They saw the long blade move, and heard the whiz of the arrow. Right through the headsman’s wrist sped the shaft, just as the stroke fell. The sword turned in impotent fingers, and fell upon the floor. And still Atossa stood. She trembled, moved, made to spring from her station: but Darius’s voice in turn was thunder:— “Move not! There alone is safety, where I cover you! And now—on them, men of Iran!” There, lifted up above them all, remained Atossa, the arrow of the “King of the Bow” upon her, and no Chaldee so lustful after death as to leap beside her, and to strike. The Persians had sprung upon their prey and never relaxed their death grip; but the Babylonians ringed round their king with a living wall, and fought in silence, for all was near the end. Then the rush of numbers forced the defenders away from the dais. Atossa saw the arrow of Darius sink, saw him bounding forward, but saw no more; for in mercy sense forsook her,—she felt two strong arms, and then for long lay motionless as the dead. The prince laid her upon the royal couch at the extremity of the dais; beside her he set Ruth, who had long since ceased crying, through very weight of fear. Back to the combat then, and the last agony of the king, when from under the shivered tables crawled one who groaned, and kissed his feet—Avil-Marduk. Darius spurned him; the next instant two tall Medians were hauling the wretch away—a noble spectacle he would be for triumphing Ecbatana, before they crucified. But a nobler spoil remained. Darius flung himself upon the Chaldee nobles. Igas-Ramman was down, and Khatin, whose left arm had smitten many a foe while his right hung helpless. The king still fought, ten swords seeking his life, and he parrying all,—none of his conqueror race more royal than he in this his hour of doom. Suddenly the desperate defenders turned at bay, and charged their foes with a mad fury that made even the stoutest Aryans give ground. One final lull, in which they heard the beating of the rain. Then right betwixt raging Persian and raging Chaldee sprang a figure,—an old man in hoary majesty, Daniel the Jew. “Peace!” and for that instant every man hearkened. “Your god is helpless, O Belshazzar, your idol mute. Your power is sped, but bow to the will of the Most High. He will still pity the penitent. Do not cast your life away.” But at the word the king lifted his last javelin. “Be this my answer to your god!” The missile brushed the white lock on the old man’s forehead, and fell harmless. The Babylonians retreated sullenly to the wall, set their backs against it. Then, with death in the face of each, with the shattered plaster frowning down on them, those men who had fought so long and well to save their king and city, raised their song,—the pæan of the vanquished, to the god whose power that night had passed:—