"Does Baal let you use his beams at your will?" asked the king. "Then you must be the god, and Baal your servant. Baal could not make that splendid tint without you."
The man stared at the king as if stricken dumb by the blasphemy he had heard. His look of perplexity tempted Hiram to banter him further.
"And indeed, Trypho, I think you are more divine in your naked muscle, daubed with this insect's blood, which you can transform into beauty, than the brass image of Moloch is when dyed with children's blood. No beautiful thing was ever taken out of the blood vat at his feet. How say you, Trypho?" tapping the man's bare shoulders.
The workman made no reply, but moved a pace or two away from the king, looking at him in a sort of stupid terror. Recovering his senses, he pointed to a hanging of finest texture, whose exquisite tint brought an exclamation of delight from his visitor. It only needed to be washed in a decoction made from a certain sea-weed, found on the coast of Crete, to fix its color.
"This is for the robe of the queen of Tyre," said Trypho, bowing low, in as much obeisance to his own pride in his work as to the royal dignity of his visitor.
"You, Trypho, shall have a skin of finest wine from the marriage feast," said the king, grasping the hand of the workman, and leaving in it a gold daric.
Hiram and his attendants threaded their way through a low arcaded street, which was lined on either side with bazaars or cells of tradesmen, and debouched into a small court surrounded by the foundries of the bronze-workers. The open space was covered with scraps of metal, heaps of charred wood, broken moulding-boxes, piles of clay and sand. Leaving the palanquin at the entrance to the court, Hiram walked across it, followed by the eyes of scores who gazed after him from their various doorways. He entered the foundry of one of the most noted artisans. The owner greeted him with dignified cordiality.
"The Cabeiri have sent you at the right moment, your majesty. Finer work than I have just completed was never done by the Greek Vulcan. You admire the Greeks, as all artists must. But I shall prove to your own eyes that Tyre is keeping her ancient renown. See this bronze dish! But first listen to its musical ring," striking it with his centre finger. "It sounds longer than a diver can hold his breath. The gods have taught us the secret, which I whisper to you, sire: One part tin; nine parts copper. And never did embosser do better work with hammer and graving tool. Look at the muscles in the forearm of that figure on the rim."
"Finely wrought, indeed!" said the king. "But will they all be done in time? It wants but three moons to the wedding. And the number of pieces?"
"Yes, your majesty; five great dishes of gold, two-score of silver, a half-score of vases in bronze, and—But here is the order, which I shall have ready—"