“True, your Majesty; but the spirit of the wine is not to be invoked lightly. On what take counsel? War? We sealed the treaty of peace to-day.”
“Yet wine is a gift from Nabu, lord of the wise. Woe to the despiser! Come, evening wanes; they call the third hour of the night from Bel’s ziggurat. One thing is left.”
Belshazzar rose from his couch. There was a great crash of music. The drinkers were silent instantly. The king stepped beside Atossa.
“Look, lords of the Chaldees!” rang his voice. “This hour I proclaim Atossa, the daughter of Cyrus, my affianced wife. One year from this hour shall be my bridal feast. Behold the sovereign lady of the land of Akkad!”
He lifted the blue and white mitre from his head and placed it on the Persian’s golden hair. A great shout reëchoed, making the dying torches shimmer.
“The queen! The queen! Hail, all hail, Atossa!”
Darius rose also. No Babylonian knew what the words cost him. He raised his goblet:—
“To Belshazzar, son of Cyrus. May Ahura grant him and his house prosperity for ten thousand years!”
Another shout. Avil-Marduk, leading the rest, leaped to his feet, crying:—