Darius could only wonder and gaze. The quays were a forest of masts. The houses that crowded the water-front rose three and four stories high, and were flat-roofed, walled with plastered wicker brightly painted. The windows were very small, and all the buildings were closely thrust together. “By Ahura!” cried the Persian, “do your people forget the smell of pure air?” To which Belshazzar answered, laughing: “If one would live in Babylon, one must pay his price. Happy the man so rich as to possess a little garden in the midst of the city. As you go south, you find vineyards and country houses inside the walls.” “Verily,” declared Darius, “better a reed hut in the forest, and good hunting, than a thousand talents and life in Babylon!” The frankness and good nature of the Persian seemed contagious. Belshazzar laughed again, heartily. “Now, by Marduk! you will never covet my kingdom. Tell me, do you love to follow the lion?” The prince’s eyes flashed fire. “What are the joys of Ahura’s paradise without a lion hunt before the feasting? Understand, O king, that the name men call me by in Persia is the ‘King of the Bow,’ for I boast that I have no peer in archery.” “Then, by Nergal, lord of the hunting,” swore the monarch, “you shall face the fiercest lions and wild bulls in my preserves in the marshes! And I will learn if a Persian can conquer a king of Babylon in the chase.” “Excellent,” exclaimed the Persian. “Babylon and Persia are at peace; they shall test their might on the lord of beasts. And if I am not Cyrus’s self, next to him there is none other of my nation that calls me vassal.” But now the water-gate of Imgur-Bel was passed, and while on the left the cone of Bel-Marduk lifted its series of diminishing terraces to a dizzy height, on the right spread the royal palace, a vast structure, surrounded by a dense park, and all girded by a wall. On the river side the buildings closely abutted the shores, rising from a lofty brick-faced embankment, themselves of brick, but splendid with the gilding on the battlements, with the sculptured winged bulls that flanked the many portals, and the bright enamel upon the brickwork. Out of the masses of walls sprang castellated towers crowned with gaudy flags, and toward the centre reared a _ziggurat_, the private temple of the king. For an instant Darius was at Atossa’s side as she gazed, and no one watched them. “This is the dwelling of Belshazzar,” said he softly, “a great king. Joy to be his wife.” But the lady shivered behind her veil. “He is a great king, but they will never call him, like Cyrus, ‘the father of his people.’” “You will soon forget Persia, happy as mistress in this wondrous city.” “When I have lived ten thousand years I shall forget—perhaps.” Then she added very softly, “I am afraid of Belshazzar; his lips drop praise, his heart is cold and hard as the northern ice. I shall always dread him.”