“Live forever, O king,” spoke Sirusur the betrayer, “the city is sunken in mirth and drunkenness. Forward boldly—you will dash the wine-cup from Belshazzar’s own hand.”
Cyrus started to descend from the chariot.
“A horse,” he commanded abruptly; “there is no space for the car to enter.”
But at his words one cry of protest arose from Darius and all the officers, “The king will not himself enter the city!”
“Not enter?” Cyrus’s voice became stern and high. “Am I not king? To whom may I give account?”
None stirred to obey him. Moments were rubies; the monarch was swelling with anger.
“Have I not commanded? I can yet be terrible to the disobedient. I am still the ‘Giver of Breath’ to all Iran!”
But the others stood mute and motionless. The preciousness of the hour made Cyrus blind to all save his desires. He bounded from the car, and snatched a mounted officer with a giant’s clutch.
“Down! Your horse!” he commanded thickly. The man was helpless in that grasp, but suddenly a dozen hands were put forth upon the king himself.