“I have spoken,” replied the old prince, wearily. “Not to save my own child can we cringe to Belshazzar, that ‘Son of the Lie.’ There is no other way.” Cyrus was looking wistfully from one to another. “And is there no word for peace?” he was asking, almost eagerly. “The power of Babylon is great. If we fail, the empire will depart from us. On such a war we stake our all.” “And our all truly is lost,” Harpagus replied, nigh fiercely, “if the king of Persia crouches trembling under a threat like this!” “Your voices then are all for war?” was Cyrus’s last appeal. “For war,” was the sullen answer of many, none looking upward. But Cyrus smote again upon the table, making the firm oak quiver. “But I, Cyrus, son of Cambyses, king of Persia and all Iran, am very ill content with your counsel. We all will be partners in Darius’s blood, if he is left to die. I, the king, have chief blame in sending him to Babylon, but you all were consenting. Would to Ahura I had followed my own heart, and given him Atossa! Of her fate in the clutch of Belshazzar I say nothing.” It was the first time he had mentioned his own child that day. The princes saw a tear on the iron cheek of the conqueror of Mede and Lydian. None answered him. The king ran on: “Our debate ends as it began—in darkness. I will not act on your advice to-night. Orasmasdes, the chief Magian, shall pour libation to the great star Tishtrya[8] and all the other heavenly powers, that they may incline the Lord God to favour with his wisdom. I am no ‘Father of the People,’ if, to spare my own dignity, I suffer the bravest and choicest of our Aryan youths to die miserably.” The king had thrust back his chair, and motioned to the others to rise also. They were obeying, in moody silence, when the door was flung open, and Phraortes, the high chamberlain, was kneeling before Cyrus. “Live forever, O Bulwark of the Nations! May your slave speak?” The monarch good-humouredly motioned to him to say on. Phraortes arose, and punctiliously hid his hands in his flowing sleeves—token that he meditated no attack on the royal person. “Your Majesty, the General Gobryas sends in advance a young man who demands instant speech with my lord.” “Does he come from Babylon? Who is he?” “He brings a letter from the general, that he is in all things to be believed. He also bears a token from the ever-to-be-reverenced Lady Atossa.” “From Atossa?” They saw the king’s grip on the arm of his chair grow hard as a vise. “Bring him in instantly.” Cyrus had reseated himself; the rest imitated perforce. A moment later Phraortes ushered before them a young man in Babylonish dress, handsome-visaged, but now dusty, unkempt, travel-stained. The stranger did not cover his hands, Persian fashion, but fell on his face and kissed the rugs at Cyrus’s feet, nor did he arise until Cyrus bade him to fear nothing. “Your Majesty understands Chaldee?” began the stranger, his eyes still on the carpet.