“But I, the king, who sent Darius forth, and sped him to his death, find like submission hard. For the king shall answer on the Great Day for the blood of all his people!”
“I do not blame your Majesty.”
“Nor does any man.” Cyrus smote his own breast. “The voice that blames is here.”
But as he spoke a strange sound was spreading in the camp, a roaring as of wind, though very far away.
“An alarm!” and Hystaspes started from the tent.
“Alarm? No such outcry; the soldiers are at some sport.”
Yet still the sound was rising—was swelling nearer; and now they caught, as it seemed, the clamour of countless voices.
“Alarm surely! I must seek my post!” Again Hystaspes started from the tent; but the king gripped his arm with so tight a clutch that it brought almost pain.
“Hystaspes,”—Cyrus spoke in a hoarse whisper,—“this sound—comes it from men or from angels—is a shout of joy, not of fear!”
