“Do not fear, my king,” he was declaring; “Jehovah, who has plucked me from so many perils, will not fail me now, when I speed upon His service.” But Cyrus had turned to his council. “Men of Iran,” said he, simply, “Ahura has not forsaken us. He has sent us Vohu-Manö, the spirit of wise council. We need linger no more here.” [Illustration: BELSHAZZAR’S GUESTS FORSAKE HIM] CHAPTER XX Avil-Marduk had visited a strange place for the chief priest,—the nethermost dungeon in the palace guard-house, by the royal quay. Here one could hear the river brawling against the slimy walls. The black murk of the sunken galleries leading to the cells had been charged with a damp and sickening odour. The light from the slits against the ceiling was just enough to suffer one, with eyes accustomed to darkness, to grope his way. When the chief warden put his key in the ponderous wooden lock of a door, the pivots creaked and a whiff of air drifted from within, but so stifling that for an instant the priest recoiled. “Who is here,” demanded he of the warden, “the Persian or Daniel? My errand is to both.” “The Persian, my lord. Your eyes may not see him, but he is crouched in the farther corner. He is dangerous. Seven men had to hold when we put on his fetters. Shall I stay by while you speak with him?” “Wait within call, though I must talk alone.” Then, raising his voice, he jeered boldly: “Ha! noble prince, do you find the raw millet and canal water of this guard-house daintier than the fare on Cyrus’s tables? Be comforted; twenty-seven years did Zedekiah, the Jewish king, languish in this very cell. You are not likely to enjoy its hospitality so long.” Out of the dark came an ominous growl. “Take care, _dæva_; come within reach, and chained though I be, I can kill you!” “I will keep a safe distance from your Highness,” was Avil’s undisturbed reply. “And now, son of Hystaspes,” he continued, dropping the catlike purring from his voice, “let us understand one another. You are utterly in our power. By this time, at least, you will begin to confess it.” He heard the chains begin to rattle from the corner. “By this time, O Prince of Treachery, you begin to hear the roar of the Persian lion. Do you confess it? Has the news that comes of late to Babylon been sweet as Assyrian honey?” Avil let a moment pass before he answered:— “It is true that Cyrus is massing soldiers,” he admitted. “It is true that Kutha has surrendered, and Sirusur the Tartan suffered a defeat. Make your toads, these jailers, keep tighter mouths, if you would have them leak no news to me.” “If those turnkeys chatter, the stakes are ready to impale them,” cursed Avil, under breath. Then, returning to the charge boldly: “Yes, it is true, war has blazed forth. No profit to deny. But nothing decisive has befallen. The king leads his host into the field in a few days. If Cyrus be the first to attack—” “I shall be put to death?”