"Yes, yes!" muttered the chancellor with chattering teeth. "Follow me; but in the name of Baal keep silence! I fear they have heard you already."
"Little I care if they have, whoever they are," the Theban exclaimed, stalking after the chancellor, sword in hand. "If you try any more of your tricks, your head goes off like a chicken's."
They made several turns in the passage, ascended a last short flight of steps, and came to a second door, which their guide pushed open. They followed him into a large room, hung with woven tapestries, carpeted with silken rugs, and strewn with luxurious divans. It was on the southern side of the palace, with windows that looked out across the wall toward the sea. The light of the lamps was already yielding to the gray dawn which silvered the surface of the water.
With his back to the window stood Azemilcus, king of the doomed city. His thin white hair straggled from under a close-fitting cap to the diamond collar which encircled his wrinkled throat. A gorgeous robe of crimson hid his shrunken figure. He looked old and feeble, but his eyes were as bright as jewels set in the head of a mummy.
"Welcome, gentlemen!" he said quietly, stretching forth a wasted hand toward Chares, who was striding toward him with anger in his face. "I must ask your pardon for your detention; but we are prisoners here, like yourselves."
Astonishment halted the Theban, who stood staring at the king as though he had not heard aright. Clearchus stepped forward.
"What do you mean? Who has made you a prisoner?" he asked sharply.
The small king smiled with irony on his lips.
"I fear it can be only the prince, my son," he replied.
"The same one who helped to bring us here and who left us as soon as we entered the palace?" Clearchus demanded.