Cyrus stood erect upon the car, taller seemingly than ever.
“Peace, good friend; the king of the Aryans has at least the strength to ride when his children are marching, and with such a prize before!”
“True,” quoth the other, as he rode beside, “even your Majesty does not often stretch forth his hands to take a Babylon.”
“Do you think I ride for Babylon this night?” demanded the king, almost angrily.
But Atrobanes did not reply; he knew the guerdon of all the deeds that night would not be “The Lady of Kingdoms” but the Lady Atossa.
So onward in the darkness, the trailing host keeping wondrously still. They had wound wisps of hay around shield and scabbard and over the horses’ hoofs to deaden all noise. As the night advanced, the sense of awe sank deeper. Even the beasts gave no whinny; only as one clapped an ear close to the earth would he have caught the jar and rhythm of many men marching. The sky along one horizon was just beginning to overcast and hide a few stars. Soldier muttered to soldier, “There will be a storm,—lightning and thunder.” But for the hour all the elements kept silence, with no wind creeping across the plain or lifting the lifeless pennons.
Cyrus had ridden long without speaking, when the muffled canter of two horsemen sounded, approaching from ahead. A moment later Darius and Isaiah were reining beside the monarch’s car.
“You meet nothing? no alarm? no watchers?” asked the king in a whisper.
“None, lord,” answered Darius; “we rode to the shadow of the outer wall; there was no sentry to challenge us.”
“The stillness may be ominous,” remarked Cyrus, shrewdly—“a pretended carelessness to lure us under the walls, when Belshazzar can fling wide his sally-ports and dash on us with his thousands. And you did grievous wrong in perilling your lives so near.”