So at first the feasters devoured in silence; then when even the hunger of the mighty men of the Chaldees began abating, the talk ran swiftly. Vainly Belshazzar strove to force the Jewess into speech. The Persian answered the king only curtly. Then at last he stretched forth his mighty hands, plucked Ruth by the arm, and drew her close to his couch.
“Hail, daughter of Cyrus! do you not hate your rival?” cried he.
But Atossa only answered, though the flush on her cheek grew crimson:—
“I pity the lord of the Chaldees.”
“Pity?” Belshazzar stared at the Persian.
“Yes, verily! What save pity for a king who uses his power more to torture helpless women than to perform right kingly deeds?”
Belshazzar thrust the Jewess away with a curse. “Allat possess you, girl! Why is your touch so icy cold?” Then fiercely to Atossa, “Speak out, Persian; what mean you?”
“Mean?” Atossa leaned forward from her own seat, and met his angry glare unflinchingly; she spoke in a whisper, yet a whisper that could be heard for far around: “I say that if it were Cyrus who had won the victory you boast, he would not be lolling over a stalled ox and wine, but in the field, grinding to dust his fleeing enemies. But I speak as a Persian barbarian—the Chaldees are wiser. Their watchmen drink and sleep snug to-night, knowing that the Aryan’s power is broken utterly.”
Belshazzar gave a laugh so loud that every feaster kept silence before the king. “Bravely sped are your arrows, lady! I praise you! Were your race as valiant with the sword as you with your tongue, scarce would we be feasting here. Yet look on those captives yonder, choicest princes of Cyrus’s host. Where is his power if he suffer such to be taken?”