“‘Here is only the king; within your father waits.’”
Then they stood side by side, those strong men, and listened; for a mighty tumult was swelling through the camp, passing onward, nearer, nearer, rising and falling like the wind-driven billow bounding across the deep. Now the distant encampment of the Tartar Sacæans was thundering, now the Bactrians and the Medes; closer now, it had reached the Persians, the core of the army, and the “Immortals,” the royal life-guards, were tossing on the cry. Then through the cheering the two heard something else—riders galloping fiercely; and words came at last, the shout of the captains and lords about the tent of the king.
“The prince! The prince! Glory to Ahura!”
The high chamberlain had entered. When he salaamed he stumbled. His ready tongue spoke thickly.
“Font of all goodness,” he began; but Cyrus did not hear. Straight through the door strode the king, and into the throng of officers in the tent without. They parted to either hand at sight of him, like sand before the desert gale. Inside the pavilion itself a score of joyous hands were plucking from his steaming beast a young man, who started, tattered, dust-covered as he was, to kneel before the sovereign. Started: but Cyrus beckoned him on, and spoke before them all:—
“Here is only the king; within your father waits.”
So Darius was gone, with no man following him. Then two more newcomers were led forward, and bowed themselves to Cyrus, who saw that they were Isaiah and a stranger, though clearly a Jew also.
“Lord,” Isaiah was saying, “behold my pledge fulfilled. This is the fortieth night, and your eyes see Darius.”
But Cyrus would hear no more.