The guardsmen swept the eunuchs and women from the hall. They fled, the thunders of the gale, now at its height, drowning their moanings. Ever and anon the dying torches cast shadow while the lightnings glared. Then came the crash of the hail and rain, beating down the canopy, quenching half the lights, and adding gloom to terror. All this in less time than the telling. Belshazzar himself aided in piling the tables and couches in heaps against all the doors save one, through which the Chaldees were sullenly retreating, marking their pathway by the Persian dead. Once again Atossa leaped from her seat; despite her brave words to Ruth, more of this chaos would strike her mad. She slipped from the grasp of Khatin, and flew toward the entrance. For the instant all were too intent on their fearful tasks to heed. “Darius! I come!” cried she, in her Persian, and a shout without was answering, when a clutch, mighty as Khatin’s, halted her. She was in Belshazzar’s own hands. “Back, girl! I am still the king, and I command!” But Atossa struggled desperately. “Away! Take me away!” rang her plea. “Slay this instant if you will, but I can bear no more!” “Take her to the dais,” shouted the king to two guardsmen; “watch her preciously; her life is dearer to us now than gold.” The two had need of their strength, but she was thrust again to her hated station. This time cords were knotted around her arms, and she was held fast. She looked to Daniel. There he sat, serene and silent, the only calm object in that scene of furies. “Father,” she moaned, “pray to Khatin, to any, that they strike once, and let me die! All the _dævas_ are loose and drive me mad!” “Peace, my child,” he spoke mildly, yet amid all that storm she heard him; “we shall full soon know what is the will of God!” But she had started despite the bands. The last Babylonians had been brushed from the portal, a rush of feet, a battle-cry the loudest of the night; and right in the entrance, sword in hand and looking upon Atossa, was the son of Hystaspes, at his side Isaiah, at his back the stoutest veterans of Cyrus the conqueror. There was silence for an instant, while the foes glared on one another. Then the Babylonish officers by sheer force drew their king behind them, and formed in close array before the dais. The last stand! “Stand fast, Chaldees!” rang the voice of Igas-Ramman; “let them touch the king only across our bodies. While he lives Babylon is not truly lost.” The Persians were entering slowly, grimly. Their prey was in their clutch; they were too old in war to let him slip by untimely triumph. The rain beat down in one continuous roar, amid ceaseless peals of thunder. Yet despite the elements they heard the clamour of distant conflict; at the temple of Bel, at the palace of Nabupolassar, the fight was still desperate. “While your Majesty lives,” muttered Igas in the royal ear, “there may be yet rally and rescue. Let us fight to the end.”