After this choir moved the car, and, unlike Nabu’s, it was a single blaze of colour. The four snow-white “sacred horses” who aided to drag the ship tossed their bridles of silver chains, and champed on bits of pure gold. The sail and pennons were covered with the rarest embroideries, the gunwale glittered with precious stones—agate, onyx, lapis-lazuli. The idol on the stern wore a robe that was one sheen of golden lace. But Belshazzar the king, who sat under his purple umbrella upon the prow, scowled at Avil, his prime counsellor, who stood beside him. “The people give thrice as many cheers for Nabu as for Bel. The gods reward me if I do not make Imbi-Ilu pay the price for his mummery! To appear with his priests in tatters, and his car all stripped of decoration, at the moment when the procession was about to start! He knew well I would never have suffered his company to march, had it not meant a riot to leave behind the car of Nabu!” Avil deliberately cast his eyes down over the swelling crowd, and readjusted the horn-set tiara that crowned his head. “The more reason for striking down Daniel, my king. His fate will be a mighty warning to Imbi-Ilu.” “Once you advised me to move gently with him, yet you are bold now.” “True; but I have set my feet on the path, and see no danger to-day.” “Release Daniel! Release! Release! Down with Avil!” broke in the bolder spirits in the crowd, as if to give the lie to the hardy pontiff. Avil spat at them in contempt. “Stingless drones!” commented he. “They will forget the Jew by another Sabbath.”[5] “I am led in all things by you,” replied Belshazzar, in a tone that showed he nigh felt himself overpersuaded. Avil only salaamed, and turned to pay his respects to the Princess Atossa, whose chair was upon the prow, close beside that of her royal lord. “My princess sees a sight that must be rare in her native Persia,” began he, blandly. “If my information does not fail, the worship of the Persian Ahura and his archangels does not demand such elaborate processions as these.” Atossa turned upon him haughtily, and from under her veil shot through him a glance such as can dart only from the eyes of a great king’s daughter. “Assuredly, worthy priest,” and Avil winced before her disdainful patronage, “it is true our prophet Zarathushtra[6] enjoins no processions where the populace heap personal revilings on the chief of our Magian pontiffs.” “Down with Avil! Release Daniel! Nabu is outraged!” buzzed from the crowd. “Ah, my princess,” said Avil, smiling, “the king is overkindly disposed. Could I persuade him, these seditious fellows would soon shout otherwise.” “His Majesty is too kindly disposed?” replied she, removing her veil that Avil might see the unconcealed sneer on her lips. “His heart is a mountain of compassion,” asserted the priest, who felt that he was being made sorry sport of, yet would not retire from the encounter.