Then on one knee Mermaza passed to Belshazzar another cup; and the monarch raised it with the cry: “Away with the ‘care-demon’ and his kind this night. This is the time appointed by Nabu for glee. When has Babylon shaken off a foe like Cyrus the Persian? Drink, men of Babylon, drink to the present glory and the coming triumphs of your king!”
“Wine! Wine!” from every captain and sword-hand; and the goblets went back to the waiting eunuchs in a twinkling.
Atossa had never seen Belshazzar so riotous before. He seemed to have let the mad spirit of the hour gain utter possession of him.
“Drink!” he shouted again, “drink! He is traitor who does not measure seven goblets.” Then, turning to Atossa, he thrust his own cup into her hand. “I have been cruel, lady,”—his voice sank into hoarse soothing,—“cruel, because hitherto you have been Persian. But to-night you are become Babylonish by becoming my wife. We strike hands in a truce. Peace is better than war. Bel-Marduk is your god now, not Ahura the helpless. Are you not ‘Queen of Sumer and Akkad’? Ask whatever you will, if in reason, and I will not refuse. But drink you with the rest,—drink to the triumphs yet to be won by Belshazzar your husband, whose glories are all yours.”
Mechanically Atossa tasted; put the goblet away. But Belshazzar still in his mood ran on: “Yes, you are a great king’s daughter, and worthy to be my wife, though Persian born. As for this Jewess here,” with a leer at Ruth, “she shall learn to love me, when her father and his cursed god are all forgot. The fiends blast me; why can I not drive the thought of that drivelling Hebrew from my mind? To-morrow Khatin ends him, or I am no king.”
But to the threat and curse neither Ruth nor Atossa answered, for the iron had long since entered deep into their souls.
Already the first set of mixing-bowls were emptied; the eunuchs bustled in with others. The rounded bottoms of the silver goblets, making it impossible to lay them down, forced rapid drinking. Avil sat and quaffed in silence; but once or twice paused to cast sinister glances toward the vacant seat of Bilsandan. “A care, good vizier,” spoke he to his own heart, “beware; the time is not far when I will brush you and the general from my path, as I served Daniel and Imbi-Ilu; and then if aught of mortal fate befell the king—”
But these forecastings were broken by the entrance of a great corps of harem girls, clothed in gauzy dresses of all the tints of the rainbow. While the harps tinkled softly they came before the king, to the space cleared at the foot of the dais, and sped about in sensuous dances, raven locks flying, smooth brown limbs twinkling, while they wove their figures. And again and again their delicate voices joined with the priests’ in the great chorus to Bel, bestower of all Babylon’s bright glory:—
“Bel-Marduk, who rulest forever,
Thee, thee we praise!”