"See, Dagon," she cried aloud, "see what the spirits of thy lake hold prisoner! See how still he lieth—he who was warm and filled with the breath of youth! An offering? No, no, sweet god, 'tis not an offering at thy daughter's hands. The fruits, the garlands, and the grain are thine; the fattest kids and the first of the springtime ewes, but he is mine! List thee, mighty one! Why lookest thou across the lake in silence, unmoved, and heeding not my cry? Do I not bring thee dates and flowers, the goat's milk and the buds from the tallest palms? No boon have I asked of thee, yet grant it now! Ah, pity, pity, and give him back to me!"
The suppliant bowed her head and waited, but the fish-god gave no sign. High up he towered, a hideous effigy in rough-hewn stone, with human face and hands, with the scaly body of a fish, while below his human feet were seen, distorted, half concealed in heaps of withered blossoms borne in offering by his shepherd worshippers. Behind him lay a carven plow, in emblem of the tiller's art, a sickle, a herder's crook, and vessels of wine from the vineyard's choicest juice.
Long moments passed. The lake-nymph's eyes were shifted from Dagon's visage to the stranger at her side. His body lay in an ugly, helpless sprawl, his arms outstretched, his dark eyes fixed on nothingness, as vacant as the idol's own. Once more the maiden turned to the god who seemed to mock her with his icy calm, whose stony ears were closed to the voice of prayer. She waited, and childish reverence melted as a mist dissolves, and fury rent her heart. She sprang to her feet and beat upon the effigy with doubled fists, her eyes ablaze, her loose hair whipping at her naked breast.
"Awake! Awake! Art sleeping, Dagon, that thou heedest not? Awake, I say! 'Tis I who call—Shammuramat![#] Am I, too, not a child of gods, whom the good witch Schelah sayeth will one day rule the world? Heed, or I tear thy temple down and set a Moloch in thy stead! Awake, thou fool! Awake!"
[#] The name "Shammuramat" has been corrupted by the Greeks into Semiramis, in which form the great Assyrian Queen is better known.
The shrill voice ceased. The pale girl listened with a chill of terror till the echoes died in the temple's dome. Once more she fell upon her knees, and though her rage still stormed within her heart she softened her speech, as in after years she won by flattery where anger failed to lash obedience to her will.
"Forgive, dear Dagon," she whispered, as she clasped his feet, "my tongue is the tongue of Derketo, my mother, whom thou didst curse with a just unhappiness. Yet listen! In error didst thou cause this youth to sink in the waters of thy lake, for he, too, loveth thee, with a love as great as mine. Give me his life, divine one, and in payment will I steal rich wine from my father's oldest skins—the palm-wine, Dagon, which is sweet and strong. Also, my goat is thine. I will slay it here in sacrifice and lay its heart in the hollow of thy hand."
She paused in thought profound. The bribe was large, yet the scales of barter needed still another weight; and well she knew the gods demand in sacrifice the parting with gifts which cause the keenest pangs. Of all her treasures two were held most dear, her dog and a string of pearls; and now, as she looked into Menon's sightless eyes, her treasures seemed to shrink in worth. Yet ere she squandered all upon an altar stone, the voice of wisdom whispered at her ear and caused her to hide a smile.
"Hear me, Dagon," she murmured, meekly, "thou knowest my good dog Habal that on rest-days cometh to thy temple's door? Him, too, might I give in offering to turn thy heart, yet the deed were folly and to thee unjust; for doth he not watch my father's flocks, with a faithful eye upon the lambs which are slain for thee alone? Were Habal dead, who then might save thy lambs from the beasts of prey? Nay, Habal's teeth can serve thee unto better ends than Habal's blood."
She stole a glance at Dagon, and, finding his features placid in content, became emboldened to seal her bargain with a master-stroke. In a corner of the temple lay her robe of fine spun wool, discarded for her morning bath; and now from beneath its folds she brought her necklace, holding it up for the greedy god to see.