[16]Astaroth.
[16]Astaroth.
“Have they said anything?” asked the prince, with disquiet.
“Yes, more than once. Only yesterday the holy Mefres smiled, and said that amusement attracted a young man like thee more than religion or the labor of ruling a state.”
Rameses fell to thinking,—
“So the priests looked on him as a frivolous stripling, though he, thanks to Sarah, would become a father to-day or to-morrow. But they would have a surprise when he spoke to them in his own manner.”
In truth the prince reproached himself somewhat. From the time that he left the temple of Hator he had not occupied himself one day with the affairs of Habu. The priests might suppose that he was either entirely satisfied with Pentuer’s explanations, or that he was tired of interfering in government.
“So much the better!” whispered he. “So much the better!”
Under the influence of the endless intrigues of those around him, or suspicious of those intrigues, the instinct to deceive began in his young spirit to rouse itself. Rameses felt that the priests did not divine the subject of his conversation withHiram, nor the plans which were forming in his head. It sufficed those blinded persons, that he was amusing himself; from this they inferred that the management of the state would remain in their hands forever.
“Have the gods so darkened their minds,” thought Rameses, “that they do not even ask themselves why Hiram gave me a loan so considerable? And perhaps that crafty Tyrian has been able to lull their suspicious hearts? So much the better! So much the better!”
He had a marvellously agreeable feeling when he thought that the priests had blundered. He determined to keep them in that blunder for the future; hence he amused himself madly.
Indeed the priests were mistaken, both in Rameses and Hiram. The artful Tyrian gave himself out before them as very proud of his relations with Rameses, and the prince with no less success played the rôle of a riotous stripling.
Mefres was even convinced that the prince was thinking seriously of expelling the Phœnicians, that meanwhile he and his courtiers were contracting debts and would never pay them.
But the temple of Astaroth with its numerous courts and gardens was filled with devotees all the time. Every day, if not every hour, though the heat was excessive, some company of pilgrims to the great goddess arrived from the depth of Asia.
Those were strange pilgrims. Wearied, streaming with perspiration, covered with dust, they advanced with music, and dancing, and songs sometimes of a very lewd character. The day passed for them in unbridled license in honor of the goddess. It was possible not only to recognize every such company from afar, but to catch its odor, since those people always brought immense bouquets of fresh flowers in their hands, and in bundles all the male cats that had died in the course of the current year. The devotees gave these cats to dissectors in Pi-Bast to be stuffed or embalmed, and bore them home later on as valued relics.
On the first day of the month Mesori (May-June), Prince Hiram informed Rameses that he might appear at the temple of Astaroth that evening. When it had grown dark on thestreets after sunset, the viceroy girded a short sword to his side, put on a mantle with a hood, and unobserved by any servant, slipped away to the house of Hiram.
The old magnate was waiting for the viceroy.
“Well,” said he, with a smile, “art thou not afraid, prince, to enter a Phœnician temple where cruelty sits on the altar and perversity ministers?”
“Fear?” repeated Rameses, looking at him almost contemptuously. “Astaroth is not Baal, nor am I a child which they might throw into your god’s red-hot belly.”
“But does the prince believe this story?”
Rameses shrugged his shoulders.
“An eyewitness and a trustworthy person,” answered he, “told me how ye sacrifice children. Once a storm wrecked a number of tens of your vessels. Immediately the Tyrian priests announced a religious ceremony at which throngs of people collected.” The prince spoke with evident indignation. “Before the temple of Baal situated on a lofty place was an immense bronze statue with the head of a bull. Its belly was red hot. At command of your priests the foolish Phœnician mothers put their most beautiful children at the feet of this cruel divinity—”
“Only boys,” interrupted Hiram.
“Only boys,” continued Rameses. “The priests sprinkled each boy with perfumes, decked him with flowers, and then the statue seized him with bronze hands, opened its jaws, and devoured the child, whose screams meanwhile were heaven-piercing. Flames burst each time from the mouth of the deity.”
Hiram laughed in silence.
“And dost thou believe this, worthiness?”
“I repeat what a man told me who has never lied.”
“He told what he saw. But did it not surprise him that no mother whose children they burned was weeping?”
“He was astonished, indeed, at such indifference in women, since they are always ready to shed tears even over a dead hen. But it shows great cruelty in your people.”
The old Phœnician nodded.
“Was that long ago?” asked he.
“A few years.”
“Well,” said Hiram, deliberately, “shouldst thou wish to visit Tyre some day, I shall have the honor to show thee a solemnity like that one.”
“I have no wish to see it.”
“After the ceremony we shall go to another court of the temple, where the prince will see a very fine school, and in it, healthy and gladsome, those very same boys who were burnt a few years ago.”
“How is that?” exclaimed Rameses; “then did they not perish?”
“They are living, and growing up to be sturdy mariners. When thou shall be pharaoh,—mayst thou live through eternity!—perhaps more than one of them will be sailing thy ships.”
“Then ye deceive your people?” laughed the prince.
“We deceive no one,” answered the Tyrian, with dignity. “Each man deceives himself when he does not seek the explanation of a solemnity which he does not understand.”
“I am curious,” said Rameses.
“In fact,” continued Hiram, “we have a custom that indigent mothers wishing to assure their sons a good career give them to the service of the state. In reality, those children are taken across the statue of Baal, in which there is a heated stove. This ceremony does not mean that the children are really burnt, but that they have been given to the temple, and so are as much lost to their mothers as if they had fallen into fire.
“In truth, however, they do not go to the stove, but to nurses and women who rear them for some years. When they have grown up sufficiently, the school of priests of Baal receives and educates them. The most competent become priests or officials; the less gifted go to the navy and obtain great wealth frequently. Now I think the prince will not wonder that Tyrian mothers do not mourn for their children. I will say more: thou wilt understand, lord, why there is no punishment for parents who kill their children, as there is in Egypt.”
“Wretches are found in all lands,” replied the prince.
“But there is no child murder in our country,” continued Hiram, “for with us children, when their mothers are unable to support them, are taken to the temple by the state.”
The prince fell to thinking; suddenly he embraced Hiram, and said with emotion,—
“Ye are much better than those who tell tales of you. I am greatly rejoiced at this.”
“Among us, too, there is no little evil,” answered Hiram; “but we are all ready to be thy faithful servants shouldst thou call us.”
“Is this true?” asked the prince, looking him in the eyes.
The old man put his hand on his heart.
“I swear to thee, O heir to the throne of Egypt and future pharaoh, that if thou begin at any time a struggle with our common enemy, Phœnicia will hasten as one man to assist thee.—But receive this as a reminder of our conversation.”
He drew from beneath his robe a gold medal covered with mysterious characters, and, muttering a prayer, hung it on the neck of Prince Rameses.
“With this amulet,” continued Hiram, “thou mayst travel the whole world through, and if thou meet a Phœnician he will serve thee with advice, with gold, with his sword even. But now let us go.”
Some hours had passed since sunset, but the night was clear, for the moon had risen. The terrible heat of the day had yielded to coolness. In the pure air was floating no longer that gray dust which bit the eyes and poisoned respiration. In the blue sky here and there twinkled stars which were lost in the deluge of moonbeams.
Movement had stopped on the streets, but the roofs of all the houses were filled with people occupied in amusement. Pi-Bast seemed from edge to edge to be one hall filled with music, singing, laughter, and the sound of goblets.
The prince and the Phœnician went speedily to the suburbs, choosing the less lighted sides of the streets. Still, people feasting on terraces saw them at intervals, and invited them up, or cast flowers down on their heads.
“Hei, ye strollers!” cried they, from the roofs. “If ye are not thieves called out by the night to snatch booty, comehither, come up to us. We have good wine and gladsome women.”
The two wanderers made no answer to those hospitable invitations; they hurried on in their own way. At last they came to a quarter where the houses were fewer, the gardens more frequent, the trees, thanks to damp sea-breezes, more luxuriant and higher than in the southern provinces of Egypt.
“It is not far now,” said Hiram.
The prince raised his eyes, and over the dense green of trees he saw a square tower of blue color; on it a more slender tower, which was white. This was the temple of Astaroth. Soon they entered the garden, whence they could take in at a glance the whole building.
It was composed of a number of stories. The top of the lowest was a square platform with sides four hundred yards long; its walls were a few metres high, and all of black color. At the eastern side was a projection to which came two wide stairways. Along the other three sides of this first story were small towers, ten on each side; between each pair of towers were five windows.
More or less in the centre of this lowest platform rose a quadrangular building with sides two hundred yards long. This had a single stairway, towers at the corners, and was purple. On the top of this building was another of golden color, and above it, one upon the other, two towers—one blue, the other white.
The whole building looked as if some power had placed on the earth one enormous black dice, on it a smaller one of purple, on that a golden one, on that a blue, and, highest of all, a silver dice. To each of these elevations stairs led, either double flights along the sides or single front stairs, always on the eastern walls.
At the sides of the stairs and doors stood, alternately, great Egyptian sphinxes, or winged Assyrian human-headed bulls.
The viceroy looked with delight at this edifice, which in the moonlight and against the background of rich vegetation had an aspect of marvellous beauty. It was built in Chaldean style, and differed essentially from the temples of Egypt, first, by the system of stories, second, by the perpendicular walls.Among the Egyptians every great building had sloping sides receding inward as they rose.
The garden was not empty. At various points small villas and houses were visible, lights were flashing, songs and music were heard. From time to time among trees appeared shadows of loving couples.
All at once an old priest approached them, exchanged a few words with Hiram, and said to the prince with a low obeisance,—
“Be pleased, lord, to come with me.”
“And may the gods watch over thee, worthiness,” added Hiram, as he left him.
Rameses followed the priest. Somewhat aside from the temple, in the thickest of the grove, was a stone bench, and perhaps a hundred rods from it a villa of no great size at which was heard singing.
“Are people praying there?” asked the prince.
“No,” answered the priest, without concealing his dislike; “at that house assemble the worshippers of Kama, our priestess who guards the fire before the altar of Astaroth.”
“Whom does she receive to-day?”
“No one at any time,” answered the guide, offended. “Were the priestess of the fire not to observe her vow of chastity she would have to die.”
“A cruel law,” observed Rameses.
“Be pleased, lord, to wait at this bench,” said the Phœnician priest, coldly; “but on hearing three blows against the bronze plate, go to the temple, ascend to the first platform, and thence to the purple story.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
The prince sat down on the bench, in the shadow of an olive-tree, and heard the laughter of women in the villa.
“Kama,” thought he, “is a pretty name. She must be young, and perhaps beautiful, and those dull Phœnicians threaten her with death. Do they wish in this way to assure themselves even a few virgins in the whole country?”
He laughed, but was sad. It was uncertain why he pitied that unknown woman for whom love would be a passage to the grave.
“I can imagine to myself Tutmosis if he were appointed priestess of Astaroth,” thought Rameses. “He would have to die, poor fellow, before he could light one lamp before the face of the goddess.”
At that moment; a flute was heard in the villa, and some one played a plaintive air, which was accompanied by female singers, “Áha-ā! áha-ā!” as in the lullaby of infants.
The flute stopped, the women were silent, and a splendid male voice was heard, in the Greek language:—
“When thy robe gleams on the terrace, the stars pale and the nightingales cease to sing, but in my heart there is stillness like that which is on earth when the clear dawn salutes it—”
“Áha-ā! áha-ā!” continued the women. The flute played again.
“When thou goest to the temple, violets surround thee in a cloud of fragrance, butterflies circle near thy lips, palms bend their heads to thy beauty.”
“Áha-ā! áha-ā!—”
“When thou art not before me, I look to the skies to recall the sweet calm of thy features. Vain labor! The heavens have no calm like thine, and their heat is cold when compared with the flame which is turning my heart into ashes.”
“Áha-ā! áha-ā!—”
“One day I stood among roses, which the gleam of thy glances clothe in white, gold, and scarlet. Each leaf of them reminded me of one hour, each blossom of one month passed at thy feet. The drops of dew are my tears, which are drunk by the merciless wind of the desert.
“Give a sign; I will seize thee, I will bear thee away to my birthplace, beloved. The sea will divide us from pursuers, myrtle groves will conceal our fondling, and gods, more compassionate toward lovers, will watch over our happiness.”
“Áha-ā! áha-ā!—”
The prince dropped his eyelids and imagined. Through his drooping lashes he could not see the garden, he saw only the flood of moonlight in which were mingled shadows and the song of the unknown man to the unknown woman. At instants that song seized him to such a degree, and forced itselfinto his spirit so deeply, that Rameses wished to ask: “Am I not the singer myself? nay, am I not that love song?”
At this moment his title, his power, the burdensome problems of state, all seemed to him mean, insignificant in comparison with that moonlight and those calls of a heart which is enamored. If the choice had been given him to take the whole power of the pharaoh, or that spiritual condition in which he then found himself, he would have preferred that dreaming, in which the whole world, he himself, even time, disappeared, leaving nothing behind but desire, which was now rushing forth to infinity borne on the wings of song and of music.
Meanwhile the prince recovered, the song had ended, the lights in the villa had vanished, the white walls, the dark vacant windows were sharply outlined. One might have thought that no person had ever been in that house there. The garden was deserted and silent, even the slight breath of air stirred the leaves no longer.
One! two! three!—From the temple were heard three mighty sounds from bronze.
“Ah! I must go,” thought the prince, not knowing well whither he was to go or for what purpose.
He turned, however, in the direction of the temple, the silver tower of which rose above the trees as if summoning him.
He went as in a trance, filled with strange wishes. Among the trees it was narrow for him; he wished to ascend to the top of that tower, to draw breath, to take in with his glance some wider horizon. Again he remembered that it was the month Mesori, that a year had passed since the manœuvres; he felt a yearning for the desert. How gladly would he mount his light chariot drawn by two horses, and fly away to some place where it was not so stifling, and trees did not hide the horizon!
He was at the steps of the temple, so he mounted to the platform. It was quiet and empty there, as if all had died; but from afar the water of a fountain was murmuring. At the second stairway he threw aside his burnous and sword; once more he looked at the garden, as if he were sorry toleave the moonlight behind, and entered the temple. There were three stories above him.
The bronze doors were open; at both sides of the entrance stood winged figures of bulls with human heads; on the faces of these was dignified calmness.
“Those are kings of Assyria,” thought the prince, looking at their beards plaited in tiny tresses.
The interior of the temple was as black as night when ’tis blackest. The darkness was intensified more by white streaks of moonlight falling in through narrow high windows.
In the depth of the temple two lamps were burning before the statue of Astaroth. Some strange illumination from above caused the statue to be perfectly visible. Rameses gazed at it. That was a gigantic woman with the wings of an ostrich. She wore a long robe in folds; on her head was a pointed cap, in her right hand she held a pair of doves. On her beautiful face and in her downcast eyes was an expression of such sweetness and innocence that astonishment seized the prince, for she was the patroness of revenge and of license the most unbridled.
“Phœnicia has shown me one more of her secrets. A strange people,” thought Rameses. “Their man-eating gods do not eat, and their lewdness is guarded by virgin priestesses and by a goddess with an innocent face.”
Thereupon he felt that something had slipped across his feet quickly, as it were a great serpent. Rameses drew back and stood in the streak of moonlight.
“A vision!” said he to himself.
Almost at that moment he heard a whisper,—
“Rameses! Rameses!”
It was impossible to discover whether that was a man’s or a woman’s voice, or whence it issued.
“Rameses! Rameses!” was heard a whisper, as if from the ceiling.
The prince went to an unilluminated place and, while looking, bent down.
All at once he felt two delicate hands on his head.
He sprang up to grasp them, but caught only air.
“Rameses!” was whispered from above.
He raised his head, and felt on his lips a lotus flower; and when he stretched his hands to it some one leaned on his arm lightly.
“Rameses!” called a voice from the altar.
The prince turned and was astounded. In the streak of light, a couple of steps distant, stood a most beautiful man, absolutely like the heir to the throne of Egypt. The same face, eyes, youthful stature, the same posture, movements, and dress.
The prince thought for a while that he was before some great mirror,—such a mirror as even the pharaoh could not have. But soon he convinced himself that his second was a living man, not a picture.
At that moment he felt a kiss on his neck. Again he turned, but there was no one; meanwhile his second self vanished.
“Who is here? I wish to know!” cried the angry prince.
“It is I—Kama,” answered a sweet voice.
And in the strip of light appeared, a most beautiful woman, naked, with a golden girdle around her waist.
Rameses ran up and seized her by the hands. She did not flee.
“Art thou Kama?—No, thou art— Yes, Dagon sent thee on a time, but then thou didst call thyself Fondling.”
“But I am Fondling, too,” replied she, naïvely.
“Is it thou who hast touched me with thy hands?”
“I.”
“How?”
“Ao! in this way,” answered she, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him.
Rameses seized her in his arms, but she tore herself free with a force which no one could have suspected in such a slight figure.
“Art thou then the priestess Kama? Was it to thee that that Greek sang to-night?” asked the prince, pressing her hands passionately. “What sort of man is that singer?”
Kama shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
“He is attached to our temple,” was the answer.
Rameses’ eyes flamed, his nostrils dilated, there was a roaringin his head. That same woman a few months before had made on him only a slight impression; but to-day he was ready to commit some mad deed because of her. He envied the Greek, and felt also indescribable sorrow at the thought that if she became his she must perish.
“How beautiful thou art,” said he. “Where dost thou dwell? Ah, I know; in that villa. Is it possible to visit thee?—Of course it is. If thou receive singers, thou must receive me. Art thou really the priestess guarding the fire of this temple?”
“I am.”
“And are the laws so severe that they do not permit thee to love? Ei, those are threats! For me thou wilt make exception.”
“All Phœnicia would curse me; the gods would take vengeance,” replied she, with a smile.
Rameses drew her again toward him; again she tore herself free.
“Have a care, prince,” said she, with a challenging look. “Phœnicia is mighty, and her gods—”
“What care I for thy gods or Phœnicia? Were a hair to fall from thy head, I would trample Phœnicia as I might a foul reptile.”
“Kama! Kama!” called a voice from the statue.
She was frightened.
“Thou seest they call me. They may have heard thy blaspheming.”
“They may have heard my anger.”
“The anger of the gods is more terrible.”
She tore away and vanished in the darkness of the temple. Rameses rushed after her, but was pushed back on a sudden. The whole temple between him and the altar was filled with an immense bloody flame, in which monstrous figures appeared,—huge bats, reptiles with human heads, shades—
The flame advanced toward him directly across the whole width of the building; and, amazed by this sight, which was new to him, the prince retreated. All at once fresh air was around him. He turned his head—he was outside the temple, and that instant the bronze doors closed with a crash behind him.
He rubbed his eyes, he looked around. The moon from the highest point in the heavens had lowered toward the west. At the side of the column Rameses found his sword and burnous. He raised them, and moved down the steps like a drunken man.
When he returned to his palace at a late hour, Tutmosis, on seeing his pale face and troubled look, cried with alarm,—
“By the gods! where hast thou been, Erpatr? Thy whole court is alarmed and sleepless.”
“I was looking at the city. The night is beautiful.”
“Dost thou know,” added Tutmosis, hurriedly, as if fearing that some one else might anticipate him, “that Sarah has given thee a son?”
“Indeed?—I wish no one in the retinue to be alarmed when I go out to walk.”
“Alone?”
“If I could not go out alone when it pleases me, I should be the most wretched slave in Egypt,” said Rameses, bitterly.
He gave his sword and burnous to Tutmosis, and went to his bedroom without calling any one. Yesterday the birth of a son would have filled him with gladness; but at that moment he received the news with indifference. His whole soul was occupied with the thought of that evening, the most wonderful in all his life experience. He still saw the light of the moon; in his ears the song of the Greek was still sounding. But that temple of Astaroth!
He could not sleep till morning.
NEXT day the prince rose late, bathed himself and dressed, then summoned Tutmosis.
The exquisite appeared at once, dressed carefully and perfumed. He looked sharply at the prince to learn in what humor he was, and to fix his own features correspondingly. But on the face of Rameses was only weariness.
“Well,” asked the prince, yawning, “art thou sure that a son is born to me?”
“I have that news from the holy Mefres.”
“Oho! How long is it since the prophets are occupied with my household?”
“Since the time that thou hast shown them thy favor, worthiness.”
“Is that true?” asked the prince, and he fell to thinking.
He recalled the scene of the previous night in the temple of Astaroth, and compared it with a similar spectacle in the temple of Hator.
“They called my name,” said he to himself, “both here and there. But there my cell was very narrow, and the walls were thick; here the person calling, namely, Kama, could hide herself behind a column and whisper. But here it was terribly dark, while in my cell it was clear.” At last he said to Tutmosis,—
“When did that happen?”
“When was thy worthy son born? About ten days ago. The mother and child are well; they seem perfectly healthy. At the birth were present Menes himself, thy worthy mother’s physician, and his worthiness Herhor.”
“Well—well,” said the prince, and again he fell to thinking: “They touched me here and there, with a hand in both cases. Was there such a difference? It seems to me that there was, maybe for the reason that here I was, and there I was not, prepared to see a miracle. But here they showed me anothermyself, which they did not succeed in doing there. Very clever are the priests! I am curious to know who represented me so well,—a god or a man? Oh, the priests are very clever, and I do not know even whom to trust more,—our priests or the Phœnicians?
“Hear me, Tutmosis,” said he, aloud. “They must come hither; I must see my son. At last no one will have the right to consider himself better than I.”
“Is the worthy Sarah to come immediately with her son?”
“Let them come at the earliest, if their health permit. Within the palace bounds are many convenient buildings. It is necessary to choose a place among the trees, quiet, and, when the time of heat comes, cool. Let me, too, show the world my son.”
Again he was thoughtful; this disquieted Tutmosis.
“Yes, they are clever!” thought Rameses. “That they deceive the common people, even by rude methods, I knew. Poor sacred Apis! how many prods he got during processions when people lay prostrate before him! But to deceive me, I should not have believed that,—voices of gods, invisible hands, a man covered with pitch; these were accessories! Then came Pentuer’s song about the decrease of land and population, the officials, the Phœnicians, and all that to disgust me with war.”
Tutmosis said suddenly,—
“I fall on my face before thee.”
“I must bring hither, gradually, regiments from cities near the sea. I wish to have a review and reward them for loyalty.”
“But we, the nobles, are we not loyal to thee?” inquired Tutmosis, confused.
“The nobles and the army are one.”
“But the nomarchs and the officials?”
“Even the officials are loyal,” answered the prince. “What do I say? The Phœnicians even are so, though in many other points they are deceivers.”
“By the gods! speak in a lower voice,” whispered Tutmosis; and he looked toward the other room timidly.
“Oho!” laughed the prince, “why this alarm? So for thee, too, it is no secret that we have traitors?”
“I know of whom thou art speaking, worthiness, for thou wert always prejudiced against—”
“Against whom?”
“Against whom—I divine. But I thought that after the agreement with Herhor, after a long stay in the temple—”
“What of the temple? In the temple, and in the whole country, for that matter, I have convinced myself of one thing, that the very best lands, the most active population, and immense wealth are not the property of the pharaoh.”
“Quieter! quieter!” whispered Tutmosis.
“But I am quiet always; I have a calm face at all times, so let me speak even here; besides, I should have the right to say, even in the supreme council, that in this Egypt, whichbelongs entirely to my father, I, his heir and viceroy, had to borrow a hundred talents from a petty prince of Tyre. Is this not a shame?”
“But how did this come to thy mind to-day?” asked Tutmosis, wishing to put an end to the perilous conversation as quickly as possible.
“How?” answered the prince; and he grew silent, to sink again into meditation.
“It would not mean so much,” thought he, “if they deceived me alone; I am only heir to the pharaoh, and not admitted to all secrets. But who will assure me that they have not acted in the same way with my worthy father? He has trusted them entirely during thirty and some years; he has bowed down before miracles, given abundant offerings to the gods, for this result,—that his property and power should pass into the hands of ambitious tricksters! And no one has opened his eyes. For the pharaoh cannot, like me, enter Phœnician temples at night, and absolutely no one has admission to his holiness.
“But who will assure me to-day that the priests are not striving to overthrow the throne, as Hiram said? Even my father informed me that the Phœnicians are most truthful wherever they have an interest to be so. Assuredly it is their interest not to be expelled from Egypt, and not to fall under the power of Assyria. The Assyrians are a herd of raging lions! Wherever they pass through a country nothing is left except ruins and dead bodies, as after a fire—”
All at once Rameses raised his head; from a distance came the sound of flutes and horns.
“What does this mean?” inquired he of Tutmosis.
“Great news!” replied the courtier, with a smile. “The Asiatics are welcoming a famous pilgrim from Babylon.”
“From Babylon? Who is he?”
“His name is Sargon.”
“Sargon?” repeated the prince. “Sargon? Ha! ha!” laughed the prince. “What is he?”
“He must be a great dignitary at the court of King Assar. He brings with him ten elephants, a herd of most beautiful steeds of the desert, crowds of slaves and servants.”
“But why has he come?”
“To bow down before the wonderful goddess Astaroth, who is honored by all Asia,” answered Tutmosis.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the prince, recalling what Hiram had said of the coming of the Assyrian ambassador, Sargon. “Ha! ha! ha! Sargon, a relative of King Assar, has become all at once such a devotee that for whole months he goes on a difficult journey only to do honor in Pi-Bast to the goddess Astaroth. But in Nineveh he could have found greater gods and more learned priests. Ha! ha! ha!”
Tutmosis looked at the prince with astonishment.
“What has happened to thee, Erpatr?” asked he.
“Here is a miracle not described, I think, in the chronicles of any temple. But think, Tutmosis: When thou art most occupied with the problem of catching the thief who is always plundering thee, that same thief puts his hand again into thy casket before thy eyes, in presence of a thousand witnesses. Ha! ha! ha! Sargon, a pious pilgrim!”
“I understand nothing,” whispered Tutmosis, in anxiety.
“And thou hast no need to understand,” replied the viceroy. “Remember only that Sargon has come hither for devotional purposes.”
“It seems to me that everything of which thou art speaking,” said Tutmosis, lowering his voice, “is very dangerous.”
“Then do not mention it to any one.”
“I will not; but art thou sure that thou thyself, prince, wilt not betray the secret? Thou art as quick as lightning.”
The prince placed his hand on the courtier’s shoulder.
“Be at rest,” said he, looking him in the eyes. “If ye will only be loyal to me, ye, the nobles, and the army, ye will see wonderful things, and, as regards you, evil times will be ended.”
“Thou knowest that we are ready to die at thy command,” said Tutmosis, placing his hand on his breast.
There was such uncommon seriousness on the adjutant’s face that the prince understood, moreover not for the first time, that there was concealed in that riotous exquisite a valiant man, on whose sword and understanding he could put reliance.
From that time the prince had no more such strange conversations with Tutmosis. But that faithful friend and servant divined that connected with the arrival of Sargon were some great hidden interests of state which the priests alone had decided.
For a certain time all the Egyptian aristocracy, nomarchs, higher officials, and leaders had been whispering among themselves very quietly, yes, very quietly, that important events were approaching. For the Phœnicians under an oath to keep the secret had told them of certain treaties with Assyria, according to which Phœnicia would be lost, and Egypt be covered with disgrace and become even tributary.
Indignation among the aristocracy was immense, but no one betrayed himself; on the contrary, as well at the court of Rameses as at the courts of the nomarchs of Lower Egypt, people amused themselves perfectly. It might have been thought that with the weather had fallen on men a rage not only for amusements but for riot. There was no day without spectacles, feasts, and triumphal festivals; there was no night without illuminations and uproar. Not only in Pi-Bast but in every city it had become the fashion to run through the streets with torches, music, and, above all, with full pitchers. They broke into houses and dragged out sleeping dwellers to drinking-bouts; and since the Egyptians were inclined toward festivities every man living amused himself.
During Rameses’ stay in the temple of Hator the Phœnicians, seized by a panic, passed their days in prayer and refused credit to every man. But after Hiram’s interview with the viceroy caution deserted the Phœnicians, and they began to make loans to Egyptian lords more liberally than at any time earlier.
Such abundance of gold and goods as there was in Lower Egypt, and, above all, such small per cent the oldest men could not remember.
The severe and wise priests turned attention to the madness of the upper classes; but they were mistaken in estimating the cause of it, and the holy Mentezufis, who sent a report every few days to Herhor, stated that the heir, wearied byreligious practices in the temple, was amusing himself to madness, and with him the entire aristocracy.
The worthy minister did not even answer these statements, which showed that he considered the rioting of the prince as quite natural and perhaps even useful.
With such mental conditions around him Rameses enjoyed much freedom. Almost every evening when his attendants had drunk too much wine and had begun to lose consciousness, the prince slipped out of the palace. Hidden by the dark burnous of an officer, he hurried through the empty streets and out beyond the city to the gardens of the temple of Astaroth. There he found the bench before that small villa, and, hidden among the trees, listened to the song of Kama’s worshipper, and dreamed of the priestess.
The moon rose later and later, drawing near its renewal. The nights were dark, the effects of light were gone; but in spite of this Rameses continued to see that brightness of the first night, and he heard the passionate strophes of the Greek singer.
More than once he rose from his bench to go directly to Kama’s dwelling, but shame seized him. He felt that it did not become the heir of Egypt to show himself in the house of a priestess who was visited by any pilgrim who gave a bountiful offering to the temple. What was more striking, he feared lest the sight of Kama surrounded by pitchers and unsuccessful admirers might extinguish the wonderful picture in the moonlight.
When Dagon had sent her to turn away the prince’s wrath, Kama seemed attractive, but not a maiden for whom a man might lose his head straightway. But when he, a leader of armies and a viceroy, was forced for the first time in life to sit outside the house of a woman, when the night roused him to imaginings, and when he heard the adroit declarations of another, a strange feeling rose in him,—a mixture of sadness, desire, and jealousy.
If he could have had Kama at every call, she would have become repulsive quickly, and perhaps he would have fled from her. But Death, standing on the threshold of her bedchamber, an enamored singer, and, finally, that humiliatingposition of the highest dignitary before a priestess,—all this created a condition which for Rameses was unknown till that time, hence enticing.
And this was why he had appeared almost every evening of ten successive days in the gardens of the goddess Astaroth, shielding his face from all who passed him.
Once, when he had drunk much wine at a feast in his palace, Rameses slipped out with a settled purpose.
“To-night,” said he to himself, “I will enter Kama’s dwelling; as to her adorers—let them sing at her windows.”
He passed through the city quickly; but in the gardens of the temple he lessened his steps, for again he was shamefaced.
“Has it ever been heard,” thought he, “that the heir of a pharaoh ran after women like a poor scribe who cannot borrow ten drachmas anywhere? All women come to me, so should this one.”
And he was ready then to turn back to his palace.
“But she cannot come,” said he to himself, “for they would kill her.”
He stopped and hesitated.
“Who would kill her,—Hiram, who believes in nothing, or Dagon, who knows not himself what he is? True, but there is a multitude of other Phœnicians in Egypt, and hundreds of thousands of wild and fanatical pilgrims are prowling around here. In the eyes of those idiots Kama would commit sacrilege were she to visit me.”
So he went toward the villa. He did not even think that danger might threaten him there,—him, who without drawing his sword might by a mere look bring the whole world to his feet; he, Rameses, and danger!
When the prince came out from among trees, he saw that Kama’s house was more brightly lighted and more noisy than usual. In fact, the terrace and the rooms were filled with guests, and around the villa were throngs of people.
“What band is this?” thought Rameses.
It was an uncommon assemblage. Not far from the house was an immense elephant, bearing on his back a gilded litter with purple curtains. At the side of the elephant, neighing and squealing, and, in general, acting impatiently, were horseswith large necks and legs, with tails plaited, and with something on their heads like metal helmets.
Among these restless, almost wild animals, some tens of men were busied,—men such as Rameses had never seen elsewhere. They had shaggy hair, great beards, pointed caps with ear-laps; some wore long robes of coarse cloth reaching to their heels; others wore short coats and skirts, and some had boots on their feet. All carried swords, bows, and darts.
At sight of these foreigners, stalwart, awkward, laughing vulgarly, smelling of tallow, and speaking an unknown and harsh language, the prince was indignant. As a lion, though not hungry, prepares to spring when he sees a common animal, so Rameses, though they had offended him in no way, felt a terrible hatred toward those strangers. He was irritated by their language, their dress, the odor from their bodies, even their horses. The blood rushed to his head, and he reached for his sword to attack those men—slay them and their beasts also. But soon he recovered his senses.
“Set has cast a spell on me,” thought Rameses.
At that moment a naked Egyptian, with a cap on his head and a girdle around his waist, passed along the path slowly. The prince felt that the man was near to him, even precious at that moment, for he was an Egyptian. He took from his purse a gold ring worth from ten to twenty drachmas, and gave it to the bondman.
“Listen,” said he; “who are those people?”
“Assyrians,” whispered the Egyptian; and hatred glittered in his eyes as he answered.
“Assyrians,” repeated the prince. “Are those Assyrians, then? And what are they doing here?”
“Their lord, Sargon, is paying court to the priestess, the sacred Kama, and they are guarding him. May leprosy devour them, the wretches, the swine sons!”
“Thou mayst go.”
The naked man made a low obeisance and ran, surely to some kitchen.
“Are those Assyrians?” thought the prince, as he looked at their strange figures and heard their hated, though un-understood language. “So already Assyrians are on the Nile,to become brothers to us, or to deceive us, and their dignitary, Sargon, is courting Kama?”
He returned home. His imaginings died before the light of a passion felt then for the first time. He, a man mild and noble, felt a deadly hatred toward the ancient enemies of Egypt, whom he had never met till that evening.
When leaving the temple of Hator, and after his interview with Hiram, he began to think of war with Asia; that was merely thinking that Egypt needed population, and the pharaoh needed treasure; and since war gave the easiest means to win them, and since, besides, it agreed with his need of glory, Rameses conceived the plan of warfare. But now he was concerned neither with slaves, nor treasures, nor glory, for in him was sounding at that moment a voice mightier than every other,—the voice of hatred. The pharaohs had struggled so long with the Assyrians, both sides had shed so much blood, the struggle had fixed its roots in their hearts so profoundly, that the prince grasped for his sword at the very sight of Assyrian warriors. It seemed that the spirits of all the slain Egyptians, their toils and sufferings, had risen in the soul of this descendant of pharaohs and cried for retribution.
When Rameses reached the palace, he summoned Tutmosis. One of them had drunk too much, the other was raging.
“Dost thou know what I have seen just now?” asked the prince of his favorite.
“One of the priests, perhaps.”
“I have seen Assyrians. O ye gods! what I felt! What a low people! Their bodies from head to foot are covered with wool, as wild beasts are; the stench of old tallow comes from them; and what speech, what beard, what hair!”
The prince walked up and down the room quickly, panting, excited.
“I thought,” said he, “that I despised the robberies of scribes, the deceit of nomarchs, that I hated the cunning and ambition of priests; I felt repulsion for Jews, and I feared the Phœnicians; but I convinced myself to-night that those were all amusements. I know now, for the first time, what hate is, after I have seen and heard Assyrians. I understandnow why a dog tears the cat which has crossed his path.”
“Thou art accustomed to Jews and Phœnicians, worthiness, thou hast met Assyrians now for the first time,” put in Tutmosis.
“Stupidity! the Phœnicians!” continued the prince, as if to himself. “The Phœnicians, the Philistines, the Arabs, the Libyans, even the Ethiopians seem, as it were, members of our own family. When they fail to pay tribute, we are angry; when they pay, we forget our feeling.
“But the Assyrians are something strange, something inimical, so that—I shall not be happy till I can count one hundred thousand of their hands cut off by us.”
Never had Tutmosis seen the prince in such a state of feeling.
ACOUPLE of days later Rameses sent his favorite with a summons to Kama. She appeared soon in a tightly closed litter.
Rameses received her in a separate chamber.
“I was,” said he, “outside thy house one evening.”
“Oh, Astaroth!” cried the priestess. “To what must I attribute this high favor? And what hindered thee, worthy lord, from deigning to summon thy slave?”
“Some beasts were there,—Assyrians, I suppose.”
“Then thou didst take the trouble, worthiness, in the evening? Never could I have dared to suppose that our ruler was under the open sky, a few steps from me.”
The prince blushed. How she would be astounded could she know that he had passed ten evenings near her windows!
But perhaps she knew it, judging by her half-smiling lips and her eyes cast down deceitfully.
“So, then, Kama,” said the prince, “thou receivest Assyrians at thy villa?”
“That man is a great magnate,—Sargon,—a relative of King Assar,” answered Kama; “he has brought five talents to our goddess.”
“And thou wilt repay him, Kama?” jeered the heir. “And since he is such a bountiful magnate, the Phœnician gods will not send thee death in punishment.”
“What dost thou say, lord?” exclaimed Kama, clasping her hands. “Dost thou not know that if an Asiatic found me in the desert he would not lay hands on me, even were I myself to yield to him? They fear the gods.”
“Why, then, does he come to thee, this malodorous—no—this pious Asiatic?”
“Because he wants to persuade me to go to the temple of Astaroth in Babylon.”
“And wilt thou go?”
“I will go if thou command me, lord,” said Kama, concealing her face with her veil.
The prince took her hands in silence. His lips quivered.
“Do not touch me, lord,” whispered she, with emotion. “Thou art my sovereign, my support, the support of all Phœnicians in this country—but have compassion.”
The viceroy let her go, and walked up and down through the chamber.
“The day is hot, is it not?” asked he. “There are countries where in the month of Mechir white down falls from the sky, it is said; this down in the fire turns to water, and makes the air cold. Oh, Kama, beg thy gods to send me a little of that down,—though what do I say? If they should cover Egypt with it, all that down might be turned into water and not cool the heart in me.”
“For thou art like the divine Amon; thou art the sun concealed in human form,” replied Kama. “Darkness flees from that place whither thou turnest thy countenance, and under the gleam of thy glances flowers blossom.”
The prince turned again to her.
“But be compassionate,” whispered she. “Moreover, thou art a kind god, hence thou canst not be unjust to thy priestess.”
The prince turned away again, and shook as if wishing to cast down a burden. Kama looked from beneath her drooping lids at him, and smiled slightly.
When silence had endured too long, she said,—
“Thou hast commanded to summon me, Sovereign. Here I am, to hear what thy will is.”
“Aha!” said the prince, recovering. “But tell me, O, priestess, aha! who was that who resembled me so closely,—the man whom I saw that night in the temple?”
Kama placed a finger on her lips.
“A sacred mystery,” whispered she.
“One thing is a mystery, another is not permitted,” replied Rameses. “Let me know at least whether it was a man or a spirit?”
“A spirit.”
“But still that spirit sang under thy window.”
Kama laughed.
“I do not wish to violate the secrets of the temple.”
“Thou hast promised that to Prince Hiram,” put in the priestess.
“Well, well,” interrupted the irritated viceroy; “for this cause I shall not speak with Hiram or any other man about this miracle, only with thee. Now, Kama, tell this spirit or man who is so like me to leave Egypt at the earliest, and not to show himself to any one. For, seest thou, in no state can there be two heirs to the throne.”
All at once he tapped his forehead. Up to that instant he had spoken so as to trouble Kama, but now an idea altogether serious came to him.
“I am curious,” said he, looking sharply at Kama, “to know why thy compatriots showed me my own living picture. Do they wish to forewarn me that they have a man to supplant me? Indeed, their act is astounding.”
Kama fell at his feet.
“O lord!” whispered she, “thou who bearest on thy breast our highest talisman, canst thou suppose that the Phœnicians would do aught to injure thee? But only think—if danger threatened thee, or if thou hadst the wish to mystify enemies, would not such a man be of service? The Phœnician only wished to show thee this in the temple.”
The prince meditated a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.
“So,” thought he, “if I needed anyone’s assistance! But do the Phœnicians think that I need assistance? If I do they have chosen a poor protector.”
“Lord!” whispered Kama, “is it not known to thee that Rameses the Great had, in addition to his own person, two others to show enemies? Those two shadows of the pharaoh perished, but he survived.”
“Well, enough of this,” interrupted the prince. “But that the people of Asia may know that I am gracious, I designate Kama five talents for games, in honor of Astaroth, and a costly goblet for her temple. This gift will be received to-day by thee.”
He dismissed the priestess with a motion of his head.
After her departure a new wave of thought mastered him.
“Indeed, the Phœnicians are clever. If this, my living picture, is a man, they can make of him a great present to me, and I shall perform at times miracles such, perhaps, as have never been heard of in Egypt. The pharaoh dwells in Memphis, and at the same time he shows himself in Thebes or in Tanis. The pharaoh is marching on Babylon with an army, the Assyrians assemble their main forces there, and simultaneously the pharaoh, with another army, captures Nineveh,—I judge that the Assyrians would be greatly astounded by an event of that sort.”
And again deep hatred was roused in him against the strong Asiatics; again he saw his conquering chariot sweeping over a battlefield covered with Assyrian corpses, and whole baskets of severed hands stood before him.
For his soul war had become now as great a need as bread is for the body. For not only could he enrich Egypt by it, fill the treasury, and win glory to last through ages, but, besides, he might satisfy the instinct hitherto unknown, but roused mightily at that moment, to destroy Assyria.
Until he had seen those warriors with shaggy beards he had not thought of them. That day they had met him and made the world seem so small that one side must give way,—they or he.
What rôle had Hiram and Kama played in creating his present frame of mind? Of this he had made no estimate. He felt only that he must have war with Assyria, just as a bird of passage feels that in the month Pachons it must go northward.
A passion for war seized the prince quickly. He spoke less, laughed more rarely, sat in thoughtfulness at feasts, and also spent his time oftener and oftener with the army and the aristocracy. Seeing the favor which the heir showered on those who bore arms, the noble youth, and even older men, began to join regiments. This attracted the attention of the holy Mentezufis, who sent a letter to Herhor with the following contents:—
“From the time that the Assyrians have arrived at Pi-Bast the heir is feverish, and his court is inclined toward war very greatly. They drink and play dice as before; but all have thrown aside robes and wigs, and, disregarding the awful heat, go about in military caps and mantles.
“I fear lest this armed readiness may offend the worthy Sargon.”
To this Herhor replied immediately,—
“It is no harm that our effeminate nobles have taken a love for military appearance during the visit of Sargon, for the Assyrians will have a better opinion touching Egypt. Our most worthy viceroy, enlightened by the gods, as is evident, has divined that just now it is necessary to rattle our swords when we have with us the ambassadors of such a military people. I am certain that this valiant bearing of our youth will give Sargon something to think of, and will make him more yielding in arguments.”
For the first time since Egypt had become Egypt it happened that a youthful prince had deceived the watchful priesthood. It is true that the Phœnicians were behind him, and had stolen the secret of the treaty with Assyria; of this the priests had not even a suspicion.
In fact, the very best mask which the heir had against suspicion was his impetuosity of character. All remembered how easily in the past year he had rushed from manœuvres at Pi-Bailos to Sarah’s quiet country villa, and how from feasts he had grown impassioned, recently, for administrative labor, and then devotion, to return to feasts afterward.
So no one believed, with the exception of Tutmosis, that that changeful youth had before him an object for which he would fight with invincible decision.
Even this time there was no need to wait long for new proofs of the prince’s mobility of temper.
To Pi-Bast, in spite of the heat, came Sarah with all her court and her infant. She was somewhat thin, her child a trifle ill, or wearied, but both looked very charming.
The prince was enchanted. He assigned a house to Sarah in the choicest part of the palace garden, and sat whole days, almost, at his son’s cradle.
Feasts, manœuvres, and gloomy meditations were forgotten; the lords of his suite had to drink and amuse themselves without him. Very soon they ungirded their swords and arrayed themselves in their most exquisite garments. The change was the more indispensable as Rameses brought some of them to Sarah’s dwelling and showed his son to them.
“See, Tutmosis,” said he once to his favorite, “what a pretty child: a real rose leaf! Well, and out of this little thing a man will grow gradually. And this rosy chick will walk about some day, talk, even learn wisdom in the schools of the priesthood.”
“Look at his little hands, Tutmosis,” said Rameses, delighted. “Remember these little hands, so as to tell of them some day when I give him a regiment, and command him to have my mace borne behind him. And this is my son, my own son.”
It is not to be wondered at that when their lord spoke thus his attendants were sorry that they could not become dry or wet nurses to the child which, though it had no dynastic rights, was still the first son of the future pharaoh.
But this idyll ended very soon, since it did not harmonize with the interests of the Phœnicians.
A certain day the worthy Hiram arrived at the palace with a great suite of merchants, slaves, and also poor Egyptians to whom he gave alms, and when he stood before the heir, he said,—
“Our gracious lord! to prove that thy heart is full of kindness toward us Asiatics also, thou hast given five talents to arrange games in honor of the goddess Astaroth. Thy will is accomplished; we have arranged the games, now we have come to implore thee to deign to honor the games with thy presence.”
While saying this, the gray-haired Tyrian prince knelt before Rameses and gave him a golden key to his box in the amphitheatre.
Rameses accepted the invitation willingly; the holy priests Mefres and Mentezufis had no objection to the presence of the prince in honoring the goddess Astaroth.
“First of all, Astaroth,” said the worthy Mefres to Mentezufis, “is the same as our Isis and the Chaldean Istar; second, if we permit Asiatics to build temples in our land it is proper to be kindly to their gods at seasons.”
“We are obliged even to show some politeness to Phœnicians after the conclusion of such a treaty with Assyria,” put in the worthy Mentezufis, smiling.
The amphitheatre, to which the viceroy, the nomarch, and the foremost officers betook themselves about four in the afternoon was built in the garden of the temple. It was a circular space surrounded by a palisade twice the height of a man. Inside the palisade, and round about, was a multitude of boxes and seats rising one above the other. The structure had no roof, but above the boxes extended cloth of various colors, cut like wings of butterflies, which, sprinkled with fragrant water, were moved to cool the atmosphere.
When the viceroy appeared in his box, the Asiatics and Egyptians present in the amphitheatre gave forth a mighty shout. The spectacle began with a procession of singers, dancers, and musicians.
The prince looked around. At his right was the box of Hiram and the most noted of the Phœnicians; on his left the box of the Phœnician priests and priestesses. In this Kama occupied one among the first places, and attracted notice by her splendid dress and by her beauty. She wore a transparent robe adorned with embroidery of various colors, gold bracelets and anklets, and on her head a circlet with a lotus flower composed most skilfully of jewels.
Kama came with her colleagues, saluted the prince with low obeisances, and returned to the box on the left, where began an animated conversation with a foreigner whose hair was somewhat gray and whose presence was imposing. The hair and beard of this man and his companions were plaited into small braids.
The prince had come almost directly from the chamber of his son, and was gladsome. But he frowned when he saw the priestess speaking with a stranger.
“Dost thou not know, Tutmosis, who that big fellow is for whom the priestess is so charming?” asked he.
“He is that famous pilgrim who has come from Babylon,—the worthy Sargon.”
“But he is an old grandfather!”
“His years are surely more than thine and mine together; but he is a stately person.”
“Could such a barbarian be stately!” said the indignant viceroy. “I am certain that he bears about the smell of tallow.”
Both were silent: the prince from anger, Tutmosis from fear because he had dared to praise a man whom Rameses hated.
Meanwhile spectacle followed spectacle on the arena. In turn appeared acrobats, serpent-charmers, dancers, buffoons, and jesters, who called forth shouts from the audience.
But Rameses was gloomy. In his soul sprang up, moment after moment, passions which had been dormant,—hatred for Assyrians and jealousy of Kama.
“How can that woman,” thought he, “fondle up to an old man who has a complexion like tanned leather, wild black eyes, and the beard of a he-goat?”
But once the prince turned a more attentive look on the arena.
A number of naked Chaldeans entered. The oldest fixed in the earth three short spears, points upward; then, with motions of his hands, he put the youngest man to sleep. After that others took the sleeping man and placed him on the spears in such fashion that one of the spears supported his head, another his loins, and the third his feet.
The man was as stiff as wood. Then the old man made motions above him with his hands, and drew out the spear supporting his feet. After a while he removed the spear on which his loins were resting, and finally that on which his head was fixed.
This took place in the clear day, before some thousands of spectators. The sleeping Chaldean rested in the air horizontally,without support, a couple of ells above the earth. At last the old man pushed him down and roused him.
The audience was astounded; no one dared to applaud or to shout, but flowers were thrown from some boxes.
Rameses too was astonished. He bent towards Hiram’s box, and asked the old prince in a low voice,—
“Could they perform that secret in the temple of Astaroth?”
“I am not conversant with all the secrets of our priests,” answered Hiram, confused. “I know, though, that Chaldeans are very clever.”
“But we all saw that that young man rested in the air.”
“If they did not put a spell on us,” said Hiram, reluctantly; and he grew serious.
After a short interval, during which servitors took to the boxes of dignitaries fresh flowers, cool wine and cakes, the most important part of the spectacle began,—the bull fight.
To the sound of trumpets, drums, and flutes they led a strong bull into the arena, with a cloth over his head so that he should not see. Then a number of naked men ran around with darts, and one with a short sword.
At a signal, given by the prince, the leaders ran away, and one of the armed men struck the cloth from the head of the bull. The beast stood some moments in a maze; then he chased after the dart men, who vexed him by pricking.
This barren struggle continued some tens of minutes. Men tormented the bull, and he, foaming, stained with blood, reared and chased over the whole arena after his enemies without reaching any.
At last he fell, amid the laughter of the spectators.
The wearied prince, instead of looking at the arena, looked at the box of the Phœnician priests. He saw that Kama had moved nearer to Sargon and was conversing vivaciously. The Assyrian devoured her with his glances; she smiled and blushed, whispered with him, sometimes bending so that her hair touched the locks of the barbarian; sometimes she turned from him and feigned anger.