"Rise, Ahimelek, Councillor of Tyre!" said the king.
But he moved not. An attendant approached him. He was dead.
A commotion was made at the rear of the pavilion. Two men, the captain of the Samaritans and the captain of the men of Galilee, brought before the king the limp form of Egbalus. The miserable man turned to flee, but his captors kept his face to the throne. At length he gathered strength. That tremendous will which had so often dominated others asserted its mastery over himself. He looked Hiram squarely in the eyes.
"Thou hast conquered, O infidel king! But thou shalt not have me to grace thy triumph."
Before his guards were aware of his purpose, he had plunged his priest's knife to his heart.
"Take him away!" coolly said the king.
In the meantime men had gone to the king's palace, where Rubaal and a few of his favorites had awaited the summons to join the coronation procession. Wearied by the delay, they had ventured to the door, but found it fastened. Their cries for help were answered by the shouts which shook the city. But now the gates were flung open. Rough soldiers thrust Rubaal into a common palanquin, such as was cheaply hired at the docks, and bore him to the pavilion. There the carriage was opened. Rubaal crouched within it like a rat in a trap.
The soldiers dragged him out. His brave apparel, royal from purple mantle to diamond-set sandals, was as strange a contrast with the simple garb of the real king as the kingly look of Hiram was with the mean and cowardly aspect of Rubaal.
"Harm him not," said the king. "There is a drop of royal blood somewhere in his body. You might spill that drop if you spilled more. All royalty is safe to-day. Come, cousin, sit in my chair if you like. We have played together in the same crib. Ah! in ill-humor again! Just so you were as a child."
The wretched man slunk away, and sat with averted face on the edge of the dais.