Straight across the lower half of the court stretched a rope barrier, cutting off the vulgar herd. Above, a bevy of eunuchs were making the last arrangements for the feast, setting innumerable chairs and stools beside the low tables, or hanging a great bower of dark cypress above the high couch on the dais at the end, where Belshazzar would take his wine, viewing and viewed by all.
Suddenly the brawl even of drunken voices was hushed.
“Hark! The king and all his captains!”
Nearer and nearer was approaching the clangour of cymbals and of kettle-drums; then out of the din burst the wailing of flutes and the blare of the war-horns. A louder crash,—fifty harps and zithers were joining. Into the court came filing two long lines of spearmen in silvered armour, who swept the multitude to right and left, then halted, leaving a long lane for the royal procession. After the soldiers marched the musicians, handsome men, each wearing the tall, peaked mitre of his guild: and after these a company at sight whereof every onlooker craned his neck, and a loud “ah!” arose.
“The Persian prisoners,” grunted Khatin in Nabua’s ear; “to-night they shall see his Majesty’s triumph. To-morrow they shall die. Hah! They strut haughtily enough!” Then he howled aloud as the captives came nearer, “Fine plunder, my merry sirs, are you finding in Babylon; sad your dear lord Cyrus is not near you now!”
But the pinioned Persians were led straight forward. Cords had been fastened to rings in their lips, by which their guards could drag them. Around the necks of many dangled unsightly objects—the heads of comrades whose bodies had fallen into the Chaldees’ hands. A thousand jeers flew around them; but no Persian repaid with so much as a shake of the head or a curse. Even the most drunken of all that throng felt a small mite of respect, if not of pity, for these men, who showed their foes that where an Aryan could not conquer, he at least knew how to die. Silently they were arrayed inside the barriers, to await the royal pleasure. And now all forgot them, as, with more musicians accompanying into the court, marched the priests of Bel-Marduk, bearing glaring flambeaux. The ruddy light flickered on the white dresses and sleek goatskins of the priests, and their mitres set with bullocks’ horns. The company ranged itself before the soldiers, that the king might pass up a lighted way. Loudly now rose their triumph song—for was this not the night of Bel-Marduk’s own victory?
“O Ruler Eternal! O Lord of all being!
Smiter of the foes of Belshazzar thy servant:
Who stillest the ragings of Cyrus the Persian:
Hast broken his spear, hast shattered his quiver: