“Lo!” cried the high-priest of the Temple of the Seven Lights, suddenly stepping back and dragging me roughly forward, “Lo! O Beauteous Queen of all the Gods, he is here, in thine holy presence!”
I lifted my face. Our eager eyes met.
Her tiny hands were so tightly clenched that the nails were driven into her palms, her breasts heaved and fell quickly, her brows knit in a fierce anger, but in her eyes was a look of unutterable dread.
For a moment she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut me out of her gaze, but next instant she raised her narrow eyebrows, her blanched lips parted, and she turned upon the high-priest in a sudden outburst of fury. Extending her bare arm towards him she cursed him.
“Knowest thou not the writing upon my foundation-stones, offspring of Anu, defiler of the holy Ziggurratu?” she screamed in rage.
The aged high-priest uttered a cry, as if he had been struck a blow. But he answered not.
“Knowest thou the words graven upon the great image? Speak, accursed one. Speak!”
“I do, O Queen,” he faltered.
“Then, malediction upon thee. Vengeance and hate, sorrow and torture of the flesh. May the Air-god rend thee; may Shamas, the lord of Light, hide his face from thee for ever; and may Niffer, lord of the Ghost Land, take thee for his slave! May Ninkigat, the lady of the great Land of Terrors, strangle thee, and may the other—whom I dare not name—fill thy vitals with molten metal and consume thee!”
“Mercy!” cried the wretched man, falling upon his knees, and grovelling upon the polished pavement. “Mercy, O Istar, Queen of Ea, and ruler of all creatures! Have mercy upon thy servant!”