“One thing more,” he ordered. “Lead me to the sanctuary on the crest of the tower. We have not yet searched through that.”
“The shrine of the god!” cried the pontiff, throwing up his hands in surprised dismay. “What is the king saying? Do my ears deceive?”
“In no way, priest,” repeated Belshazzar, sternly; “the sanctuary, and nowhere else.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord,” Imbi began to groan, falling on his knees, “at least spare our temple this outrage. Forbear—”
“Nip him close, my king,” exhorted Khatin, gruffly. “I swear by his own god we shall find the damsel hid under the very image.”
“No delaying, Imbi,” repeated the king, fiercely. “Your moaning tells too well where the girl is concealed. To the shrine immediately.”
“But my lord knows the story,” protested the pontiff, leading to the foot of the temple stairs, with all seeming reluctance, “how when King Ourina, twelve hundred years since, sought to drag a suppliant from this very sanctuary, the god smote him with leprosy, and he went out of the temple white as snow.”
“A beldame’s tale,” grunted Khatin; “lead onward.”
“Or how King Samas-Nin, for merely saying in his bedchamber that Nabu had no power to defend his servants from the royal will, fell down speechless, and died in three days torn by demons.”