But the Jew was far otherwise. The Persians saw a man of quite seventy, yet still unbowed by his years, his hair and beard white as the wave-spray; in his dark eyes a fire; strength, candour, and wisdom written on his sharp Semitic features. His dress was the plainest—a white woollen robe that fell with hardly a fold, a simple leathern girdle, around the feet a fringe of green tassels. He was barefoot, his hair was neatly dressed, but he wore no fillet. Upon his breast hung his badge of office, a cylinder seal of carved jasper, bored through the centre for the scarlet neck-cord.
Daniel had salaamed respectfully; Mermaza brushed his purple fillet on the very deck. The salutations once over, Darius began with a question:—
“And is it true, the report we heard at Sippar, that my Lord Nabonidus, the father of my Lord Belshazzar, has been so grievously stricken with madness that he can never hope to be made whole, and that his son must rule for him, as though he were dead?”
Daniel’s answer came slowly, as if he were treading on delicate ground. “The rumour is too true. So it has pleased the All-Powerful. Nabonidus is hopelessly mad, the chiefs of the Chaldeans declare. He lies in his palace at Tema. Belshazzar has, seven days since, as the saying is, ‘taken the hands of Bel,’ and become sole Lord of Babylon.”
“And I trust, with Ahura’s grace,” replied the prince formally, “soon to stand before him, and in my master’s name wish his reign all manner of prosperity.”
Then, when the ceremonies of greeting were ended, formality fled, and the talk drifted to the wonders of the approaching city.
“And was it your own villa that your boat left?” asked Darius; to which the minister answered affably: “My own. As Hanno may have told, I am by birth a Jew; yet our God has blessed me in this land of captivity. I possess a passing estate; it will be a fair marriage portion to my daughter.”
“Your daughter? Does God refuse a son?” A shiver and sigh seemed to sweep over Daniel at the question.
“I had three sons. All perished in the conspiracy when the young king Labashi-Marduk fell. They are in Abraham’s bosom. Now, in my evening, Jehovah sends me one ewe lamb, Ruth, who now waits for me in Babylon. But alas! her mother is dead.”
“Ahura pity you, good father,” protested the Persian, thrilling in sympathy; “in Persia there is no greater woe than to lack a son. You have much to mourn.”