But the vizier had another request. “Lord, these Persian captives are a doleful sight at so gay a feast. Command that they be taken away.” The king nodded carelessly. Bilsandan whispered to the prisoners’ guards and was gone; a moment later the captives were removed also, followed by the hoots of many. Mermaza, who was serving the royal party, laid his head beside Avil’s for an instant. “First the general and then the vizier. Strange! I would stake five wine-skins these excuses are lies!” “I believe you,” was the guarded answer; “but what mischief can hatch to-night? Yet I mourn that the king dismissed Bilsandan so readily.” “Ha!” interrupted Belshazzar; “enough of fowl and oxen; bring on the wine. Wine, the true gift of the gods, is the crowning of the feast!” The music crashed again. The nimble eunuchs cleared away the viands in a trice, and as quickly brought in the great mixing-bowls of chased gold and silver. One huge tankard of perfumed Damascus they set beside the king; and Avil, taking a jewelled cup, stood pouring libation and praying loudly: “Grant, O Istar, O Nabu, O Bel, mighty deities whose power is over Babylon, that Belshazzar your servant may reign ten thousand years. Let his foes stumble, their weapons break, their bodies grow fruit for his sword. And so will we offer you sacrifice forever!” Then on one knee Mermaza passed to Belshazzar another cup; and the monarch raised it with the cry: “Away with the ‘care-demon’ and his kind this night. This is the time appointed by Nabu for glee. When has Babylon shaken off a foe like Cyrus the Persian? Drink, men of Babylon, drink to the present glory and the coming triumphs of your king!” “Wine! Wine!” from every captain and sword-hand; and the goblets went back to the waiting eunuchs in a twinkling. Atossa had never seen Belshazzar so riotous before. He seemed to have let the mad spirit of the hour gain utter possession of him. “Drink!” he shouted again, “drink! He is traitor who does not measure seven goblets.” Then, turning to Atossa, he thrust his own cup into her hand. “I have been cruel, lady,”—his voice sank into hoarse soothing,—“cruel, because hitherto you have been Persian. But to-night you are become Babylonish by becoming my wife. We strike hands in a truce. Peace is better than war. Bel-Marduk is your god now, not Ahura the helpless. Are you not ‘Queen of Sumer and Akkad’? Ask whatever you will, if in reason, and I will not refuse. But drink you with the rest,—drink to the triumphs yet to be won by Belshazzar your husband, whose glories are all yours.”