Semiramis with his followers,\nbind her in fetters of iron, and so bring her a helpless captive into\nthe temple of Baal. It would be a fine revenge, thought Assarac, to keep\nher there till the arrival of Sarchedon from the desert, and then to\nslay them, in each other's sight, before the altar of his god. Better\nstill, perhaps, and worthier of his fierce mad love, to strike his own\nknife into her heart at the first halt of her chariot within the gate.\n\n\"I can trust you,\" said he, when they parted, and Beladon proposed to\nattest his fidelity in a great oath by the everlasting wings, \"because\nthe queen's first act, when she re\u00ebnters the city, will be to take\nvengeance on him who kept the door of her son's prison-house, and\nsuffered the captive to escape.\"\n\nBut the wariest of mankind may leave one weak point undefended--the\nkeenest judges of human nature will omit from their calculation some\nvice, prejudice, or folly, such as dominates the very self-interest of\ntheir tools. That Beladon should have disclosed a plot, on the success\nof which his own personal safety, his very life depended, would have\nbeen unaccountable, but for the joyous, pleasure-loving disposition\nwhich, priest of Baal though he was, could not keep his secret from a\nwoman.\n\nKalmim had beguiled him out of every particular before sundown,\naffecting, the better to deceive him, an irreconcilable enmity to the\nGreat Queen, and entire devotion in the service of her son.\n\nIf a woman makes up her mind to duplicity, a little more or a little\nless counts as nothing to her conscience. She finds it as easy to\nprofess an affection she does not feel, and a candour of which she is\nincapable, as to push another bodkin into her hair, lay another coat of\nred or white on the cheek she is not ashamed to paint. When Kalmim had\nresolved she would take him into captivity, it was no more possible for\nBeladon to resist than for the bird to escape out of the snare of the\nfowler. And, although the latter was exceedingly lavish of smiles and\nliberal of promises, the prey found itself captured, plumed, and\ndespoiled, with no material equivalent for utter discomfiture and\ndisgrace.\n\nMore than a match for a score of priests, she could indeed have\noutwitted the whole male population of Babylon, but that she too had\nfound her master, and was but a weak foolish woman in presence of the\nman she loved.\n\nTo him she betook herself in her distress, imploring him to interfere at\nsuch a juncture, and prevent a crime which, with all his loyalty to his\nprince, seemed to Sethos too foul and unnatural to contemplate.\n\n\"There is danger also for _you_,\" she exclaimed, wringing her hands and\nsobbing in real perplexity. \"No son of Ashur must leave the city\nto-night on pain of death; and yet, if the queen be not forewarned,\nnothing can save her from the vengeance of these blood-thirsty priests.\nO Sethos, Sethos, did I not love you dearly, I had never trusted you\nwith such a mission; yet how can I bear to send you out into the very\njaws of death?\"\n\nBut the cup-bearer's equanimity was proof even against so formidable a\nconsideration. Accepting her confession of attachment with a\ngood-humoured carelessness that at any other time would have cut her to\nthe quick, he professed his readiness to incur any amount of peril so\nthat he might preserve Semiramis from the threatened assault, and her\nson from the commission of so hideous an outrage. It was agreed,\ntherefore, that he should escape from the city at all hazards, and make\nhis way to the tent of the Great Queen, under cover of night. To leave\nBabylon through any one of her gates was impracticable, so closely were\nthey guarded by the spearmen of Ninyas under Assarac's orders; and it\nwas only by watching a favourable opportunity during the darkest hours\nbefore the moon had risen, that Kalmim succeeded in letting her lover\ndown from the wall by a rope, to dispatch him on his errand of life and\ndeath.\n\nWith characteristic coolness the cup-bearer received his instructions\nand embarked on his perilous enterprise; but Kalmim, though not a nerve\nfailed her while, swinging in mid-air, his life depended on her\nsteadiness of hand, had over-taxed her strength; for no sooner was the\ntension of the rope relaxed, and the form of Sethos lost in darkness as\nhe sped from beneath the wall, than brain and sense gave way, leaving\nher pale, prostrate, and helpless on the ground.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII\n\nWHO IS ON MY SIDE?\n\n\nReconciled to their change of rulers under the crafty administration of\nAssarac, careless who swayed the sceptre of Nimrod so long as wine was\ncheap and corn plentiful, the people of Babylon troubled themselves but\nlittle that the Armenian expedition seemed so tardy in returning; that\nSemiramis lay sick and dying, as they were told, among those northern\nmountains; or that Ninyas, whom they had been taught to believe a\ndutiful son abdicating in his mother's favour, reigned once more in her\nstead. Nevertheless, even among that fierce and fickle populace remained\na leaven of the adoration she alone was able to inspire, and every child\nof Ashur at home or a-field felt his dignity, his self-love, and his\nnationality identified with the glory of the Great Queen.\n\nThey were stirred more than the eunuch expected by the news of her\nreturn; so that when it became known she was within bowshot of the wall,\nand about to re\u00ebnter her own especial city, Assarac's watchful eye\ndiscerned among the multitude those signs of discontent and restlessness\nwhich precede a tumult, as lowering clouds and whitened waves indicate\nthe coming of a storm.\n\nGroups were forming and dispersing in the street, women and children\nremained on the roofs and terraces of their houses, men looked expectant\nin each other's faces; while captains and warriors thronged the\nramparts, as though an enemy were already at the gate.\n\nPresently there came a hush and calm over all that vast assemblage,\nsucceeded by a shiver that stirred the rippling mass from edge to edge,\nwhen the tramp of horses, the roll of a chariot, broke on the still warm\nair; then, wild and fierce as a defiance, though loud, jubilant, and\noverwhelming, rose a mighty shout from Great Babylon to welcome back her\nqueen.\n\nAssarac, eager and preoccupied, watching these signs of earth with more\nanxiety than he had ever read the stars, felt a momentary thrill of\ntriumph in that very enthusiasm which, uncontrolled by his own skill,\nmust herald his doom. For a moment, in the agony of conflicting\nfeelings, he thought it would be well could he abandon every scheme of\nglory and greatness, forego pride, ambition, revenge, to die at the\nqueen's feet, and be at rest. Gazing on her as she drew near in the\nchariot, this temporary weakness passed away, leaving all that was evil\nin his nature to resume the ascendency once more. Could this be the\nproud Semiramis, the bright, the matchless, the beautiful? this sad and\nstately woman, pale with the long fatigue of woe, yet wearing in her\ndesolation the same unrivalled beauty that had enhanced the glory of her\npride? It seemed the ghost of her former self, thus bending its haughty\nhead in acknowledgment of a nation's greeting, as she passed within the\ngate--a spirit too sad to be of good, too fair to be of evil, sublimed\nand elevated by the prescience of its doom, catching and reflecting the\nspectral rays of a cold clear light that dawns beyond the grave.\n\nHad she glowed, as was her wont, in all the flush and sparkle of her\nimperial charms, he could have found it in his heart to have spared her\neven then; for her dear sake, could have betrayed his followers, broken\nfaith with his king, and forsworn himself before his god. But marking\nthe sorrow she did not care to hide, and remembering its cause, his\nblood turned to gall, and he vowed with bitter oaths she should never\nlight down from that chariot a living woman--no, not if he must hew her\nin pieces with his own hand.\n\nBut for the Great Queen to be forewarned was to be forearmed. In no\nextremity of sorrow nor of danger was it possible for her to lose that\nunconscious presence of mind, that instinctive power of combination,\nwhich had made her the conqueror of the world. Informed by Sethos of the\nconspiracy against her life, she had taken measures to defeat it wisely,\ncalmly, promptly, yet deliberately, just as she would have sat down to\nbesiege a fenced city, or gone out to meet an enemy in the open field.\nWhile the eunuch waited to hem her in with his priests and spearmen,\nSemiramis, watching her opportunity, foiled him by the suddenness of her\nattack.\n\nHalting her chariot in the open space immediately within the gate, and\ntaking advantage of the astonished silence which succeeded this\nunexpected stoppage, the Great Queen stood erect, flung her arms above\nher head, and cried with a loud voice, \"Who is on my side?\" Then Assarac\nknew that by so much time as it took to speak those words, he was too\nlate; and immediately before his eyes there passed a darkness, that was\nas the shadow of death.\n\nFrom her people, who loved the very ground she trod on, rose an outcry\nto which their previous shouts had been but a maiden's whisper compared\nto the roar of a beast of prey. Swords leaped from the scabbard, strong\narms beat the air, dark eyes gleamed, and dark-curled beards bristled\nwith fierce enthusiasm, eager hate, or wild desire for blood--archers\nand spearmen descended like a torrent from the wall, stout champions of\na hundred battles came rushing and crowding through the streets. They\ngathered in swarms about their queen; they hemmed her in with a circle\nof steel; they swore, they wept, they gnashed their teeth, they\nimplored, they adjured her only to point out an enemy, and they would\ntear him limb from limb.\n\nNever before, through all the years she reigned in Babylon, had her\npower seemed so absolute, her dominion so secure; yet she knew, none\nbetter, that had her outcry been deferred by one short minute, had she\nhalted her chariot but fifty paces farther on within the city, a score\nof blades would have carved away life and sorrow together from her\naching heart, her cheek, now so cold and pale in its bereavement, would\nhave been for ever cold and pale in death.\n\nBut not a shade of colour deepened that lovely cheek; no glitter of\nwrath, nor anxiety, nor even excitement of mortal strife, disturbed the\nscorn of those calm proud eyes, while she pointed to the eunuch,\nstanding erect in his chariot over against her, and spoke in the clear\nfull tones that had so often turned the tide of battle, like the\ntrumpets of a succouring host.\n\n\"I have need of that man!\" said she, stretching out her round white arm.\n\"Sons of Ashur, I bid you fall on Assarac, priest of Baal. Slay him not,\nbut bind him and bring him to me!\"\n\nHe was no coward, yet he trembled in every joint. Perhaps the sound of\nher voice moved him no less than the yells of rage, the scowls of\nhatred, the flashes of steel that met him on every side, than the mighty\nrush that made at him, wave on wave, as the wolves of the forest pour on\nsome wounded mountain bull to get him down.\n\nHe bore himself bravely, notwithstanding, calling priests and spearmen\nto his rescue, fitting an arrow to the bow he was never to draw again.\nFor a moment his white-clad form towered above the press and tumult,\nlike a sail in a troubled sea, that disappears among the breakers ere a\nman has summoned courage for a second look. The priests of Baal could\nnot resist the shock. In spite of numbers and discipline, the hired\nspearmen gave way. There was a rush, a recoil, an angry roar, a scuffle\nof feet, the crash of a broken chariot, the scream of a woman from the\nhousetops, a horse reared high above their heads, the surging crowd\ndivided, and on the open space emerged some half a score Assyrian\nwarriors, dragging in their midst Assarac, priest of Baal, to the feet\nof the Great Queen.\n\nEven now in this extremity of danger and disgrace, bruised, panting,\ndishevelled, doomed to certain death, he sought in the queen's eyes for\nsomething of sympathy, of recognition, of acknowledgment, that they had\nonce looked kindly in his own. Of all he suffered, this was perhaps the\nkeenest pang--that on the fair face he had loved, and hated, and\nworshipped so madly, there showed no more of anger than of pity.\nImmovable, impenetrable, but for her beauty she might have been an image\nof Nisroch the avenger, god of retribution and of fate.\n\nThen he laughed out loud, a strange harsh laugh that scared the guards\nwho held him, while he thought that here in his mortal anguish,\nthrobbing under the knife or writhing on the stake, he had power to\nwring and torture that proud heart still.\n\nBefore deigning to notice him, she thanked her people for their loyalty\nwith a sad and weary smile.\n\n\"Sons of Ashur,\" said she, \"let none persuade you I have ever believed\nyou could fail your queen. She has but trusted you once more to-day, and\nnobly have you once more answered her appeal. I have spoiled for you\nanother city; I have conquered for you another kingdom; I have journeyed\nfar and fast to return to you. My bow is unstrung, my sword is sheathed,\nand I would fain rest from my labours. But Ashtaroth sleeps not in\nheaven, nor Semiramis on earth; and be the queen's eyes never so heavy,\njustice must be done by the greatest, as by the least, through the\nlength and breadth of the land of Shinar. There is one here who has\nimagined evil in his heart against his ruler. Assarac, priest of Baal,\nwhat have you to say why you should not forthwith be put to death?\"\n\nWith these last syllables she turned full upon him her deep inscrutable\neyes, and if he had any hope of it before, he neither desired nor\nexpected pardon now. The pitiless gaze chilled him to the marrow, while\nhe felt, that were their positions reversed, he too could be as cold and\ncalm and cruel as his judge.\n\nOne glance of sympathy in the crowd would have unmanned him; but he\nlooked for it in vain. On earth he saw a dreary wavering mass of sullen\nfaces, and in heaven a wide-winged vulture, wheeling, hovering, poising\nitself in the blue eternal sky.\n\nIt was not his god that sustained him now, nor his sacred character, nor\nhis priestly lore; not even the stubborn pride engrained in the nature\nof such spirits, destined to affect the fate of dynasties and trouble\nthe security of an empire. No; he took refuge in the bitterness of that\ndespair which has found and proved the worst--when love turns to hate,\nand faith to scorn--when the sweet springs of hope are poisoned at their\nsource, and the vision of an angel in a halo of light changes to a\nmocking fiend, or a bare gaunt skeleton crowned with a grinning skull.\n\nHe returned a stare of defiance, calm and contemptuous as her own.\n\n\"It is for the Great Queen to reward her servants according to their\ndeserts,\" said he. \"Let her ask herself if I have merited death at her\nhands.\"\n\n\"It is not Semiramis who accuses you,\" she retorted coldly. \"By the laws\nof Shinar you are judged, and by them you are condemned. I have spoken.\"\n\nThere was no hope; none. Yet would she but look kindly on him, he could\nbear it bravely, he thought, and die in his utter weariness, as a man\nlies down to sleep. He made one last effort.\n\n\"Have I not served her,\" he asked, \"through good and evil, in no hope of\npayment or reward, but for the love and loyalty I bore to the Great\nQueen? I have lived too long when the face of Semiramis is turned from\nme in anger. I ask for no pardon, no reprieve. Let her but say that she\nforgives me before I die!\"\n\n\"I have nothing to forgive,\" she replied, with pitiless unconcern. \"The\nservant has raised his hand against his ruler; the subject has conspired\nagainst his queen. Whose are these white-robed bands cowering and\ntrembling before me, though each man carries a naked knife in his\ngirdle, and another in his hand? Who drew up that sullen and dejected\nline of warriors, instructing them to bend their bows and point their\nspears against the leader they have followed to victory? It is not for\nSemiramis to ask the question, but Assyria. It is not for Semiramis to\nanswer it, but Baal, and he cries with a loud voice, 'Assarac the\npriest!'\"\n\n\"Who turned on her at the last!\" he shouted, in a paroxysm of fury and\ndespair. \"Who bears here in his bosom the secret she would give all her\nempire to obtain; but who defies and reviles the Great Queen to her\nface, even in the jaws of death!\"\n\nShe started, and for a moment seemed uncertain how to act; but\nrecovering herself, pronounced firmly the fatal words, \"Cover his face,\nand lead him forth. I have spoken.\"\n\nIt was a sentence that could never be annulled. The eunuch felt he was\ndoomed, and glanced instinctively upward, where the vulture passed\nbetween him and the sun.\n\nSo they brought the hideous stake, and impaled him in sight of all men,\nthat the people of Babylon might pass by to rebuke him with scoffs and\ncurses, for a traitor who had lifted his hand against the Great Queen.\n\nTwo days, two nights, he writhed and languished in his agony. On the\nthird morning men had become wearied of him, and he was left alone, save\nthat the vulture floating overhead kept watch on untiring wing, and\nwaited for him still.\n\nAt sunrise there came a veiled woman, with a jar of water in her hand.\nHis dim eye lightened, and the spasm, that should have been a smile,\ncrossed his face, for he recognised in her gait and bearing the presence\nof his queen.\n\nShe raised her veil to look fixedly on those dying features, so changed,\nso distorted--to mark the quiver of those dry cracked lips, the flutter\nof life that played over the blackened, withered frame.\n\n\"Speak,\" said she, in a low hoarse whisper, while the water rippled\npleasantly in its jar. \"Speak, and I will have mercy; for you shall\ndrink and die.\"\n\nHe nodded assent, eyeing with piteous eagerness the deadly draught for\nwhich he longed.\n\n\"Doth he live?\" she asked, and laid the jar almost against his lips.\n\nAnother nod, a convulsive choking gasp, and a roll of the half closed\neyes.\n\n\"And where?\" she continued, in fierce impatience, pitiless of his\nsufferings, careless of all but the secret she was fain to extort, even\nfrom the dead.\n\nIt was obvious that till his lips were moistened he could not answer, if\nhe would. She held the jar to his mouth, and he took such a long and\ngreedy draught as dulled his mortal agony with a sense of relief from\nsuffering that was almost joy.\n\nAgain she watched those baked black lips with jealous eyes. They strove\nto form a word that yet died on them ere it could be uttered. Was it in\nmockery they trembled with certain faint syllables, that to her sense of\nsight, rather than hearing, seemed to indicate the desert? Was it in\nmockery they smiled and writhed and gibbered ere they set themselves,\nfixed and rigid for evermore?\n\nSemiramis turned thoughtfully away, and the vulture came swooping down;\nfor he, too, had waited long and patiently to take his share of one who\nhad been a reader of the stars, a governor of the empire, the Great\nQueen's favourite servant, Assarac, high priest of Baal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX\n\nFORGIVEN\n\n\nFor two days, woe, perplexity, and dire confusion reigned in the temple\nof the great Assyrian god. Baal might be an hungered, but they slew for\nhim no droves of sheep and oxen; athirst, but they poured him out no\ndrink-offerings; displeased, but they sought not favour and forgiveness\nwith praise and prayer, because his servants looked in vain for a\nhigh-priest to interpret the commands of their deity, and the great\ngolden image, towering sullen, and unmoved, afforded neither word nor\nsign. The denizens of the temple stared blankly in each other's faces,\nfor men doubted sore in this crisis of the Assyrian hierarchy whose turn\nit might next be to die.\n\nBut on the third day, court and temple were once more redolent of\nincense and bright with flowers; altars blazed, victims fell, ditches\nran crimson with blood. A hundred priests leaped, howled, and cut\nthemselves with knives, a thousand voices raised their hymn of triumph,\nand Beladon, chosen by direct interposition of his god, under the\nauthority of Ninyas his king, was proclaimed high-priest of Baal, in\nplace of the dead man, crouched yonder on his stake in an open space\nnear the northern gate, already torn and mangled out of human likeness\nby the birds of prey.\n\nCareless of a fallen master, the new high-priest had turned gladly from\nAssarac to obtain favour in the sight of Ninyas; and that prince was\ncontent to give him honour and promotion in the mean time, waiting his\nown leisure to destroy him without pity or remorse.\n\nFor on this third day, the son of Ninus again sat in the gate to\nadminister justice, again shook off the fetters of sloth, and the\ndrowsiness of wine-cups, to wear the royal tiara of his fathers, and\ncarry the sceptre of Nimrod in his hand.\n\nThe people of Babylon indeed clamoured loudly for their queen, crowding\nthe streets and terraces about her palace, rending the air with their\ncries, vowing vengeance on priest and prophet, if she forbore to show\nherself, and even threatening the sacred person of her son.\n\nIt needed all the influence of a priesthood bribed by gifts and\npromises, all the intimidation of an army corrupted by gold and spoil,\nto persuade them that she had left her faithful subjects for the realm\nof those divinities to whom she was akin, and that the white doves they\nhad seen since sunrise, flitting on restless pinions through her\nfavourite city, were but so many messengers from the spirit-world,\nbidding a nation of mourners take comfort for the departure of the Great\nQueen.\n\nIt was to Beladon that Ninyas intrusted the promulgation of this strange\nbelief, resolving that so soon as the tumult had subsided, so soon as he\nwas himself firmly established on the throne, it would be wise to\ndestroy the only power that rivalled his own in the land of Shinar, by\nthe slaughter of their new high-priest, and general destruction of the\nworship of Baal, in favour of Nebo, Nisroch, or some other deity, over\nwhose servants he would take care to retain undisputed influence and\ncontrol.\n\nFor in the golden morning, lying tossing and troubled on his couch, a\ndeep sleep had fallen on Ninyas, even with the rising of the sun, and he\nhad dreamed a dream, or seen a vision, such as moved even that heart of\nhis, so hardened by years of vice and self-indulgence, brought the\nunaccustomed tears to those eyes blinded by folly, sensuality, and sin.\n\nHe dreamed that he was a child once more--a tender happy child,\ntriumphant in a new toy, or a treasure of fruit and flowers, loving,\nhopeful, and believing in his mother, the queen, as he believed in the\nlight of day. He thought she came to his bedside carrying a fair and\nbending lotus in her hand; that she withheld from him the flower,\nresisting alike his prayers, his caresses, and his tears; that in his\nimpatience and childish wrath, he seized the white caressing hand and\nbit it till the blood came, striking and buffeting the while so fiercely\nthat his efforts seemed to wake him, and yet he could not rise, though\nhe knew that he lay there a grown man, stretched on his own royal couch,\nstruggling with the influence of a dream.\n\nHe must be helpless, he felt, and passive--chilled, shivering,\nspeechless--so long as those reproachful eyes held him in their gaze, so\nlong as that stately figure bent over him so tenderly, that pale sad\nface confronted his own in the shadow of an unearthly beauty, that awed\nhim with the majesty of death.\n\nHis tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, yet it seemed loosened, and\nhis senses were freed from their heaviest restraint, when the vision\naddressed him; for was it not his mother's voice? And in spite of the\ninjuries she had inflicted, in spite of injustice, treachery, all that\nhad come and gone, those tones were liquid with a music that could still\ndominate his spirit, still soften and subdue his heart. \"Ninyas,\" she\nsaid, \"beloved, has it come to this, that my son could thirst for his\nmother's blood?\" He almost believed while she spoke there were red drops\non the white hand that had tended and fondled him from a child. Twice he\nraised his eyes to hers, and cast them down in very shame; twice he\nessayed an answer, and his lips refused to form the words; but the third\ntime he took courage, and, with a great effort, exclaimed, \"Forgive me,\nmother; for I have sinned! I am unworthy to reign in Shinar; I am\nunworthy even to draw bow among the sons of Ashur! Yet forgive me,\nmother; for am I not your son?\"\n\nA smile, unspeakably sad and tender, came over the pale fair face. \"I\nhave forgiven,\" said she, \"although the arrow from my son's quiver bit\ninto my very heart. Listen, Ninyas: it was foretold long ago, by one who\nread the stars, and who knows doubtless, ere now, whether he read them\nright--it was foretold, I say, by this wise man, that when the spear on\nwhich she leaned at her utmost need should break and wound her hand,\nthen must the doves that nourished her childhood come back to lead\nSemiramis away, and the sons of Ashur must wander to and fro through old\nNineveh and mighty Babylon, and all the wide bounds of the land of\nShinar, asking each other in vain for tidings of the Great Queen. I\nmourned in sorrow and sadness, but my son was yet left to me, and I\nleaned on him as his father was wont to lean after battle on his spear.\nMy spear is broken, my son has failed me; he would reign unvexed,\nunwearied by the counsels of his mother. Go to! He will never look on\nthat mother's face again.\"\n\nHe fell into a great sweat and trembling; with a desperate effort, he\nleaped like a young lion from his couch, to fall at her feet and clasp\nher knees, and detain her even by force, that he might make amends.\nAlas, he grasped the empty air! He searched in vain with eager gaze\nthroughout the chamber, and looked only on coloured carvings and\nvermilion roof, on alabaster columns, scarlet hangings, winged monsters\ntipped with gold, all the pomp and symbols of imperial sovereignty, his\nown without question now, because she was gone for evermore. Then he\nburst into a passion of tears, and so, draining the flagon of Damascus\nwine that stood by his couch, felt comforted, and went out among his\npeople with diadem and sceptre, feeling in his heart, that at last he\nwas really an Assyrian king.\n\nAs the day waned, and the populace, who had been feasted at the royal\nexpense, found themselves refreshed with food and gladdened by wine,\ndiscontent gave way to hilarity, and anxiety for the fate of their queen\nlapsed into easy indifference, or a stupid satisfaction in those\nsupernatural attributes, by which they were taught to account for her\ndisappearance.\n\nIt was credited of all men that she had been claimed by the unearthly\norder of beings to which she belonged; that she had only been intrusted\nfor a time to the Assyrians, for the completion of their national glory;\nand that now, having fulfilled her mission, she was summoned back by\nkindred spirits, who, in the form of doves, birds she always prized and\ncherished, were to-day flitting in unusual numbers about the city of her\nchoice.\n\nKalmim, whose eyes were red with weeping, stoutly supported the general\nbelief, finding in it, no doubt, a salve for certain qualms of\nconscience she could not but entertain, regarding her own varying\nloyalty towards the mistress she served. This nimble-tongued tirewoman\nfound herself regretting many a hint she had thrown out, many a petty\nscandal she had promulgated in derision of the Great Queen to have seen\nher back in the royal palace, to have smoothed her robes, tired her\nhead, and done her bidding once more, Kalmim would willingly have given\nall she prized in the world, except perhaps the affection of Sethos,\nwhom she now claimed as her own possession, by every rite of love and\nlaw known in the land of Shinar.\n\nStanding with him on a house-top over against the temple of Baal, and\nmarking with fond eyes how his bright young face glowed in the parting\nrays of a sun already touching the horizon of the desert, she could not\nforbear a sigh of pity for one whose lot, in spite of beauty, glory, and\npower, seemed so dark and sad, compared to her own.\n\n\"She had everything Baal and Ashtaroth could bestow,\" observed Kalmim,\nlooking lovingly in her companion's face. \"And see what has been the\nend. To hover, like an evil spirit, saddened and restless, about the\nplace that is still bright with her glory, and then to vanish, none can\ntell where, like a cloud that comes up from the desert with promise of\nrain, and while man and beast are yet athirst to welcome it, lo, it has\npassed over, and is gone.\"\n\n\"We shall see her no more,\" answered Sethos. \"Nor shall we see one like\nunto her again. Since Ashur came down from the stars to lead them, his\nchildren have known but one great Queen. Of a surety, it is enough!\nAnother Ashtaroth would set the heavens in a blaze; another Semiramis\nwould be too much for the vexed earth to sustain.\"\n\nShe glanced at him sharply, but his features wore their usual expression\nof placid and somewhat languid content.\n\n\"She was not happy,\" said Kalmim, as if puzzled to account for the\nanomaly. \"And yet she had wisdom, fame, courage, riches, unlimited\nempire, and, O Sethos, beauty surpassing even the daughters of the\nstars!\"\n\n\"The last is the gift you grudge her most,\" observed the cup-bearer,\nwith a quiet smile, as of one who directs his shaft, though without\nmalice, straight towards its mark.\n\nBut instead of flushed denial or indignant retort, he was surprised to\nnote on Kalmim's face an expression of real apprehension. She turned\nquite pale, while she replied,\n\n\"It is a fatal possession for the owner, when spoilers can be found who\nscruple not to share in it by the strong hand. O Sethos,\" she added,\nwith a shudder, pointing to the temple of Baal, \"there is but one man I\nfear in the whole of Babylon, and he stands, night and morning, before\nthe altar of his god, the second in power through all the land of\nShinar, after my lord the king.\"\n\nSethos laughed outright, whereat, in Kalmim's eyes, displeasure took the\nplace of fear.\n\n\"Listen,\" said he, \"and remember that I am not given to vain words, but\nthat I speak only so much as I surely know. Do you dread the handful of\nbleached bones, the few dangling strips of blackened flesh, that were\nonce that famous eunuch who made himself chief counsellor of princes,\nmightiest leader of armies in all Assyria, and great interpreter of the\ngod he worshipped, to rule, as it seemed, rather than to obey? I tell\nyou, Kalmim, that Assarac, withering yonder on his stake, is as much to\nbe feared as comely Beladon, now high-priest of Baal. I tell you that I\nhad rather change places with the one who has known and proved the worst\nthan with the other, who has yet to learn the mercies of Ninyas for such\nas thwart his projects or stand in the way of his convenience.\"\n\n\"What mean you?\" she asked. \"Are you in the secrets of my lord the\nking?\"\n\n\"He has shown favour to his servant,\" answered the other, with mock\ngravity, \"since the days of his youth, when I filled his cup to the brim\nat the bidding of Ninus, now driving a golden chariot amongst the stars.\nHe has not forgotten that I waited dutifully at his footstool, while he\nwore sackcloth in his prison-house, as he had been clad in purple on a\nthrone. Above all, he remembers that, but for me, he would have sinned a\nhideous sin against the Great Queen; therefore is my place at his right\nhand in his secret chamber; therefore can I tell you, Kalmim, that\nBeladon and his priests are doomed, and that the jackals you hear now\nhowling beneath the wall shall scarcely wait another moon ere they tear\nthem limb from limb. Beladon is thine enemy and mine. What am I that I\nshould set myself against the counsels of my lord the king?\"\n\nShe drew a deep sigh of relief. The tirewoman was happy now, and had\nreached the haven of her rest; yet, even in her fulness of content,\nthere crept a dreary sadness about her heart, while she thought on the\nvanished glories of the mistress she had served and loved, marvelling,\neven while she mourned, at the strange departure and sad mysterious fate\nof the Great Queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX\n\nLOST IN THE DARK\n\n\nAs in the heart of man, seared, desolate, and lonely though it be, there\nremains a tender spot, bearing remembrance of the tears that freshened\nit long ago; so in the wildest tract of desert is hidden some green and\npleasant place where, even should the leaf be faded or the well-spring\ndry, lingers a certain sense of peace, freshness, and repose, a faint\nbut precious echo from the drip and murmur of the drowsy waters, and the\nbreeze whispering through the palms.\n\nIn such a refuge, many a league from the stir and turmoil of crowded\nBabylon, had Sarchedon unstrung his bow, and laid his spear aside.\n\nNotwithstanding the promises of Assarac, and the promptings of a martial\nspirit, he had yielded to the persuasions of her he loved, satisfied,\nafter all his perils and adventures, to have gained the one treasure he\ncoveted, and to keep it in his own possession for evermore.\n\nUnder the protection of his adopted brethren--for the Anakim,\noverlooking comparative deficiency of stature in consideration of\ncourage and prowess, had received him into their tribe--and secured on\nall sides by the unbroken expanse of desert that surrounded him, he felt\nhe had nothing to dread from the vengeance of Ninyas, nor even from\npursuit by the Great Queen. These might rule unquestioned over many a\nfair and fertile province of their mighty empire, bearing absolute sway\nwherever forest waved or river flowed, wherever brick was laid on brick\nfor human habitation, or smiling surface, tilled by human hands, grew\nfat with corn, and wine, and oil; but was not their boundless waste the\nheritage of the sons of Anak? and scouring it at all seasons, as in all\ndirections, how were they to be eluded by assailants who would penetrate\ninto their dominion? what tactics or what stratagems could foil those\nwatchful eyes, keen as the vulture's poised in their burning sky, those\nmatchless horses, swift and untiring as the wind that swept their desert\nsands?\n\n\"We are indeed safe, my beloved,\" said Sarchedon, after recapitulating\nthe many difficulties with which an enemy who sought them would have to\ncontend. \"Safer here than we should be in the fortress of Ascalon,\nguarded by wall and rampart, bristling with bow and spear; for while the\nchariots of our foes were labouring far beyond the horizon, one of our\nlong limbed brethren would come galloping lightly in to give us warning,\nand even if they ever reached our nest, it would be cold many hours\nbefore they found it. I should be loth to leave it too,\" he added,\nsurveying with extreme content the pleasant refuge in which they had\ntaken up their rest; \"for in all the paradises of Babylon was never so\ngreen and lovely a spot as this!\"\n\nContrasted with the arid waste that stretched around them to the sky, it\nseemed, indeed, a fair and peaceful retreat. Like the mirage of the\ndesert, it was adorned by a knot of waving palms, a glittering lake, a\nbreadth of verdant pasture, a thicket of tufted grass, bending reeds,\nand aromatic shrubs. Like the mirage too, it was difficult to find, but\nunlike the mirage, it was dotted with a goats' hair tent, at the door of\nwhich, smiling and unveiled, she sat for whose sake Sarchedon had\nabandoned friends, fame, ambition, country: his treasure, his pearl of\nprice, the fairest woman in all the earth--but one.\n\n\"I dread only Ninyas,\" said Ishtar. \"For I know the young king's wilful\nspirit, and the proud heart that cannot endure to be crossed or thwarted\nin its desire. Only Ninyas for myself,\" she added, with a wistful smile,\n\"and--and the Great Queen for you.\"\n\n\"The Great Queen!\" he repeated, laughing lightly. \"Ere now I must surely\nhave had more than one successor, and doubtless I am forgotten, as\nthough I had never been; indeed I hope--I hope it may be so.\"\n\nWhile he reiterated his wish, she looked sharply and inquiringly in his\nface, withdrawing her eyes, however, in some confusion, when his glance\nmet her own. He perceived it not, and Ishtar scarce knew whether she was\nvexed or gratified to mark how the jealous anxieties of love had thus\nbeen quenched in the frank confidence of possession, but on reflection\nset his blindness down to the engrossing nature of his occupation, for\nhe was busy shaping one of those short thick clubs used by desert\nhorsemen in chase of the ostrich, to be hurled at the bird's long legs,\nwhile they rode her down.\n\n\"I shall be back at sunset,\" said he, putting the finishing touch to his\nwooden weapon, and loosing the tether of his horse ere he sprang to the\nsaddle, \"then shall Ishtar have at her tent-door such a tuft of plumes\nas were never seen even before the pavilion of the Great King.\"\n\nShe was scanning the far horizon with anxious eyes. \"I pray you go not\nforth, beloved,\" she murmured. \"There is a dull blurred line yonder,\nwhere sand and sky meet. Already the whirlwind is stirring in his sleep.\nSurely, he will wake up in his fury before night.\"\n\nHer lord laughed and shook his bridle, waving a light farewell as he\nrode away; while Ishtar turned wistfully into the tent and wondered if\nhe never regretted enterprise, fame, ambition, all he had foregone for\nher sake; if he never let his thoughts wander back to the matchless\nbeauty and fatal smile of the Great Queen.\n\nSo the woman pondered, half in sadness, asking untoward questions of her\nown anxious heart, and the man sped merrily over the plain, rejoicing in\nthe freedom of the saddle, leaving care to plod hopelessly in his\ntracks, as he galloped on.\n\nBut though her eye brightened and his soul rejoiced, because of the\nboundless waste and the free desert air, there was death in his right\nhand. The poor ungainly ostrich lay bleeding at his feet, her legs\nbroken by his skill, her wings despoiled of their precious tufts, to\nmake a gift for the woman he loved.\n\nThe sun was yet high when he turned bridle towards his home, and peering\nabout him in search of those scarce perceptible inequalities on its\nsurface, which form the landmarks of the wilderness, he found cause to\nremember Ishtar's warning, while for a moment his heart stood still,\nwith a sense of coming danger, such as braces the brave man for mortal\nconflict, and bids the coward tremble with mortal fear.\n\nWhere the palms that nodded above his tent should have broke the level\nsky-line, there was no horizon now. Only shifting misty shadows, dull,\ndim, and tawny, a fusion of earth and heaven. He could bear to look on\nthe sun too, glowing yonder like a ball of burnished copper, and he knew\nwhat that rim of violet foretold--a cruel portent--beautiful\nexceedingly.\n\nThere was a falling glitter in the air, as if it were raining gold, and\nhis horse snorted violently, betraying symptoms of restlessness and\nalarm. O for Merodach now! Merodach, whose bones were bleaching far\naway, where the dead lay in heaps under the wall of Ardesh.\n\nHe pressed into a gallop, nevertheless; for a dun cloud-like column,\ngrowing in height and volume as it approached, was moving steadily\ntowards him, in many whirls and gyrations, yet, fast as he rode, gaining\non him with every stride. The sky had darkened, and the fine particles\nof sand with which the air was filled blistered his skin, choking his\nnostrils and penetrating into his very lungs.\n\nThen the mighty rush of the whirlwind roared in his ears, turning his\nlinen head-dress over his face, driving man and horse before it in an\nopaque, impenetrable cloud of sand.\n\nHe had once dreamed of such a death. Could this be his fate, and had it\nindeed overtaken him at last?\n\nHe thought of Ishtar at the tent-door, looking for one who never came;\nhe thought of the other woman who had loved him--his temptation, his\nevil spirit, his enemy, beautiful and wicked, Semiramis the Great Queen.\n\nDriving on, as a ship at sea drives before the tempest, he was aware of\ncertain phantom shapes, some few spear-lengths off, that loomed gigantic\nin the fatal cloud. Were they real or but creatures of his brain,\nalready maddened by a sense of suffocation? Perhaps demons of the\nsimoon, triumphant, derisive, rejoicing in his destruction. No; they\nwere surely earthly forms--two or three horsemen plunging up to their\ngirths, and a dromedary in the midst. Were they waving to him for help,\nor only struggling and gesticulating in blind perplexity, in the agony\nof a fierce despair? The whirlwind drove him nearer, nearer yet. He\ncould distinguish the reddened eye of the dromedary, and its distended\nnostril craving for a breath of air, while choked with sand.\n\nThere came another mighty rush and roar to stun him as with a blow. Half\nconscious, he was aware of a face that moved before him through the\ngloom like a vision of the night--a dreamy face, calm, fearless,\nbeautiful, smiling its sad farewell. Even at such extremity his heart\nleaped up with keen guilty throbs, for in that passing vision it\nrecognised the face of the Great Queen.\n\nDeeper and thicker grew the darkness; louder and fiercer roared the\nstorm. A gleam of white seemed to flit before his eyes ere they were\nblinded by the driving sand. His horse struggled, fell, and rose again,\ntrembling with exhaustion and fear; but the air had cleared now, and he\ncould see, half a bowshot before him, a fair dove winging her flight\ncalmly on towards the light of day. Looking back to where his peril had\nbeen shared by those shadowy wayfarers, he only noticed a few slight\nundulations on the surface of the desert--a rolling wave or two of sand\nto mark the terrible track of the simoon, and hide his buried secrets,\nwhatever they might be.\n\nFollowing the dove, as it flitted before him, Sarchedon rode slowly on,\npondering many things in his heart, but never taking his eyes off the\nbird that was guiding him home. At sunset, lighting down beneath the\npalms he loved, it circled twice round his head, and disappeared within\nthe darkness of his tent.\n\nEntering in, he was encircled by the arms of Ishtar, who laid her cheek\nagainst his breast, and wept for very joy because of his safe return.\n\n\"Where is the dove,\" he asked, \"that flew before me through the\ntent-door even now?\"\n\n\"There is no dove here but me,\" said Ishtar tenderly. \"O, Sarchedon, for\nyou I would ever be the Bird of Love!\"\n\nHe looked fondly down in those trustful pleading eyes. \"The Bird of\nLove,\" he answered, \"and better, dearer still--the Bird of Peace!\"\n\n\n\nThe Gresham Press,\nUNWIN BROTHERS,\nWOKING AND LONDON.","title":"Sarchedon: A Legend of the Great Queen","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":161435}