“Bel-Marduk, sovereign of archers, Bel-Marduk, spoiler of cities, Bel-Marduk, lord of all gods, Bel-Marduk, who rulest forever; Thee, thee we praise!” After the carp and pigeons had vanished, lo! amid shout and creaking, four flower-wreathed cars were wheeled into the court, each groaning with the weight of a roasted ox. Then the company—as if they had starved before—fell to feasting with true glutton’s zest. From time to time Belshazzar would deign to command Mermaza to bear to this or that captain a morsel of meat carved from the king’s own plate,—a rare mark of favour to the happy soldier thus commended. So at first the feasters devoured in silence; then when even the hunger of the mighty men of the Chaldees began abating, the talk ran swiftly. Vainly Belshazzar strove to force the Jewess into speech. The Persian answered the king only curtly. Then at last he stretched forth his mighty hands, plucked Ruth by the arm, and drew her close to his couch. “Hail, daughter of Cyrus! do you not hate your rival?” cried he. But Atossa only answered, though the flush on her cheek grew crimson:— “I pity the lord of the Chaldees.” “Pity?” Belshazzar stared at the Persian. “Yes, verily! What save pity for a king who uses his power more to torture helpless women than to perform right kingly deeds?” Belshazzar thrust the Jewess away with a curse. “Allat possess you, girl! Why is your touch so icy cold?” Then fiercely to Atossa, “Speak out, Persian; what mean you?” “Mean?” Atossa leaned forward from her own seat, and met his angry glare unflinchingly; she spoke in a whisper, yet a whisper that could be heard for far around: “I say that if it were Cyrus who had won the victory you boast, he would not be lolling over a stalled ox and wine, but in the field, grinding to dust his fleeing enemies. But I speak as a Persian barbarian—the Chaldees are wiser. Their watchmen drink and sleep snug to-night, knowing that the Aryan’s power is broken utterly.” Belshazzar gave a laugh so loud that every feaster kept silence before the king. “Bravely sped are your arrows, lady! I praise you! Were your race as valiant with the sword as you with your tongue, scarce would we be feasting here. Yet look on those captives yonder, choicest princes of Cyrus’s host. Where is his power if he suffer _such_ to be taken?” “Beware to boast; the Persian memories are long. They will not forget revenge in a year or a generation.” “Long truly if they would wait the crumbling of Imgur-Bel and Nimitti-Bel!” But here the king halted, for Bilsandan approached his couch once more. “May the king’s liver increase, his heart find rest!” saluted the vizier. “I crave his compassion. A messenger from my palace: my youngest daughter lies grievously ill—a sudden torment sent by the ‘Maskim.’ Be gracious, and suffer me to quit the feast.” Belshazzar frowned. “You and Sirusur both away? I like it little. Yet go; I can refuse no boon to-night.”