“Peace,” commanded the king. “You do even that dæva wrong. We have Gobryas’s letter and cannot doubt. Belshazzar has a city nigh impregnable. His army, if not so large as our Aryan hordes, is well drilled, valorous. His capital is provisioned for a siege of years. Only a man who had resolved to follow his path to the end would dare to utter this threat.”
“True,” Hystaspes looked down, grievously tormented; “yet for the honour of our people and our god, there is but one answer to make to this defiance.”
Cyrus was standing erect and confronting his council.
“Do you, princes of Persia and Media, bid me to sacrifice Darius, son of Hystaspes, proclaim instant war, and send our forces over the Tigris to strike Belshazzar! An answer,”—the king’s voice grew hard,—“peace or war?”
Stillness for a moment, and then Harpagus was thundering:—
“War, in the name of every archangel! Tell Belshazzar that if Darius dies we will beat down Babylon till she be a city for wolves and jackals.”
“And you, Hystaspes?” demanded the king.
“I have spoken,” replied the old prince, wearily. “Not to save my own child can we cringe to Belshazzar, that ‘Son of the Lie.’ There is no other way.”
Cyrus was looking wistfully from one to another.