The Persian army lay in the plain before the captured Kutha. Far as the eye might reach, it touched only avenues of black camel’s-hair tents, sprinkled with the gaudier red and blue of the princes’ pavilions. The gloaming was at hand, the first stars budding; all around myriad red sparks were twinkling forth—the camp-fires of the host of the Aryans. Over their drink the stout Median footmen and Scythian horse-archers were roaring out pledges—“Confusion to Belshazzar and destruction to his city!” For if there was one thing the hearts of the soldiers lusted after, it was to see the walls of Imgur and Nimitti-Bel. But the army had waited inactive for days, and save for petty skirmishings had scarcely sped an arrow. “Negotiations,” grumbled some wiseacres; and others would answer, “The Father (meaning no one less than their august king) will not cast away all hopes of saving Prince Darius.” Whereupon comrades would shake their heads gloomily, “We shall see the prince, in this world—never!” Then the banter, even of veterans, would lag, for Darius was the darling of the army.
So throughout the black tents. And in that village of pavilions, of guardsmen and grooms and chamberlains, where the king found lodging, there was no common gloom that night. For Cyrus sat alone in the innermost tent, and refused all drink and food. This was the fortieth night, on which Isaiah had promised to return with Darius, and naught had been seen or heard of the Jew since he had quitted Susa. Atrobanes, “the bearer of the royal handkerchief,” and the attendant with whom Cyrus was most familiar, had ventured once to enter the tent, and light the tall silver candelabra. There was the master on the high ivory throne, looking straight before him upon the rugs, combing his flowing beard with his right hand, while his left gripped hard on the jewelled hilt at his side.
“Lord,” Atrobanes had ventured, kneeling, “the feast in the banqueting tent is ready. The Princes Harpagus and Gobryas and the other captains have come, for you deigned to command that they should eat meat with you this evening.”
No answer. Cyrus was still looking straight before.
“Live forever, O king,” began Atrobanes again. An angry exclamation cut him short. For Cyrus to be in wrath was so unwonted that the attendant trembled.
“Live forever? Are you mad? Is life so utterly sweet, that one may never long to lay it down?”
“Mercy, lord of all goodness; mercy!” protested the shivering servant.
“By Mithra, you are frightened.” Cyrus laughed softly; it seemed more in melancholy than in mirth. “I meant nothing; I scarce knew that you were here. What is your wish?”