"What sayest thou, Belshazzar?"
For answer, the prince strode forward, stooped, seized Bazuzu by the collar, and dragged him to his feet.
There was a silence. The slave, cold with fear, stood open-mouthed, his eyes wildly rolling, the basket still clasped tightly in his arms. Ribâta, who had grown white with astonishment and anger, stood staring at him. Belshazzar, lips compressed and brows drawn together, moved aside.
"Are you of my house, knave? And for whom art thou here? Speak! Answer me!" And Ribâta stamped upon the ground.
Bazuzu, remembering, even in his terror, the helplessness of Ramûa, answered, shiveringly: "Yea, of thy house, O lord!"
"He lies, Bit-Shumukin," interrupted the prince, sharply. "His collar is of leather. Those of thy house—"
"Yes, yes!" cried Ribâta, still more angrily. "Speak the truth, thou villain, or—there is death in my garden. Who art thou?"
With thickening tongue and reluctant heart, Bazuzu made reply: "I am the slave of the Lady Beltani."
"And who is the Lady Beltani?"
"She dwells across the canal, in the tenement Ut of my lord."