“Caution, always caution,” answered the king, with an impatient gesture, when the other attempted to salaam. “Come, you have no longing for the feast. Let tables be brought here. I have only promised to appear at the banquet when they serve the wine.” “Your Majesty is thrice kind; a thousand pardons, but for some reason I cannot eat. Perhaps I have ridden too long; as you say, I grow old.” But the king plucked him nigh roughly by the shoulder. “No, you cannot eat, nor can I. Away with merry lips, when they speak from grieving hearts. Darius, your son, is not here. We were fools to trust the Jew, who has either failed or dealt falsely. Yet we must eat, must eat heartily—you and I—and all.” “Does the king command that I feast against my will?” “Yes; for if Darius is dead, Belshazzar lives, and all the asps of his guilty kind. And we need all our strength for a vengeance, the fame whereof shall last as long as Mithra’s car glows in the heavens.” “Ah! lord, not so bitterly. I am the father, yet I can bow to Ahura’s will!” “But I, the king, who sent Darius forth, and sped him to his death, find like submission hard. For the king shall answer on the Great Day for the blood of all his people!” “I do not blame your Majesty.” “Nor does any man.” Cyrus smote his own breast. “The voice that blames is here.” But as he spoke a strange sound was spreading in the camp, a roaring as of wind, though very far away. “An alarm!” and Hystaspes started from the tent. “Alarm? No such outcry; the soldiers are at some sport.” Yet still the sound was rising—was swelling nearer; and now they caught, as it seemed, the clamour of countless voices. “Alarm surely! I must seek my post!” Again Hystaspes started from the tent; but the king gripped his arm with so tight a clutch that it brought almost pain. “Hystaspes,”—Cyrus spoke in a hoarse whisper,—“this sound—comes it from men or from angels—is a shout of joy, not of fear!” [Illustration: “‘Here is only the king; within your father waits.’”] Then they stood side by side, those strong men, and listened; for a mighty tumult was swelling through the camp, passing onward, nearer, nearer, rising and falling like the wind-driven billow bounding across the deep. Now the distant encampment of the Tartar Sacæans was thundering, now the Bactrians and the Medes; closer now, it had reached the Persians, the core of the army, and the “Immortals,” the royal life-guards, were tossing on the cry. Then through the cheering the two heard something else—riders galloping fiercely; and words came at last, the shout of the captains and lords about the tent of the king. “The prince! The prince! Glory to Ahura!” The high chamberlain had entered. When he salaamed he stumbled. His ready tongue spoke thickly.