CHAPTER XLI

Prince Hur, son of Azemilcus, sat in his house, which opened from the courtyard of the palace. In figure he was undersized, like his father, with a delicate face and thin white hands, on one of which glittered a great ruby. Instead of the mocking smile that the king was accustomed to wear, his expression was grave and serious.

With him were Esmun, chief priest of Baal-Moloch, on whose fat countenance, with its pendulous jowls, sloth struggled with greed, and Ariston, the Athenian. Ariston's thin form was thinner and his face more worn than on the day when he watched his nephew, Clearchus, ride out of Athens, leaving him guardian of his fortune. He had made free use of this wealth, as he had planned, to save the remnants of his own; but mischance had continued to follow him in everything he attempted. So heavy were his losses that he rejoiced when he learned that Clearchus had been sent to Babylon a prisoner. The young man's return to the army filled him with despair. Involved as he was, only one hope remained. He would dispose of his great dye-works in Tyre, and the proceeds of the sale would enable him to make a last attempt to save himself. While he was in Tyre, he also would collect the loan that he had been forced to make to Phradates, and that the Phœnician had never repaid. If this plan failed, he would have to choose between death and the punishment that would be visited upon the betrayal of his trust. Therefore he had come to Tyre, and there, by a final stroke of misfortune, he had been imprisoned by the siege.

"I fear there is not much hope for us," Prince Hur said. "Even though we succeed in beating off these attacks, as we did to-day, sooner or later we shall starve."

"Hast thou, too, lost faith in the power of Baal?" Esmun asked, in a tone of reproof.

"I believe in him as much as you do yourself," the prince said.

"I may have deserved that reproach," the priest replied sadly. "To my shame, I confess it; but if I have allowed the name of Baal to be lightly spoken in my presence, it was not because I did not believe. I thought that he was able to defend himself, as indeed he is. I say to you now that I know his power. It has been shown over and over again. If it should please him to save Tyre in her extremity, he will do it. We shall know after the sacrifice."

"There will be no sacrifice," the prince said quietly.

Esmun stared at him open-mouthed, and Ariston started sharply. The Athenian was the first to recover himself.

"What does your Highness mean?" he asked. "Doubtless you speak in jest."

"I sent for you because I am in need of your advice," the prince continued gravely. "You are both men of the world and fitted to aid me with your counsel; but what I am about to tell you must not be repeated, even to yourselves. Do you swear to keep the secret, no matter what my decision may be?"

"We swear it," Ariston replied.

"And you?" the prince said to Esmun.

"By the head of Baal!" the priest declared.

"Azemilcus has resolved to deliver the city," the prince said, bending forward and speaking in a tone scarcely above a whisper.

For an instant both his hearers were silent. Ariston comprehended in a flash that surrender would mean his ruin, since it would involve the loss of his property. Esmun was too astonished to think.

"What will the king receive in return?" the Athenian inquired.

"His life," Hur replied. "He knows well that the city must be destroyed, and that his people will be sold into slavery."

Esmun groaned. He saw himself torn from his life of ease, Baal-Moloch's temple in ruins, and nothing left for him but years of servitude.

"How will the surrender be made?" Ariston asked.

"The king will order the fleets out of both harbors," the prince explained. "They will be destroyed, and care will be taken to leave the harbor entrances unguarded."

"Does Alexander know this?" Esmun demanded.

"Not yet," said the prince. "I am to go to him to-night with the chancellor to make him the offer."

"Then you have consented to it?" the priest said.

"I was not asked to consent," the prince replied bitterly. "You know that the king is not in the habit of consulting me."

"Yet he proposes to take your inheritance from you!" Esmun exclaimed. "If Baal intervenes, the city will be saved and you will be its king."

"Does the council know?" Ariston asked.

"It does not," Hur replied.

"There is only one course open to you," Esmun declared, roused as he had not been since the long struggle that ended in raising him above his rivals and placing him in a position that gave him almost as much power as the king himself. "Go with the chancellor, since to refuse now would arouse suspicion. Get proof of the king's treachery and lay it at once before the council and the generals. Azemilcus will be dealt with according to their will, and you will be made king in his stead. That you may leave to me if you can obtain the proof; but it must be strong."

"There would be no difficulty concerning the proof," the prince said doubtfully. "We are to bring Macedonians back with us to act as a guard for the king. They will be concealed in the palace so that they will be able to insure his safety when the city falls. Their presence will be proof enough."

"Would it not be better to lay the whole affair before the council now?" Ariston suggested.

"No," said Esmun decisively. "The king would deny everything. He would accuse Hur of seeking his throne, and he would be believed. We must have the proof."

"I do not like to raise my hand against my father," Hur said hesitatingly.

"Tyre is in danger," Esmun said solemnly. "It is your duty to save her if you can, and this duty comes before any tie of blood. It is I, chief servant of Baal, who tell you this."

"I shall not shrink," the prince responded, with sudden decision.

The sun was setting before the three completed the details of their plan. When Ariston left the prince, he was so wrapped in thought that he did not recognize the brutal face of Syphax, who passed him with three or four others of his own kind.

"Do you see that man?" the broken freebooter exclaimed, directing the attention of his companions to the retreating form. "I have a settlement to make with him. It was he who scattered my crew and brought me to what I am. I have sought him far, and now the Fates have given him to me. He shall pay the reckoning!"

Although they had been repulsed, the Macedonians returned to their camp, confident that Tyre could not much longer stand against them. Alexander ordered the sacrifice of a black bull to Phœbus. After a careful examination of the entrails, Aristander, the soothsayer, sought the king and spoke to him in private.

"Tyre will fall before the month ends," he said. "Phœbus has promised it."

"But the month will end to-morrow," Alexander replied, in astonishment.

"Nevertheless, there can be no doubt," Aristander declared. "To-morrow thou wilt be in possession of the city."

"Let us see what the army thinks," the king returned.

The news soon spread through the camp. Some of the soldiers rejoiced as though the promise had already been fulfilled, while others refused to believe, declaring that the thing was impossible. In order to save the God from discredit, Alexander issued a proclamation extending the month three days beyond its accustomed term. With this the army was satisfied.

Clearchus gave way to an agony of disappointment when he regained consciousness to find himself on the siege boat with the walls of Tyre receding from him. Chares and Leonidas were obliged at first to prevent him by force from throwing himself into the sea. It was only when the Theban reminded him that it was still possible for them to enter the city that he became calmer. He was for seeking the passage through which Joel had emerged as soon as day ended, but the young Israelite convinced him that such an attempt would surely be frustrated. The breach in the wall was only a short distance from the passage and workmen would be engaged there, to say nothing of the guard that would certainly be established. He consented finally to yield to his friends and await the third watch of the night. This delay would permit them to get a few hours of rest.

The sun went down in flaming glory, casting the long shadow of the Tyrian walls across the Macedonian camp. The thin smoke of a thousand fires rose lazily in the quiet The soldiers ceased to recount their escapes in the dreadful breach and stretched themselves on the ground. Only in Alexander's tent a light continued to glow.

In the middle of the second watch, a small boat crept in from the purple shadows of the sea and grated on the sand. Two men stepped out and turned their faces toward the camp. By their features and dress they were Phœnicians. Of the first sentinel they met, they demanded to be led to Alexander, and the reasons they gave caused the captain of the guard to grant their request.

The captain emerged from the king's tent at the end of half an hour and hurried away in the darkness. He brought back with him Clearchus, Chares, Leonidas, Nathan, and Joel. The Theban was rubbing his eyes and yawning over his interrupted slumbers.

"What is all this about?" he grumbled. "Have we not done enough for one day? I wish this cursed city was in the bottom of the sea!"

"It is by the king's order," the captain reminded him.

They found Alexander stretched upon his couch and the two Phœnicians seated before him. From the expression of the king's eyes as they sought his, Clearchus knew that something of moment was in his mind, and his pale face brightened.

One of the strangers was Prince Hur, son of King Azemilcus. The young man seemed ill at ease, and his fingers played constantly with the golden chain that he wore as a member of the council. His companion was older and more composed. His lips were thin and his eyes were keen and penetrating.

"Comrades," Alexander said, using the term that endeared him to every soldier in his army, "I have a dangerous service to ask of you. King Azemilcus has dreamed that his city is about to fall, and we know that his dream is true. He has sent his son and his chancellor to us to ask his life, and it has been granted to him. But many things may happen when the blood is hot with fighting, and it is necessary that Macedonians be with him when we enter. Therefore I wish you to go to him and guard him when the time arrives. You may conduct him to the Temple of Melkarth, which will be set aside as a sanctuary.

"It has been promised that you shall pass unharmed into the city and remain there in the palace until I come. If this promise is not kept, Azemilcus and all his family are to be crucified upon the walls as a warning to those who may wish to break faith with Alexander."

The young king looked keenly at the Phœnicians. The prince lowered his eyes and moved uneasily.

"There is one thing more," Alexander continued. "If any of you have friends in the city whom you desire to protect, it is made a condition of the safety of Azemilcus that he shall aid you by every means in his power."

He glanced meaningly at Clearchus as he uttered these words, and the young man's heart bounded with renewed hope.

They left the tent in silence. The captain of the guard accompanied them to the boat.

"Azemilcus is betraying his city," Chares whispered.

"We shall save Artemisia and rescue Thais," Clearchus replied, gripping the arm of his friend.

They entered the boat and rowed silently to the Egyptian Harbor. The towering height of the wall swallowed the little craft in its shadow and no sentinel challenged them. They bent their heads as they glided under the great guard-chains that stretched across the entrance of the harbor, and threading their way among the shipping, they reached the landing and disembarked.

Keeping to the left, the chancellor led them toward the palace. More than once they were forced to step aside to avoid the heaps of ruins that told of the work done by the ballistæ. As they advanced, the great bulk of the palace rose before them above the wall, to which it was joined and of which it formed a part. As they advanced, the chancellor was careful to keep in the deepest shadow, and his hand shook as he fitted the key into a small door in the palace wall.

"We are safe!" he said to the prince as the door closed behind them.

"Very well," the young man replied, yawning; "I am going to bed."

He turned abruptly into a lateral passage and disappeared. The chancellor seemed in doubt for a moment whether to call him back, but he decided to let him go.

"Follow me," he said to the Macedonians.

They groped their way upward after him along a winding stair that seemed to be built into the city wall. This slow progress continued for many minutes without a glimmer of light until they reached what appeared to be a windowless chamber. There the chancellor left them, bidding them wait until he had notified the king of their arrival.

He was absent so long that Leonidas began to grow uneasy. He found the chamber destitute of furniture and without doors save that by which they had entered and that by which the chancellor had left them. Both were now secured. This had been accomplished without attracting their attention and it added to their uneasiness.

"We are like owls in a cage," Nathan said. "We can do nothing but wait."

"I do not like it," Leonidas replied.

"Nonsense," Chares remarked. "They brought us here for a purpose and we are of more use to them alive than dead. Do you suppose that Azemilcus is anxious to be crucified?"

"Perhaps not," the Spartan replied, "but it maybe that he has changed his mind. If he does not send for us soon, I think we had better try the door."

Clearchus said nothing, but he paced impatiently back and forth across the narrow room, pausing at every sound. The night was passing and the hour for the sacrifice to Moloch was drawing nearer. Shut up in the palace, they would be powerless to save Artemisia. The moments seemed hours to him. At last he could bear the suspense no longer.

"We should never have permitted the chancellor to leave us!" he said, and, striding to the door, he began to beat upon it with the hilt of his sword until the metal of which it was composed rang like a bell.

There was no response. The others joined him, raising a tumult loud enough to be heard throughout the palace, but even then some time elapsed before the bars were removed and the door swung open. The chancellor had returned alone, his face white and scared in the flickering light of the lamp that he had set upon the stone floor while he worked at the bars.

"Silence, or we are all lost!" he whispered imploringly, taking up the lamp with a hand that trembled so that the oil spilled upon the floor. "Do you want to invite death?"

"Don't talk to us of silence!" bellowed Chares, threatening the old man with his sword. "What do you mean by shutting us up here? You have yet to learn that it is not wise to keep the soldiers of Alexander waiting. Take us to your king."

"Yes, yes!" muttered the chancellor with chattering teeth. "Follow me; but in the name of Baal keep silence! I fear they have heard you already."

"Little I care if they have, whoever they are," the Theban exclaimed, stalking after the chancellor, sword in hand. "If you try any more of your tricks, your head goes off like a chicken's."

They made several turns in the passage, ascended a last short flight of steps, and came to a second door, which their guide pushed open. They followed him into a large room, hung with woven tapestries, carpeted with silken rugs, and strewn with luxurious divans. It was on the southern side of the palace, with windows that looked out across the wall toward the sea. The light of the lamps was already yielding to the gray dawn which silvered the surface of the water.

With his back to the window stood Azemilcus, king of the doomed city. His thin white hair straggled from under a close-fitting cap to the diamond collar which encircled his wrinkled throat. A gorgeous robe of crimson hid his shrunken figure. He looked old and feeble, but his eyes were as bright as jewels set in the head of a mummy.

"Welcome, gentlemen!" he said quietly, stretching forth a wasted hand toward Chares, who was striding toward him with anger in his face. "I must ask your pardon for your detention; but we are prisoners here, like yourselves."

Astonishment halted the Theban, who stood staring at the king as though he had not heard aright. Clearchus stepped forward.

"What do you mean? Who has made you a prisoner?" he asked sharply.

The small king smiled with irony on his lips.

"I fear it can be only the prince, my son," he replied.

"The same one who helped to bring us here and who left us as soon as we entered the palace?" Clearchus demanded.

"Yes," Azemilcus answered, crossing his hands and hiding them in the wide sleeves of his robe. "He is not sharp-witted, my son; and it turns out that he still has hopes of saving Tyre so that he may reign here in my place. You see what they have been doing."

He stepped back and waved his hand toward the window. Beneath them was the breach that had been so desperately attacked and defended. The Tyrians had raised a new wall, nearly as thick and as high as the city wall itself. It formed a half-circle inside the gap, joining the main wall at either end, so that an attacking force, seeking to storm the breach, would be caught as in the bend of a bow. Swarms of men were still at work there by the light of torches.

The Athenian's heart sank. It seemed to him impossible that after the defeat of the preceding day, a second attack could succeed when the breach had been repaired. They were inside the city, it was true, but they were only five against forty thousand.

For a moment there was silence in the room. The bitter smile still rested on the thin lips of the old king. The chancellor stood nervously rubbing his knuckles, first with one hand and then with the other. Leonidas examined the wall and the new work with an eye that took in every detail. He turned to the king.

"You know that if you try to deceive us, we will kill you," he said quietly.

"Well?" the king replied, still with his thin smile.

"You say that it is your son who has shut you up," Leonidas continued. "Why do you think so?"

"Because he alone, besides this man, knew that I had summoned you," the king said.

Leonidas looked at the chancellor, whose ashen face grew a shade paler under his scrutiny.

"You were about to betray your city and your son has betrayed you," the Spartan said.

"That is a harsh way to put it," Azemilcus answered. "The city was lost already."

"Is it lost now?" Leonidas demanded, pointing to the new wall.

"Yes," said the old king. "To-day, to-morrow, next month, it will fall. The Gods have deserted us. The boy told me they would."

"It is not surprising that the Gods have deserted you," the Spartan observed. "But your son, who has conspired against you, knows that we are here."

"Yes," the king admitted.

"And you kept us shut up while you were considering whether there was not some way of getting rid of us so that we might not be found and used as proof of your treachery," Leonidas continued. "You were ready to sacrifice us, who had come to save you, so that you might prove your son a liar and defeat his attempt."

Azemilcus made no reply, but the smile left his lips and he glanced furtively from side to side. Chares muttered some words in his throat that sounded like a curse.

"You are speaking to a king," Azemilcus said at last, drawing himself up with an assumption of dignity and trying to meet the eyes of his questioner.

"I am speaking to a fool!" Leonidas replied contemptuously. "In order to profit by his double perfidy, your son must have proof against you. Who will believe him unless we are found? It will be his first care to produce us, and if he can do this, there will be no hope left for you. Every moment that you kept us behind that door brought you nearer to death."

He paused, and Azemilcus made no reply; but his smile came back and his eyes wandered toward a table where a great flagon of wine had been set.

"There may yet be time to save ourselves and you," Leonidas continued. "If you can get rid of us for the present, you will have nothing to fear. You can deny your son's story and it will be attributed to a clumsy plot to overthrow you. Is there no way out of the palace that is not guarded?"

"None that I know," the king replied.

The chancellor uttered a clucking sound in his throat that seemed involuntary. Leonidas gripped him by the shoulder.

"Do you know a way?" he cried. "Speak quickly."

The chancellor went down on his knees and raised his hands in supplication.

"Mercy!" he wailed. "Mercy! I know—I have heard of a way!"

"Where does it lead?" Leonidas demanded fiercely.

"To the Temple of our Lord, Baal-Moloch," the old man whimpered.

King Azemilcus looked at his chancellor with his keen eyes and sarcastic smile.

"Now I understand many things," he remarked dryly.

"Oh, my master, I took them!" the chancellor cried, with tears rolling down his cheeks. "Esmun made me do it. He said Moloch demanded them."

"My rubies," the king said musingly. "Well, never mind. We will talk of them hereafter."

"What is one piece of treachery, more or less, to you?" Leonidas said roughly. "Remain here. Should you escape your son, we will seek you, if we can, when those come whom you cannot escape. If we do not return, fly to the Temple of Melkarth and embrace his knees that you may be spared. Farewell!"

He dragged the chancellor to his feet. The man was shaking so that he could hardly stand. Below them in the palace they could hear the tramp of ascending footsteps and the sound of voices.

"They are coming; we cannot remain here," Nathan cried.

Leonidas snatched up the flagon of wine and hastily filled a golden cup that he offered to the chancellor.

"Drink this," he said. "It will give you strength."

Instead of taking the cup, the chancellor uttered a choking cry and pushed it from him.

"Not that!" he gasped. "See, I am strong! I will lead you!"

He seemed indeed to have recovered from his weakness, for he stepped briskly toward the door by which they had entered. Leonidas looked at him and then at the wine spilled upon the floor.

"Poisoned!" he exclaimed, and such a blaze of wrath gleamed in his eye that the old king shrank back.

"So this was your plan for getting rid of us!" the Spartan said.

His grasp tightened about the hilt of his sword, and for an instant he hesitated; but the tramp of the soldiers was close at hand and he reflected that a dead king could not betray Tyre. He sheathed his sword and darted into the passage after his companions. Azemilcus made fast the door behind them and let the draperies fall over it. Then he turned with his mocking smile to face his accusers.

Azemilcus walked to the window and stood there leaning against the frame. Day was breaking, sullen and gray, in a wrack of flying clouds, and the uneasy moaning of the sea sounded in his ears.

There Hur and Esmun, panting from their long climb, found him standing. The prince carried a drawn sword in his hand and he glanced quickly from side to side as he burst into the room. Behind him came Ariston and a guard of twenty or thirty soldiers, headed by one of the generals of the garrison. Hur had expected to find the Greeks. He saw only his father, leaning wearily in the window. He stood abashed, looking at Esmun as if for advice.

The old king remained motionless until all had entered, and then he turned slowly and faced them. The lines of his countenance, deepened by months of anxiety, told of the strain he had passed through, and his shrunken frame seemed aged and feeble in its magnificent robe of state. His eyes met theirs steadily and frankly, yet with a look of sadness as he gave them his greeting.

"Welcome, my son and gentlemen," he said. "You come early to seek your king; but in these times I know that ceremony must be disregarded. What news do you bring?"

The authority in his tone and the dignity of his bearing, which most of the men who stood before him had been accustomed from boyhood to respect, had their effect. The soldiers, who knew nothing of the plot, stared wonderingly about them. Ariston had prudently halted near the door, and he now edged still farther into the background.

"Come, gentlemen!" the king said, finding that none replied to his question. "What is the news that brings you hither at this hour? Do not fear to tell me, since it is the lot of kings to share the dangers and sorrows of their people. Have I not done it for nearly fifty years?"

He smiled somewhat sadly and waved his thin hand with a gesture that seemed to dismiss all that he had done for the city as something for which he required no return of gratitude.

"Do not hesitate," he continued, "because you would spare me. It is true that in all that now threatens us I have more to lose than you. I am ready, as you know, to sacrifice even life itself if that would save the city. Is it concerning the offering to Baal-Moloch that you desire to consult me?"

He addressed himself to Esmun, recognizing in the priest the man from whom he had most to fear. He had scarcely glanced at his son, who stood helpless, raging inwardly to find himself presenting the appearance of a culprit caught in some fault, instead of the avenger that he had expected to be. Esmun looked at the prince and saw that nothing was to be expected from him. He took up the situation boldly, relying upon his sacred office to protect him.

"It is true that I wished to consult you concerning the sacrifice to Baal-Moloch, whom I serve," he said, "but we had still another reason for coming. We have been informed that a plot against your life has been conceived. It was told to us that certain Greeks had been brought into the city by the treachery of your enemies, and we made all haste to summon this guard to protect you in case of need. It is said that the assassins are even now in the palace. If anything should happen to your Highness, then, indeed, the city might despair. In guarding thy safety, we guard the safety of all."

The two men looked into each other's eyes. The king read the threat that lay behind Esmun's words and he took up the challenge.

"Why should they seek to destroy a man whose days are fast nearing their close?" he asked. "The death of one of these soldiers would profit them more, since it would leave one less dauntless heart for them to conquer. It seems to me that the alarm is needless, although I thank you for your care; and yet, I will not conceal from you that there may after all be some basis for the story you have heard. Within the week, the crown rubies have been stolen, and it is clear that I have some unfaithful servants. Perhaps they have brought in the Greeks to prevent detection and the punishment they deserve. Search the palace, and if the assassins are found, we will make an example of them."

Esmun's heavy face quivered when the king spoke of the rubies, for his words were accompanied by a look full of significance. He knew that the Greeks were in the city, but the willingness of the king to have the search made indicated that they were no longer in the palace. He racked his brains to think what had become of them.

Ariston slipped out of the door and stole softly down the stairs. The astute Athenian saw that the counterplot had collapsed.

"You, my son, and you, Esmun, will remain with me while the guard makes the search," the king said coolly, "and let us eat, for there is much to be done to-day."

He engaged the priest in talk regarding the details of the sacrifice to Baal while the soldiers dispersed through the palace and slaves brought food. To Hur he did not speak. The general in charge of the guard at last returned, saying that no trace of the presence of strangers in the palace could be discovered. He knew nothing of the secret passages, and the prince did not venture, in his father's presence, to reveal them. Esmun, with the theft of the rubies in his mind, dared not betray his knowledge of their existence.

"It is as I thought," the king said, dismissing the guard. "I thank you for your zeal."

The slaves had already withdrawn, since it was unlawful for any who had not been initiated to be present while the mysteries of the worship of Baal were being discussed.

"You seem downcast, my son!" the king said when he was left alone with Hur and the priest. He took his seat at the table, upon which the food had been placed, and motioned them to a seat opposite to him. "You will never be a king," he continued, "until you learn how to conquer failure. I have noted a certain nervousness in you of late. You should overcome it. Misfortune is half disarmed when you meet her in a cheerful spirit."

Hur let his eyes fall, but he made no reply. Esmun kept his gaze on the king's face.

"Come!" Azemilcus said in the same bantering tone, "you do not eat. You should leave the welfare of the city to me. You thought you knew, when you did not. You should remember that kings do not always reveal their purposes."

He filled his cup from the great flagon and pushed it toward them.

"Let us drink to the safety of Tyre," he said.

"To that I say amen," Esmun exclaimed, "and may the curse of Baal rest upon all who seek to betray her!"

"So say I—be they high or low!" Hur echoed boldly.

The old king's eyes sparkled and he looked at them with the mocking smile that they knew so well.

"Drink, then!" he said, spilling a few drops from his cup upon the floor as a libation.

The others followed his example, Esmun with a muttered word of invocation, and both drank off what remained. The king was seized by a violent fit of coughing that shook his withered frame and forced him to set his cup down untasted. As he did so Esmun rose to his feet.

The face of the priest was convulsed and purple and his eyes seemed starting from his head. He raised his clenched hands and made a tottering step toward the king as though he would strike him with his fists. He struggled to speak, but no words issued from his throat. He reeled blindly and crashed down across the table like a slain bullock, overturning it in his fall. His eyes rolled up in his head and he lay motionless.

The prince did not rise from his chair, but his fingers gripped convulsively the carved arms of ebony and he writhed in agony.

"Father!" he gasped.

His form stiffened, his head fell back, and a slight foam appeared on his lips.

Azemilcus drew the skirts of his robe around him and stepped carefully across the litter caused by the wreck of the table, with its linen cloth stained in the spilled wine that flowed from the shattered flagon. He walked quietly to the door and vanished between the crimson curtains, leaving the two dead men alone in the room.

While Azemilcus was dealing with his enemies in his own way, the wretched chancellor, shaking in every limb, conducted the Macedonians back through the secret passage by which he had brought them to the presence of the king. Descending the winding stairs, they reached the street level, where the old man opened a hidden door that led into a narrow subterranean gallery. They followed this for what seemed to them a long distance in a stagnant atmosphere, heavy with dampness. It brought them at last to a slab of stone, from which hung a ring of iron.

Chares was forced to exert all his strength to turn this stone upon its pivot. They emerged from the passage into a small room with walls of rough masonry and a door that was closed by a black curtain. At the request of the chancellor, the lamp was extinguished.

"Where are we?" Leonidas demanded.

"In the Temple of Baal," the old man whispered. "This room is little used by the priests. They live on the other side."

The Spartan raised the curtain and looked into the gloomy interior of the temple. It was deserted and silent.

"What shall we do with this man?" he asked, turning to his companions, and indicating the chancellor.

"We have no further use for him," Chares replied, placing his hand suggestively upon his sword-hilt.

"Spare me!" the chancellor cried, falling upon his knees. "I will tell where the rubies are, and a great store of jewels besides. They are under the image of Baal. Do not take my life!"

"He might betray us if we let him go," Leonidas said, paying no attention to his supplications.

"I swear to you on the head of Baal that I will not," the old man cried piteously.

"If he should betray us," Clearchus observed, "his own life would be forfeit, because we should reveal the part he had in bringing us into the city."

"Very well; you have most at stake," the Spartan said. "Let him go."

The chancellor did not wait for further permission. He disappeared into the passage like an old gray rat escaped from a trap.

"I am half sorry we spared him after all," Leonidas said regretfully. "Let us see where we are."

They passed through the curtained door and into the temple. Twilight reigned beneath the lofty dome where the bats were still flitting. This semi-darkness was artfully preserved so that the fire, which was the essential feature of the worship of Baal-Moloch, might be visible and effective during the sacrifices.

The Greeks found themselves in a vast hall of oblong shape. They were standing upon a platform of stone, raised for the height of a man above the main floor, to which a flight of broad and shallow steps descended. A huge dark mass stood before them exactly under the dome, the sides of which were pierced by narrow slits that admitted the light of day. This mass was the misshapen idol of Baal. The God was represented by a hollow statue of iron and bronze, sitting upon a throne. Its long arms terminated in hands that rested with palms upturned beside its knees. Its enormous head was inclined slightly forward, and the expression upon its face was so cruel and malignant that Clearchus felt his blood chilled as he gazed upon it and thought of the hecatombs of innocent victims whose lives had been sacrificed to its ferocity.

There were larger and more splendid images of Baal in other Phœnician cities, but none that was so venerated. It had been brought from the Temple of Baal-Moloch in the Old City on the mainland, where for centuries it had been the guardian of the place, receiving its sacrifices each year. In the old days even the first-born of the royal blood had been lifted in those blackened arms and rolled upon the iron knees to be roasted alive. The terrible face leaned above with distended nostrils, as though to inhale the odor of burning flesh, and thousands of mothers had watched its dreadful smile through the smoke with songs of praise on their lips and death in their hearts, while their babies writhed in agony in the pitiless embrace. Baal would accept no unwilling sacrifice, and the mother whose child was torn from her breast to be given to the God, not only lost her infant but was disgraced forever if she showed emotion while the rite was being performed.

In spite of themselves, the Macedonians were oppressed by a kind of superstitious dread as they looked at the grim visage that seemed to sneer down upon them.

The great portals of the temple, at the other end of the hall, were closed. On either side were rows of dark columns upholding the roof, which was painted to represent the heavens. Dim shapes of monsters, half beast and half human, appeared upon the walls.

The Greeks made a circuit of the temple but found no means of egress. There were several anterooms similar to the one to which the subterranean passage had led them. These contained vestments, the implements used in the ceremonials, and a store of scented wood, dry as tinder, that furnished fuel for the sacrifices. In one of the rooms was a door which Joel believed connected with the building in which the priests were housed. The walls around the platform were draped with heavy hangings of black that formed a background for the image.

"Let us take counsel," Nathan said, casting a look of hatred at the idol. "Jehovah will not permit this monster to triumph over Him."

They withdrew into their recess to consider a plan of action.

"One thing is certain," Leonidas said. "Alone we can never prevent the sacrifice."

"My people will help us," Nathan said. "They will not give up their first-born without fighting."

"How many are they?" Clearchus asked.

"There are ten thousand of them in the city," Joel replied; "but they are not armed, excepting those who have been drafted to the defence of the walls."

"I have more faith in Alexander than I have in your people," Chares said bluntly. "He will be in the city before this day ends, unless the Gods have misled old Aristander."

"But will he come in time?" Leonidas asked. "Let Nathan and Joel go to the Israelites and rouse them to resist. Tell them that Alexander is coming and that he will protect them. We three will stay here and await the result."

To this the others gave their assent. It seemed a desperate chance, but it was all they had. There was a small window in the antechamber, high up in the wall. Nathan climbed up to it on the shoulders of the Greeks and looked through.

"There is nothing on this side but the cypress garden," he said. "Farewell; you may be sure that we shall return, though we come alone."

He slipped through the window and dropped upon the turf outside. Joel followed him. The three Greeks, left alone in the temple, looked into each other's faces and Clearchus grasped his companions by the hand.

"You have placed your lives in peril for me," he said with emotion. "Zeus grant that they be not demanded of you!"

"Pshaw!" Chares exclaimed, "are not our lives always in peril? If we must die, we shall die; and we are not permitted to choose where or how. When the Ferryman calls, we must go. For my part, if thou wouldst repay me, let me sleep, for my head is nodding."

Clearchus smiled, understanding his friend's aversion to any display of feeling. He embraced the Theban, who calmly lay down upon the stone floor; his eyes closed, and he began to snore gently.

Leonidas, whose tough frame defied fatigue, and Clearchus, whose mind was in a torment of doubt and suspense, stationed themselves behind the curtain that hid the door and waited, talking in whispers. They could hear the patter of raindrops and by the rising wind outside they knew that a storm was breaking over the city. Its breath entered through the slits in the dome, causing the dark hangings to sway against the wall. The gloomy temple seemed to be filled with mysterious murmurings. Some drops fell upon the image of Baal and ran glistening down the bronze head and broad, sleek shoulders.

Nathan and Joel made their way through the cypress thickets and scaled the wall of the temple garden. They found themselves in a narrow street which led them to a broader thoroughfare, where men were hurrying to and fro in the rain. Soldiers of the garrison, weary and hollow-eyed, were going to the defences. Citizens whose uneasy rest had been cut short by the tension of dread were early abroad in search of news.

"What of the enemy?" one of them asked of a soldier who was returning from the walls.

"They are coming out to attack," the soldier replied. "Their ships have already left the shore, and the stones will soon be falling about your ears."

"How much longer?" the citizen asked, with a groan.

"Ask that of the Gods," the soldier replied indifferently; "but I think the end will be soon, unless Moloch relents."

Joel and Nathan passed on, their appearance attracting no attention in a city where there were so many of their race.

"Hasten!" Nathan said. "Alexander is coming!"

As they advanced toward the quarter occupied by the Israelites, the streets became filled with people, nearly all of whom seemed to be drawn in the same direction that they themselves were taking. They fell in with a man who strode on with knitted brows and lips compressed. By his appearance he was a Hebrew, and Nathan addressed him in the Hebrew tongue.

"Whither goest thou?" he asked.

"To save the innocent from slaughter," the man replied fiercely. "Come with me if ye are men!"

"We will come with thee," Nathan said.

"There are the priests!" Joel exclaimed.

Half a dozen of the ministers of Baal, surrounded by a guard of soldiers, came down a cross street. They carried in their hands small bundles of short cords with which to bind the limbs of their victims. The crowd gave way before them, gazing at their black robes and stern, fanatical faces with curiosity mingled with dread.

"May the curse of the Most High rest upon them!" the stranger cried, shaking his fist.

He began to run in the direction of the open square used by the Israelites as a market-place. Nathan and Joel raced after him. The clamor of voices raised in bitter lamentation reached them. They found the square choked with a surging mass of men and women who clasped little children to their breasts, seeking to protect them. The rain beat in their faces and the gusty wind tossed their garments. Some called upon their God, raising their hands toward heaven. Others shrieked the names of their offspring who had already been torn from them. Every house in the quarter was filled with weeping and cries of despair. The priests of Baal went hither and thither, seizing their prey in the name of the law wherever they found it.

Nathan and Joel halted at the edge of the square. The priests were searching through the crowd, many of them concealing a tiny burden beneath their robes of office. Feeble wailings betrayed the nature of these bundles. They were the children of the Israelites, bound hand and foot for the sacrifice.

While the young men stood looking, one of the priests discovered a woman who crouched upon the ground with her face hidden in her dishevelled hair. He grasped her roughly by the shoulder and drew her back, disclosing the fact that she had been shielding her baby beneath her bosom. The child raised its dimpled hands and tried to touch its mother's wet cheeks. The priest seized them and tore the infant from her. She clutched the skirt of his robe and followed him on her knees through the mire, begging piteously for the child.

"You have so many already," she said, "and he is all I have! Surely Baal does not require my little one. He will be appeased. Give him back to me!"

The priest turned and struck her upturned face with his clenched hand. She uttered a cry of anguish and released his robe, falling back senseless to the earth.

An inarticulate sound burst from the lips of the man who had guided Nathan and Joel to the market-place.

"O Lord, my God!" he shouted, raising his hands to the leaden sky. "I had two children to be the staff and prop of my old age. Wilt Thou suffer them to be taken from me? We have remained faithful to Thee; is this to be our reward?"

Nathan was about to spring upon the guard that surrounded the priests before him when the tall figure of an old man strode into the square. His gaunt frame was clad in sackcloth, and his long white hair and beard were blown in the wind. He walked erect, without the aid of the staff which he carried in his hand. There was an air of authority and even of majesty in his bearing. The men and women nearest to him fell upon their knees and stretched their hands toward him in supplication. He did not glance at them and he seemed not to hear their prayers. His stern eyes swept the market-place and he spoke in a resonant voice that rose above the tumult and caused it to die away.

"Why do ye lament, men of Israel?" he cried. "Cease now your weeping and rejoice. For Tyre is fallen! Her hour is come!"

"It is Pethuel, chief priest of the synagogue," Joel whispered to Nathan, who was watching the old man with glowing eyes.

"Hearken unto me, O ye of little faith!" Pethuel continued, and the silence spread until his words could be heard throughout the square. "The worshipper of idols is cast down. The day of clouds and thick darkness is at hand. Lo! they waxed a strong and a mighty people. The cities of the world feared them, and their ships followed the trackless wastes of the sea. There was none like to them in their greatness.

"Unto some they said, 'Go!' and unto others they said, 'Come!' Verily, their strength was like that of the lion, and they rejoiced in their vessels of gold and silver. It seemed to them that there would be no ending.

"And lo! the end is upon them. They are cast down; their walls are overthrown, and their city is become a place of desolation. Thus saith the Lord God unto me, His servant, that I may tell it to my people and bid them rejoice!

"He has delivered them out of the hands of their enemies as a bird from the net of the fowler. I said unto the Lord, 'Behold, the city of abominations hath laid her hand upon Thy servants! In the olden time, did she spoil Israel and Juda and the pleasant valleys, wasting them with fire and sword. Then did Thy vengeance fall upon her, until of her strong walls not one stone remained upon another. But now she presseth sore upon Thy people; wherefore help us, O Lord!'

"Hear ye, men of Israel! Out of the darkness came a Voice like the rushing of a mighty wind and the sound of many waters, and it filled mine ears, saying: 'I am the Lord God of Hosts. Inasmuch as ye have been faithful unto Me and have bowed not before the work of man's hands, therefore will I hearken unto you. She has sown the wind, and she shall reap the whirlwind. Her fortresses and her strong places shall be spoiled. The weak shall perish with the strong, and the mighty shall not deliver himself. I will give her daughters to ruin and her children shall be wanderers among the nations. This will I do for My people, that they be not put to scorn. Say to them: "Take each man his sword and let him slay; for who shall withstand the wrath of the Most High?"'"

To Nathan it seemed that the veil that separates the seen from the unseen had been rent away. The voice that rang in his ears was no longer the voice of Pethuel, but that of his Maker. He felt himself lifted up beyond the region of doubt, and a great gladness filled his heart.

Pethuel paused before him and looked at him with a gaze that pierced him through like fire. The old man raised his staff and touched him on the shoulder. It seemed to Nathan an act of consecration.

"Lead thou them!" Pethuel cried in a loud voice. "It is the command of the Lord, thy God."

A compelling Power, greater than himself, seized upon the young Israelite. He no longer had any volition of his own. He became an instrument.

"Follow me, men of Israel!" he shouted, drawing his sword. "Jehovah gives the heathen into our hands!"

The hush was broken, and a great cry went up from the densely packed market-place. With one impulse, the crowd fell upon the soldiers and priests who still remained in the square, the greater part having already retreated toward the Temple of Baal-Moloch. The Phœnicians, greatly outnumbered, were able to make but a brief resistance. Nathan sprang forward and cut down the nearest soldier. In the rush that followed him, the guard was swept away, scattered, and destroyed singly. A score of children were rescued. The priests were trampled to the earth and torn limb from limb. The square resounded with savage cries. The Israelites had been roused to frenzy. The word of God was upon them.

"To the temple!" Nathan shouted. The cry ran through the mob which surged into the narrow streets leading to the shrine of Baal-Moloch, bearing down all before it. The frightened priests heard it coming and sent messengers to the walls, demanding succor. Azemilcus ordered soldiers to be detached to quell the disturbance, and the defence of the city was still further weakened.

The fighting in the streets became desperate. The Israelites scattered and, by circuitous routes, pressed toward the temple. They mounted to the roofs, hurling all kinds of missiles from a great height upon the heads of the guards. The rain fell in blinding sheets. It seemed to the Tyrians that the entire Hebrew population of the city had suddenly gone mad. Ties of association were forgotten, and men who had been friends for years struggled for each other's lives.

The tumult spread in every direction. The soldiers were forced to fall back and form a ring of defence around the temple. Even then, they had much ado to hold the crowd at bay, for the Israelites charged against them without ceasing, recklessly throwing away their lives upon the hedge of steel.

Great stones dropped from the sky continually. Friend and foe were crushed beneath them. When they struck the walls of the houses, they left gaping fissures through which the interior could be seen. They came from the engines upon the Macedonian ships that were renewing the attack upon the city.


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