Their way led once more into the Â-Ibur, down which they rattled past the treasury, the granaries, the house of Amraphel, the square of the gods, and finally across the bridge of the New Year. Here they turned off to drive along the street that ran by the south bank of the canal, till they drew up in front of the palace and extensive gardens that stood almost directly opposite the tenement of Ut. Here, at a bound, Belshazzar alighted, dismissed his chariot, and turned to the resplendent slave who hurried out to meet him.
"Tell Lord Ribâta that Bit-Shamash—nay, lead me rather into his presence without announcement. I can speak for myself."
The servant cringed obediently, and led the way through the empty court-yard into a long series of dimly lighted and sparsely furnished halls, elaborately decorated, but as cold and as lifeless as unused chambers always are. From these they presently emerged into a very livable apartment, where, in a big arm-chair, in front of a narrow table, bending over a heap of neatly inscribed tablets which he was examining with the aid of a magnifying-glass, sat the master of the house, Ribâta Bit-Shumukin, one of the most important and one of the youngest officials in the kingdom. His back was to the door-way, and he was much engrossed in his task. Therefore he had no inkling of the appearance of Belshazzar till it was announced by a burst of hilarious laughter, and the words: "Truly here is an example for thy prince!"
Bit-Shumukin started up and wheeled round. Belshazzar's laughter seemed to be catching, for Ribâta, at sight of his friend's face, joined in his merriment, and the two laughed together till the solemn secretaries and the slave-porter were constrained to think the heir-apparent either very drunk or very crazy.
"How art th—thou melancholy, O my Ribâta? Is it granaries or Elam that know thy labors at this hour of repose?" gasped Belshazzar, when their mirth had diminished somewhat.
"Granaries, my prince. But if I labor further now, it is thou that shalt be blamed for it."
"Never! Dismiss thy sweating secretaries and send them to their play. Then thou shalt once more show me Khamma, if thy jealousy hath indeed abated. Let her dance for us to the strains of the zither. Let us quaff wines of Khilbum and of Lebanon. Let us laugh, and make joy to flow about us like rain in Tabitû. Yea! Harken unto me, for I speak as a prophet; I speak as the mighty prophet of my father's father—what was his name? Bel—Bel—"
"Belti-shar-utsur!"
"Belti-shar-utsur! That! Without the ti it is mine own. Come away, Ribâta, from this den of toil."
Belshazzar's flow of nonsense ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the last phrase was spoken rather impatiently. Ribâta recognized the change and hastily obeyed his companion's suggestion, dismissing his secretaries, and slipping a familiar arm through that of Belshazzar, as they started away together towards the women's apartments. Here they entered a small, empty hall, at the upper end of which was a raised daïs covered with rugs and cushions, and overhung by a purple canopy. Belshazzar threw himself wearily down, while Ribâta sent for refreshment of cool wines and fruits, for slaves with fans and perfumes, and, finally, for Khamma, the fairest of his dancing-women.