“The shrine of the god!” cried the pontiff, throwing up his hands in surprised dismay. “What is the king saying? Do my ears deceive?” “In no way, priest,” repeated Belshazzar, sternly; “the sanctuary, and nowhere else.” “Oh, my lord, my lord,” Imbi began to groan, falling on his knees, “at least spare our temple this outrage. Forbear—” “Nip him close, my king,” exhorted Khatin, gruffly. “I swear by his own god we shall find the damsel hid under the very image.” “No delaying, Imbi,” repeated the king, fiercely. “Your moaning tells too well where the girl is concealed. To the shrine immediately.” “But my lord knows the story,” protested the pontiff, leading to the foot of the temple stairs, with all seeming reluctance, “how when King Ourina, twelve hundred years since, sought to drag a suppliant from this very sanctuary, the god smote him with leprosy, and he went out of the temple white as snow.” “A beldame’s tale,” grunted Khatin; “lead onward.” “Or how King Samas-Nin, for merely saying in his bedchamber that Nabu had no power to defend his servants from the royal will, fell down speechless, and died in three days torn by demons.” “That was many years ago,” growled the headsman, “and the estimable god has begun to show old age. Up, priest, up!” Imbi said no more. He led the two along the lofty flights of stairs toward the upper shrine, deliberately and slowly. As they mounted from terrace to terrace, and the lower world began to drop away below them, an unnatural hush seemed spreading all about, that made even Khatin’s river of strange jests and oaths flow sluggishly, and finally cease altogether. Suddenly, when one terrace below the shrine, Imbi halted, and pointed to a black stone, set in the bricks of the parapet. “Look, your Majesty!” he spoke, in a bated whisper, and pointed. “Well?” questioned Belshazzar, his own voice husky. “This stone marks the spot where the impious General Naram-Sin fell down dead when by command of King Esarhaddon he went up to arrest a fugitive in the sanctuary.” The king stared at the stone fixedly, saying nothing; but Khatin gave a loud bray,—too loud, in fact, to be unforced. “An hundred years ago! As I said, the good Nabu has grown many gray hairs since then. Come, your Majesty, let others quake and gibber. The executioner and the king are of too tough stuff to be thus frighted.” “Silence, impudent villain!” commanded Imbi; “reverence the king, even if you must blaspheme the great Nabu. Shall I lead on?” “Lead on,” ordered Belshazzar, doggedly, but Imbi saw that he was stealing glances out of the corners of his eyes at Khatin, and the headsman seemed anything but at ease. Belshazzar might be “son of Marduk,” but it required something better than loud-mouthed boastings to make him advance to a deed like this without a tremor.