A slight zephyr at this moment ruffled the surface of the sacred water.
"It is the breath of Baal!" said one.
"See! See! The Maabed itself shook! It is the sign of the god! A miracle! A miracle!"
"A miracle!" they murmured, and prostrated themselves, crying, "O Baal, hear us! O Baal, guide us!"
Egbalus had remained standing, in unchanged attitude, watching the sunlight. He now whispered, impressing into his tones the simulation of awe:
"I see a mighty altar. On it lies one enrobed as a king. By it stands, august and venerable, a kingly priest, and—slays the victim. But hark! a voice! It is that of Melkarth himself, who bids me remember how, in our sacred traditions, it is recorded that the mighty god El, when a dire calamity had come upon his favorite city of Gebal, took his own son, adorned him in the robes of royalty, carried him to the altar, slew him, and so brought blessings for ages upon his people. Hear, O ye priests of Baal!"
He lowered his voice, either through sense of the awful solemnity of what he was about to utter, or fear of being overheard by others than those whom he owned, body and soul, as he did his infatuated band of priests. His followers arose from their prostrate positions, and drew close to him. This they heard: "Tyre must offer to Baal its king!"
A deep hush followed. Egbalus glanced nervously from one to another. Had he mistaken his men?
"The king?" said one, in a tone that might have been regarded as either assent or surprised interrogation.