The king had come to Borsippa with a “fifty” of war chariots, and five hundred mounted lancers. So a frightened underling reported to Imbi-Ilu, just as that pontiff was sprinkling himself with purifying water, before going to the great altar, to proffer the morning “fruit-offering.” “He demands instant entrance,” continued the messenger, in no steady voice, “both for himself and the soldiers who follow him.” “Armed men in Nabu’s temple precinct!” cried the high priest, dropping the palm branch with which he had been sprinkling his garments. “Never has warrior planted sandal inside our gates since the founding of the _ziggurat_! Surely, your wits are wandering.” “Would to Nabu they were!” groaned the other; “but hearken!” And Imbi heard the clattering of spear-butts against the portals. “This is an important hour for the dignity of Nabu,” announced he, regaining composure. “We must at once reverence the king and defend the honour of our god. Go, tell his Majesty that we will admit him, as soon as I can array the corps of priests and temple ministers in due order to receive him with proper state.” Then the great gong that hung by the steps to the tower began to clang furiously. The school boys joyously flung away their clay tablets, while their professors hastened to don their whitest robes. The sluggish temple servants ceased dozing on the sunny bricks of the court, and shuffled toward the gateway, where the long lines of priests and other servitors of Nabu were forming. When the entrance was at last thrown wide, and Belshazzar’s chariot entered, the king confronted extended files of “Necromancers,” “Libation-Pourers,” “Dirge-Singers,” and many more sacred colleges, each drawn up in proper order, every man in his snowy garment and peaked tiara, with Imbi-Ilu in his pontiff’s goatskin at their head. And at a signal from their chief every knee was bent in salutation, while the temple choir intoned the chant of welcome. “Grant prosperous life, Innumerable years, And children uncounted, O Nabu, most wise! To Belshazzar our king!” The chariot had halted in the courtyard, but the swarms of soldiery without the gate had not begun to enter when Imbi-Ilu stepped before the sovereign, and salaamed almost to the bricks. “A fortunate day, O Nabu, a fortunate day that brings Belshazzar the heaven-loving sovereign to the ‘Eternal House’! Let the king deign to make known his will to his servants; he knows,” the pontiff rubbed his hands craftily, “that Nabu is poor, his priests lack corn. Strange and young gods bewitch the pious of Babylon.” Belshazzar leaped from the chariot without waiting for the grooms to set the footstool. He was clearly striving to appear conciliatory.