“Lord,” explained the myrmidon, who knew how to soften tart messages to the king, “the Lady Atossa is much indisposed; she prays to see you later.” “Much indisposed!” roared Belshazzar, clapping his thigh. “Yes, by Nergal, she and all her race need more than an Egyptian doctor’s physic for their ills! Bring her hither, by force if needs be!” No disobeying this; Atossa was brought to the king. She found Belshazzar in one of the cool, softly lighted, high-vaulted chambers of the harem; he was lolling on the crimson cushions of his couch, in one hand his constant companion of late—a wine-cup. But what Atossa was swiftest to see was a young girl seated on a footstool at his right elbow,—a slender, graceful thing, but shivering, and glancing furtively this way and that like some trapped creature watching for escape. Only the flutter of the fans of the inevitable corps of attendants broke the silence, when Atossa was led before the king. She made no motion or sound; only looked straight before her, with stern, glassy eyes, as if seeing all, yet seeing nothing. Belshazzar raised himself and tilted the goblet to his lips. “Your health, my queen; may it be happier than that of your valorous father.” The hot colour in Atossa’s cheeks was the king’s sole answer; he drained, and thrust back the cup into the ever watchful cup-bearer’s hands. “Lady,” began he again, a trifle more soberly, “you have fought against the bridle, but the Chaldee’s curb is too strong. To-morrow you become indeed my wife. One year in Babylon is time enough to forget Susa. You are of us now.” “I Babylonish?” demanded Atossa, and in the last word there was a whole weight of scorn. But Belshazzar only let his eyes half close in easy good humour. “You are a comely maid, even though Cyrus be your father. I do not repent his sending you to Babylon; for Istar’s self might stand beside you, and flush with shame. Be you who you may, you shall become my ‘first queen’; and if you are but reasonable, you will find your least wish a law to the Chaldees, no sorry thing even to a princess of the Aryans. Not so?” “So I am to be first queen?” spoke Atossa, pointing with a finger; “but this woman—who is she?” Belshazzar pinched the smooth arm of the maid at his side. “Look up, my queen! The lady does not remember the day when her marvellous archer friend Darius saved you from the lion. Never since then have my soul’s eyes lost sight of you, my flower, though your father hid so carefully; and I have plucked you at last! The Persian is the lily, and you shall be the rose in my sweet nosegay!” Atossa caught the girl roughly under the chin, and looked into her face. “Excellent taste, my king,” she taunted; “so this is the maid who is to divide honours with me. Is her father the Pharaoh, or Nadab the boatman?” The girl shuddered out of Atossa’s grasp.