“Am I not a Persian too, your Majesty?” answered the prince in his pride; “have I not learned to dare and to do from you and from none other?”
“True,” they knew Cyrus was smiling, “but Belshazzar may nevertheless have set a trap.”
“Then the Babylonians’ guile is deeper yet,” replied Darius; “you do not see, my lord, in the darkness, who it is Isaiah has mounted behind him.”
“A deserter from Babylon?”
“Imbi-Ilu, the exiled pontiff of Borsippa, just come from the city. Let him speak for himself.”
The chariot halted, while a figure leaped to the ground from behind the Jew, and salaamed before the king.
“May every god shine on your Majesty,” Imbi reported; “at no small peril your slave disguised himself as commanded and entered Babylon. He has communicated with Bilsandan the vizier, and Sirusur the Tartan. They accept your Majesty’s promises, and rejoice to become your servants,—the more because Avil-Marduk works hourly on Belshazzar to gain their ruin. The guards on the gates have been withdrawn by Sirusur, the rest of the garrison is nigh drunken to a man. My priests at Borsippa swear they will not fail.”
“The garrison drunken? Is Belshazzar mad; does he think my power shattered so utterly?” asked Cyrus, marvelling.
“Be that as it may, my king,” interposed Isaiah, “while we awaited Imbi-Ilu under the walls, we heard from within nothing else than the sound of music and of revelling. The Chaldees are not Persians. Their god is the wine-cup, if the truth be told. Jehovah has caught them in their wickedness. He has led them into the net prepared by His servants.”