But Cyrus had turned to his council.
“Men of Iran,” said he, simply, “Ahura has not forsaken us. He has sent us Vohu-Manö, the spirit of wise council. We need linger no more here.”
CHAPTER XX
Avil-Marduk had visited a strange place for the chief priest,—the nethermost dungeon in the palace guard-house, by the royal quay. Here one could hear the river brawling against the slimy walls. The black murk of the sunken galleries leading to the cells had been charged with a damp and sickening odour. The light from the slits against the ceiling was just enough to suffer one, with eyes accustomed to darkness, to grope his way. When the chief warden put his key in the ponderous wooden lock of a door, the pivots creaked and a whiff of air drifted from within, but so stifling that for an instant the priest recoiled.
“Who is here,” demanded he of the warden, “the Persian or Daniel? My errand is to both.”
“The Persian, my lord. Your eyes may not see him, but he is crouched in the farther corner. He is dangerous. Seven men had to hold when we put on his fetters. Shall I stay by while you speak with him?”
“Wait within call, though I must talk alone.” Then, raising his voice, he jeered boldly: “Ha! noble prince, do you find the raw millet and canal water of this guard-house daintier than the fare on Cyrus’s tables? Be comforted; twenty-seven years did Zedekiah, the Jewish king, languish in this very cell. You are not likely to enjoy its hospitality so long.”
Out of the dark came an ominous growl.