And Imbi heard the clattering of spear-butts against the portals.
“This is an important hour for the dignity of Nabu,” announced he, regaining composure. “We must at once reverence the king and defend the honour of our god. Go, tell his Majesty that we will admit him, as soon as I can array the corps of priests and temple ministers in due order to receive him with proper state.”
Then the great gong that hung by the steps to the tower began to clang furiously. The school boys joyously flung away their clay tablets, while their professors hastened to don their whitest robes. The sluggish temple servants ceased dozing on the sunny bricks of the court, and shuffled toward the gateway, where the long lines of priests and other servitors of Nabu were forming.
When the entrance was at last thrown wide, and Belshazzar’s chariot entered, the king confronted extended files of “Necromancers,” “Libation-Pourers,” “Dirge-Singers,” and many more sacred colleges, each drawn up in proper order, every man in his snowy garment and peaked tiara, with Imbi-Ilu in his pontiff’s goatskin at their head. And at a signal from their chief every knee was bent in salutation, while the temple choir intoned the chant of welcome.
“Grant prosperous life,
Innumerable years,
And children uncounted,
O Nabu, most wise!
To Belshazzar our king!”