But the high priest said no more. Every eye had turned, his own also. Directly above him, at the head of the steps to the first terrace, had stepped forth a young man, who beckoned to the people. And a hundred whispered to their neighbours:—
“Isaiah! Isaiah the Jew, who prophesies for his God, Jehovah!”
CHAPTER XVII
Isaiah was robed in spotless white. His station at the head of the broad stairway to the lower terrace of the temple-tower raised him full thirty cubits above the multitude. With the myriads packing the area below, the glittering array of the procession at his feet, the shining crest of the ziggurat towering above, no marvel he was the one figure on which a thousand eyes were fastened. And as they gazed on him, the crowds grew still. Who was this that stayed the hands of Bel-Marduk’s own priest, in the god’s own dwelling? Men felt their hearts beating loudly, their breath was bated; and each passed to each the whisper, “Either the Jew is mad, or the spirit of some mighty god possesses him. Let us listen.”
The king was silent, Avil-Marduk was silent, and the chiefs of the sacred colleges, the captains of the army. Only the spell of power passing human—every heart was confessing—could make the high priest’s words die on his lips, his eyes hang captive on the compelling power sped from the eyes of the youthful Jew.
In the profound silence Isaiah spoke. Clear and strong his words sounded across the packed enclosure.
“Woe, woe, woe unto Babylon! Unto the great city, the cry of whose sins is gone up to heaven! Whose evil deeds are uncounted! Woe unto Babylon, and woe to her base priests and baser king!”