But she had started despite the bands. The last Babylonians had been brushed from the portal, a rush of feet, a battle-cry the loudest of the night; and right in the entrance, sword in hand and looking upon Atossa, was the son of Hystaspes, at his side Isaiah, at his back the stoutest veterans of Cyrus the conqueror.
There was silence for an instant, while the foes glared on one another. Then the Babylonish officers by sheer force drew their king behind them, and formed in close array before the dais. The last stand!
“Stand fast, Chaldees!” rang the voice of Igas-Ramman; “let them touch the king only across our bodies. While he lives Babylon is not truly lost.”
The Persians were entering slowly, grimly. Their prey was in their clutch; they were too old in war to let him slip by untimely triumph. The rain beat down in one continuous roar, amid ceaseless peals of thunder. Yet despite the elements they heard the clamour of distant conflict; at the temple of Bel, at the palace of Nabupolassar, the fight was still desperate.
“While your Majesty lives,” muttered Igas in the royal ear, “there may be yet rally and rescue. Let us fight to the end.”
Darius had advanced from his company, halfway across the hall, as if he alone would walk upon the swords of the Chaldees. He addressed the king.
“Live forever, Lord of Babylon! Live forever. I have bayed a fairer game, this night, than an aurochs or a lion; but I have brought him to the net at last. Too noble, truly, to slay. Let him be wise; he will find my master merciful.”
“Yield to Cyrus? Let the dogs eat first our bodies!” so cried Igas, and all the Babylonians yelled like answer.
Darius did not retire. “We Persians honour kings, though once our foes. Crœsus the Lydian is Cyrus’s friend. Be wise,—Bel your god may not save you. Craft and strength alike have failed. Yield on fair quarter. Do not sacrifice these gallant men—”