Cyrus shot a glance up at the heavens, where the advancing clouds had not yet quenched all the starlight. “By the movement of the stars, it lacks three hours of midnight,” he answered. “We must therefore take all Babylon in three hours. Away with prudence; haste, oh, haste!” cried the prince. But Cyrus spoke back to him, “If so Ahura willeth, in three twinklings of an eye we could yet save Atossa!” But, notwithstanding, they heard the king’s great voice swell out in a shout that was music in the ears of all the army. “Forward, men of Iran!” It was the word that let the hounds slip from the leash, that uncaged the lion. Directly above their heads was the beetling rampart; they saw the glassy shimmer of the broad canal under the vanishing stars, and they heard—from within the vast bulwark, even as Isaiah had said—the sound of mirth and of harping. The footmen burst into a run, every horseman pricked deeper, while one shout, though in many tongues, echoed against the fortress. “The Father! The Father! Let us die for Cyrus our king!” Then the battlements surely quivered while a second shout smote them, “For Ahura, for Atossa!” The echoes died; no battle-cry from behind the walls pealed in answer. The column was skirting the southern rampart, when yet another messenger flew up beside the king. “I come from the Princes Harpagus and Hystaspes; their troopers are in station before the northern city. They attack as soon as the uproar proclaims that the king is assaulting.” No answer from Cyrus, for the van was beside the water-gate of the great canal of Borsippa. The column perforce had halted. The last stars had fled. It was very dark. The walls above seemed barriers lifted to the very gates of heaven; undefended, might not Belshazzar’s city mock its mightiest foe? The canal was creeping through the dark cage-work of the bronze water-gate. For an instant was stillness, while king and soldier waited; and then, all vaguely, they saw the great fabric of metal rising, crawling like a sluggish monster from its slimy bed. Unseen chains and pulleys strained, grated; the gate rose higher; now the canal coursed freely under, now it was lifted to the height of a mounted man. Close under the wall lay a causeway, wide enough for a single cavalryman to enter. Nimitti-Bel was unsealed! Out of the darkness appeared figures and flickering torches. “Live forever, O king,” spoke Sirusur the betrayer, “the city is sunken in mirth and drunkenness. Forward boldly—you will dash the wine-cup from Belshazzar’s own hand.” Cyrus started to descend from the chariot. “A horse,” he commanded abruptly; “there is no space for the car to enter.” But at his words one cry of protest arose from Darius and all the officers, “The king will not _himself_ enter the city!” “Not enter?” Cyrus’s voice became stern and high. “Am I not king? To whom may I give account?” None stirred to obey him. Moments were rubies; the monarch was swelling with anger.