Piercing as were his eager eyes, sharpened of love and hate and fear, he was aware, by the swelling of Merodach's proud neck and the horse's voluntary increase of speed, that they were nearing the object of pursuit long ere his sight could distinguish certain dusky shadows flying like vapours before him, but looming larger as his gallant war-horse gained on them with every stride.
"Merodach," he muttered, "king of horses, you are worthy of your name!" Then, in husky frantic tones he shrieked out: "Stand, cowards, stand!"
They were within ear-shot, and the dromedary was forced to its utmost speed; but a horseman wheeled round, and halted not a bowshot from his approaching enemy, supported by a follower, who bore his shield.
"It is a spirit," said the latter; "it is Abitur of the Mountains!"
"Fool, keep your arm down and cover me," replied the other, while, bending his bow behind the buckler, he took a long steady aim.
Swift and straight as Sarchedon dashed in, the arrow flew swifter, straighter yet. It pierced through steel and silk and gold embroidered baldrick; the very feathers that winged it were draggled red in blood.
Faint, sick, and dizzy, the strickened man lowered himself on his horse's neck, while stars and moon and desert sand spun round him like a wheel. Had not Merodach's instincts taught him to obey its movements, balancing himself as it were under the swaying body, his rider must have fallen headlong to the earth.
So while the successful archer and his shield-bearer followed their party well pleased, Sarchedon, helpless, senseless, yet cleaving still to the saddle, was carried back at a gallop towards Babylon, over the same ground that he had traversed so gallantly when he bore the signet of Ninus to his queen.
Once more the good horse snorted at an object in his path—snorted and swerved aside, casting his rider heavily to the sand, where lay a framework of gaunt white ribs, with a strip or two of putrid flesh, black and festering on the bones.
For a moment the shock brought him to life. While his horse scoured away riderless, Sarchedon was aware, as if in a trance, that he had fallen across a splintered arrow bearing the same mark as that which was drinking his own life-blood: a royal tiara, and the symbol of Semiramis the queen.