CHAPTER VIII.
While these scenes were being witnessed in the streets of the city, King Hiram, left alone by the departure of his friend Hanno, enacted within his own soul a tragedy scarcely less terrible than that he feared. From his impending fate he saw no way of escape. Die he must. He queried with himself, what would it signify if he resented, even fought against, this monstrous cruelty? What if he died by his own hand, or by the blows of his captors? This would only throw over his memory a damning disgrace in the estimate of the superstitious people. His name would be hissed with imprecations, and become a by-word for impiety towards the gods, and for selfish, cowardly indifference to the welfare of his country. Though he were right in his views of religion, he would not be understood. Posterity, except in remote ages, perhaps, would attribute to him, and to his shrinking from the altar, all the misfortunes that might come upon Tyre. Should he risk this? Did consistency require it of him? Should he not submit to the inevitable with outward grace, if not with the grace of a submissive spirit?
Then he thought of Egbalus. He seemed to see the sharp, triumphing eyes of the high priest, gloating over this fulfilment of his prediction that the god would draw the king to voluntary obedience. He saw the hands of this plotter binding the people more slavishly to his will through his victory over the only man who had ever yet dared to dispute the priestly rule in Tyre.
"No! Let me die by my own hand first! Thou, hated priest, shalt never conquer through me!"
He felt the point of his dagger.
Then a gentler emotion swayed him; perhaps it was the natural reaction from the strain of excitement. He thought, "And may there not be gods in spite of my doubts? I am but one man against a multitude. God cannot be Moloch, for such a god is less noble than man. But surely there is some One who is the mystery of existence; and does He not demand sacrifices? The Jews have no idols, but have altars. The Greeks, even Herodotus, who has taught me to doubt, worshipped his gods with sacrifice. If the god is good, then surely we have offended him. If the god is not good, then he is capricious, passionate, vindictive, and we had best humor him. O Baal! or Jove! or Jehovah! accept my life, which I offer to thee! I fling it forth into the great darkness. If there be light anywhere, may I enter it! If there be no light, let the darkness blot me out of existence. I give myself to god, or to oblivion."
He buried his head in the cushions of the divan. The sleepless night and the unintermitting intensity of his mental struggle overcame even his marvellous powers of physical endurance. He fainted or fell into a dreamless sleep; he knew not which.
When he came to himself, he recognized by the nearly emptied globe of the water-clock that it was late in the afternoon. He was surprised that no one had called him. His servants had prepared no meals. How did they know that he did not need them? He glanced into the mirror of polished brass. How changed his features! He was pale and haggard as one of the Galli.
Startled by his own apparition, he passed from his sleeping-apartment into its anteroom. It seemed to be filled with the statues of men. Was he demented? They moved towards him. One by one they fell to the floor. Then the statue nearest to him raised its head and pronounced, in tones of deepest awe,
"O holy sacrifice! Seven times blessed! Chosen of men! Accepted of our Lord Baal!"
Then this one's head dropped to the floor. Each head was raised in turn, and repeated the same words.
All the statues then rose. One of them was clothed in a long black robe— Could he mistake that figure? It was Egbalus. Bowing low, the high priest spoke:
"The holy spell has been upon thee, O royal son of Tyre, son of Baal! As thou wast lying on thy couch I saw a wondrous thing. All the souls of the ancient kings of Tyre came again from their abodes in the world of the dead. Each was like a shooting-star. They came from the dark bosom of the night. They flashed across my vision and entered thy body. One by one these starry kings came, until the last, thine own father. In thee, O blessed Hiram! is all the royalty of Tyre. I saw, too, the great spirit of Baal, like a globe of light, brighter than the sun himself. Baal came and enclosed thee. The divine light penetrated thee, purified thee, until thy body was light itself; bright even as the brightness of Baal. This was thy consecration for the sacrifice. The flames cannot harm thee, since thou art become light itself. But one duty awaits thee. Come thou, O divine king, and consecrate with thy presence the temple, the holy place of Melkarth. Then shalt thou enter the life of which Baal is the fulness. Come!"
Hiram knew not whether this were a dream or a mocking reality. But it mattered little which, since he had determined to outwardly obey and, with Hanno, to watch.
"As thou wilt, O servant of our Lord Baal!" he replied: and, preceded by Egbalus and followed by the attendant priests, he passed from his palace.
The royal palanquin awaited him in the court. It had been covered with a white cloth canopy and curtains which completely enveloped it, and concealed his person from all eyes. The priests became his bearers. A line of them marched ahead, playing lugubrious notes on pipes of reed, above which rose the words of a chant. As the procession wound its way across the Great Square the multitudes prostrated themselves on either hand, murmuring prayers and benedictions upon the royal deliverer of Tyre. At the temple gate the popular reverence and awe were evinced by intense silence. Not a form swayed, not a foot was lifted, not a word was spoken. Only the slow-timed tramp of the bearers of the royal victim broke the stillness as the cortège passed between the massive gates, which slowly swung upon their hinges and closed again.
For three days King Hiram remained alone in the chief chamber, that which opened upon the corridor of the sacred lake. Priests incessantly patrolled back and forth, saying nothing except their prayers. They brought him food in golden dishes, and left it, removing the remnants in the same reverential manner in which they would have served at the altar.
As the silence of the day turned into the deeper silence of the night, and back again to silent day, the solitude became unendurable. Only royal pride prevented Hiram asking some question of his obsequious custodians. When would the sacrifice be accomplished? Was there no communication for him from Zillah? Could he bribe any of these bigots to confer with Captain Hanno? Now he was tempted to rush upon one of the priests, seize his sacrificial knife, plunge it into the man's heart, and then into his own. He was once in this latter mood, and on the very point of executing his purpose, when the priest who would have been his victim began to mumble his prayers.
"I will wait until the wretch has got through that. He will need all his prayers for his last breath," muttered the king.
The man beat upon his breast and tore his hair, as if in some sacred frenzy. He came nearer to Hiram's chamber entrance, and paused in his walking, with his back to the king.
"The gods favor me for once," thought Hiram. "Now to throttle him and to strike!"
The priest raised his voice in praying, so that Hiram caught the words "Take heart! Be watchful!" A sudden glance at the half-turned face revealed the familiar features of Hanno. All Hiram's self-possession was needed to restrain a cry of recognition. The next day the eccentric priest appeared again, and paused to pray at the same spot. He stretched out his hands towards the Maabed, and, as if addressing the deity enshrined in the midst of the water, prayed thus:
"O Baal Hiram, King of Tyre! keep thine eyes open for the mark of a circle, and follow it. O Baal Melkarth! O Astarte, Queen of Heaven! send prosperity!"