They had reached the topmost terrace. Below them lay Borsippa and Babylon, spread like a fair broidered garment. Directly at their feet was the wide courtyard, packed with the gazing priests, and the soldiers before the gate, all staring upward; and Belshazzar knew that not a man of them envied him and his deed. Imbi halted at the silver-plated door of the sanctuary. His voice was even lower. “At least, let the king put off his sandals before entering the god’s dread presence.” Belshazzar and Khatin complied without a word. Even before Imbi thrust in the door, the air they breathed seemed weighted to the would-be violators. Why did the swallows twitter so shrill? Why did their own hearts beat so loudly? The door creaked on its pivots. Imbi stepped to one side. “Let the king enter,” he whispered, “but suffer his slave to remain away from this fearful deed.” The two peered within. The sanctuary was absolutely dark, save for a single bar of yellow light that shot through an unseen opening in the vaulted roof, and did not diffuse the gloom in the slightest. A few jewels on the garments of the idol twinkled faintly. Barely could they see the outline of the great image, looming to monstrous size at the opposite extremity of the chamber. Two steps within, their feet echoed and reëchoed, while the darkness seemed pressing all about them. After the brightness just quitted, no dungeon could have been blacker. Khatin uplifted his voice, throwing into it his last grains of courage. “Boldly, lord. We have her instantly!” And he took a third step, but no farther. His voice was doubled by countless echoes, and scarcely had they died ere a rumbling and muttering as of distant thunder reverberated from end to end of the sanctuary. Khatin felt an icy touch run down his spine in a twinkling: his teeth rattled in his head. There was a quivering at the roots of his hair, as if it were rising. A second muttering, and to their straining gaze the tall idol seemed rocking on its pedestal. The whole shrine jarred. A pale flicker of light touched the hideous features of the image, illumining the grinning mouth. Then the light vanished, and all the dark seemed alive with writhing demons uncounted, right, left, before, behind,—thronging and threatening. Khatin’s feet were frozen under him. He would have given his all for strength to flee away. Suddenly out of the rumbling thunder came a voice, slow, muffled, sepulchral. “Woe, woe, unto Belshazzar, the impious king; woe, woe unto Khatin, the ungodly servant. For ten thousand years let them eat of fire; for ten thousand years let them drink of wormwood; for ten thousand years—” But king and headsman had awaited no more. Power of flight returned to each simultaneously. They were outside the doorway in a trice; and Belshazzar had dashed to the portal and bolted it before Imbi might speak a word.