“Nevertheless,” muttered Khatin, impiously, “it were no harm to call an Egyptian.” But Binit had bustled in with divers bundles, on which all cast awesome glances. Gudea unpacked; took sundry earthen pots, filled them with spices, struck fire, and presently from them drifted a thick aromatic smoke, that blew in Saruch’s face and set him coughing.
“Back, all of you. Adore the gods!” commanded the wizard. “I will now commence the never failing exorcism of the Maskim.”
There was not a whisper, while the conjurer began casting bits of wool, hair, dried flowers, and beans into the fire, each time repeating loudly:—
“Even as the bean is cast in the fire,
Even as the fire consumes the bean;
So may Marduk, chieftain of the gods,
Drive the demons and their spell from Saruch!”
At first Gudea stood still; then, laying off his shoes and rubbing his hands,—token of purification,—he commenced the sacred dance about the sufferer. In the first rounds he moved slowly, his white garments swelling and falling as he turned, while his watchful wife fed the fire with scraps of dry flesh, spices, and splinters of magic woods. Gudea recited incantation after incantation, calling on Marduk, Istar, Ea, and every other god to aid in driving the “seven fiends” out of Saruch’s throat. He continued, until suddenly the sick man began to quiver and foam at the mouth.
“The convulsion again!” moaned the sufferer’s wife, starting forward. “Alas! my Saruch!”
“Peace, woman!” thundered Gudea, “will you break the spell? No danger, the fiends are risen in his neck. They struggle against coming forth, but I compel them.” The sufferer almost rose from his cushions; his face was black, his eyes bloodshot.