There on the wall the letters glowed, right under the torch-holder; glowed like ruddy fire, the whole dread inscription spreading in one long, terrible line under the eyes of king and nobles. While Belshazzar looked, his bronzed cheeks turned ashen. The awful hand had vanished the instant the sentence was written,—gone—whither? The lord of the Chaldees gazed upon his servants, and they—back at their master, while none spoke. But the letters did not vanish; their steadfast light burned calmly on. Then came another fearful deed; for Belshazzar caught the golden cup that had fallen from his hand, and dashed it against the wall. A great square of the plaster fell, but lo! the letters were burning still. Then new silence, while every man heard the beatings of his heart and thought on his unholy deeds. But the stillness could not last forever. Belshazzar broke it. The pallor was still on his face, his knees smote together, his voice quivered; but he was kinglier than the rest, even in his fear,—he at least was brave enough for speech. “Ho! captains of Babylon! Why do we gape like purblind sheep? A notable miracle from the gods! Some new favour, no doubt, vouchsafed by Marduk!” No one answered; all strength had fled from the stoutest sword-hand. Belshazzar’s voice rose to a sterner pitch, as he faced the array of priests. “What mean these letters? They are not the characters of the Chaldee. Their meaning? Here are learned men, wise in every tongue. Translate to us!” Still no answer; and the king’s wrath now mastered all his fears. “Fools!” his hand was on his sword-hilt; “Marduk has not added to the miracle by smiting all dumb.” He confronted the “chief of the omen-revealers,” who stood close to the dais. “Here, Gamilu, this falls within your duties. Look on the writing. Interpret without delay; or, as Marduk is god, another has your office!” Gamilu, a venerable pontiff, lifted his head, and stared at the inscription. He mumbled inaudibly, but the royal eye was on him. With vain show of confidence he commenced:— “Live forever, lord of the Chaldees! A fortunate sign, on a doubly fortunate day! This is the word which Bel, the sovereign god, has sent to his dearly loved son, the ever victorious king, Belshazzar—” But here he stopped, bravado failing. Thrice he muttered wildly, then grew still. The king’s rage was terrible. “Juggler! you shall learn to mock me. Nabu destroy me too, if you are living at dawn!” The luckless man fell on his knees, tearing his beard: his one groan was, “Mercy.” Belshazzar heeded little. “You other priests,—you the chief ‘demon-ejector,’—do you speak! The meaning?” A second wretch cast himself before the king. “Pity, Ocean of Generosity, pity! I do not know.”