“The Lady Ruth is right,” he said simply; “God is more merciful than man. You are forgiven in His pure sight. I believe all your story.” “Blessings upon you for the word!” cried the penitent; “you make me your slave forever. How may I serve you, even unto death?” But Isaiah only smiled. “Fear not that through me God will not find you ample chance for service. But the present duty is rest. Sleep to-night, and wait His commands for the morrow.” [Illustration: THE PROCESSION OF BEL] CHAPTER XVI Upon Ai-Bur-Shabou Street, not far from the Northern Gate, called the Gate of Ilu, stood the barber’s shop of Mulis-Assur. A shop, we say, though in truth it was only an open booth, thrust in betwixt two houses, and its sole furnishings were two low stools, a reed carpet, a little chest for the razors and silvered mirrors, and a brass brazier, over which at this moment curling irons were heating above the smouldering charcoal. Mulis-Assur was neither the first nor the last of his kind whose principal staple of sale was gossip. At this moment, as the worthy man stood patting the lump of melted butter upon the black locks of Gabarruru, the corn merchant, who occupied one stool, his head was turned to reply to Itti-Marduk, the banker, who was lolling on the other stool. It was a great festival day—the day of the procession of the patron god of Babylon, of the “going forth of Bel-Marduk,” and for once the broker had forgotten his jars of account books. “Well,” Mulis was declaring, while he lifted the irons from the brazier, “I am the last to chatter treason, but may the gods ward off from his Majesty the consequences of listening to that frog Gudea’s croakings, and casting the civil-minister into prison! Not one man can say a fair word for the deed.” “The more particularly,” thrust in the merchant, “because Gudea himself has died the death not long since. I saw the crows around his skull the last time I passed under the gate. Jew or Chaldee, no man ought to suffer bonds on such evidence. The minister is no more guilty of slaying by sorcery than you or I. A trick of Avil-Marduk, I say; there is too much priestcraft loose in Babylon. My head already sits overlightly on its shoulders.” “Peace!” conjured Itti, “never will I, a loyal and pious citizen, suffer such treason to be prated against my betters!” “No alarm,” answered Gabarruru, feeling that perhaps he had gone too far, “we are all loyal and obedient men. Daniel, at least, has been saved for the present by the queen-mother.” “The queen-mother saved the Jew for the moment,” replied the barber, “but I think his neck will last through to-day, and no longer. You know the custom. When the ship of Bel reaches the foot of the _ziggurat_, the chief priest can demand of the king one boon, and the king cannot refuse it. You may imagine what that boon will be.” “The life of Daniel?”