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.
Artemisia and Thais looked from their window at the scud of flying clouds and beneath them the Macedonian fleet assembling south of the city. Thais' eyes danced with excitement, and Artemisia's cheeks were flushed.
"This time we shall win!" Thais exclaimed, throwing her arms about her companion. "You are beautiful this morning, Artemisia; Clearchus will be pleased with you."
The color in Artemisia's cheeks deepened and a happy smile parted her lips.
"I shall make him leave the army," she said. "Of course I am proud of his bravery; but, after all, there are better things than to be always killing other men."
She raised her chin with a charming affectation of pride. "He is an Athenian, you know," she added.
Thais frowned. She found in Artemisia's words an implied reflection upon Chares.
"Don't be silly," she replied. "Do you want to make him one of those curled idiots who spend their time in company with philosophers, chasing shadows or trying to find out why crabs walk sidewise? You would wake up some day and find that one of them had proved to him that there is no such thing as love. Or perhaps you would rather have him a dandy, with race-horses and a score of dancing girls to amuse himself with! Let him be a man, Artemisia; let him love you and fight his enemies with all his heart. For my part, if Chares talks of deserting Alexander, he may look elsewhere for some one to love him; for I shall not."
Artemisia listened to this outburst; but she shook her head, and a soft light shone in her eyes.
"You want power and splendor," she said "but I would rather be alone with Clearchus in a desert than sit beside him upon the throne of Darius. I will have no rival in his heart."
"And with half a dozen children around you," Thais said scornfully. "You might as well complete the picture."
"Yes," Artemisia answered bravely, though she blushed as she said it, "if the Gods permit it; and if the first is a boy, he shall be named Chares."
Thais turned swiftly and kissed her, all her anger gone in a moment.
"There, sister, I did not mean it," she said. "May the Gods give us both our hearts' desire!"
She clapped her hands, and the tiring women who had been awaiting the summons entered.
"Give me my saffron chiton," she cried, "and my topaz necklace. We shall have visitors to-day, girls."
She seated herself before a large mirror while the women dressed her hair and robed her as she had directed. They could not hide their admiration when their task was finished and she stood before them like a living image of gold.
But Artemisia chose a linen robe of pure white, unrelieved by color. The spotless purity of her dress set off the delicate flush upon her cheeks and the soft brown of her hair.
So eager were the young women that they were scarcely able to taste the fruit and cakes that the servants set before them. They kept jumping up and running to the window to see what progress the Macedonian fleet was making, and whether the attack had begun.
"What a storm!" Artemisia exclaimed. "I wish it would stop; it hides the ships."
"Zeus is fighting on our side to-day," Thais replied gayly, as a long growl of thunder shook the walls of the house. "Tell me, what is going on in the city?" she added, turning to a Cretan maiden among the women. The girl was beautiful in face and figure, although her expression was one of sadness. She had once ruled as favorite of Phradates, and it was whispered in the household that she still loved him, in spite of the fact that she had had a score of successors since her brief day of ascendency.
"They are preparing a sacrifice to Baal-Moloch," she replied, "in the hope of persuading him to aid them."
"What is this sacrifice? I have never seen one," Thais asked.
"I do not know," the girl said. "There has been none since I came to Tyre."
"I know, mistress," another of the women volunteered. She was a Syrian, with a supple figure and bright black eyes, who had been a slave from her infancy.
"Describe it, then," Thais said.
"Baal-Moloch is the most powerful God in the world," the woman said volubly. "His image is made of iron, and is terrible to look upon." She shivered as she spoke. "I never saw it but once, and that was when the Babylonian king threatened to make war upon us. We offered sacrifice to prevent it, and Moloch would not permit him to come. The priests went about the city and took the children—even the little babies—and carried them away to the temple. When the doors were opened, we could see Baal sitting there in the darkness. There was a fire inside of him, and his eyes glowed at us. He reached his hands down, and the priests gave him the children, one by one, and he lifted them up and devoured them. It was awful to think of those little children!"
Artemisia listened with an expression of horror on her face.
"I do not see where they are going to get the children now," Thais remarked. "They have all been sent away."
"They are taking the children of the Israelites who remained here," the Syrian explained, "and they say—at least, Mena says—they are going to sacrifice a virgin, too. Ugh! I don't want to see it."
"Little good will it do them!" Thais exclaimed. "Not even Baal can save their city now."
"Hush!" the Syrian said, affrighted. "He is a great God."
Sounds of commotion and of hurried footsteps in the lower halls of the house interrupted them. Thais listened.
"Go and see what it is," she commanded.
The Syrian went, and in a moment came flying back into the room with terror on her face.
"Oh, my mistress!" she cried. "Why did you speak so of Moloch? His priests are in the house! Save us!"
"Silence!" Thais exclaimed, rising to her feet. "You shall not be harmed."
She raised her head proudly and faced the doorway, while the slave women huddled behind her with frightened eyes. Artemisia stood beside her, trying to emulate her courage; but a strange sinking laid hold upon her heart, and a mist swam before her eyes.
There was a rush of feet outside, and four black-robed men, followed by a guard of soldiers, entered. Their leader was a man of stern and grave expression, whose eyes seemed to glow in his pale face with the power of his compelling will. He was Hiram, who had been chosen hastily to act as chief priest when Esmun failed to return from the royal palace. His ascetic countenance contrasted strongly with the gross faces of his followers, brutalized by self-indulgence. The other priests both feared and hated him, for it was said that Baal had endowed him with powers that were beyond the understanding of man.
"What seek ye here?" Thais demanded, flashing a haughty glance at the zealot.
He paid no heed to her and made no answer. His dark eyes caught those of her companion and held them.
"Artemisia!" he said, in a solemn voice that sounded like a summons, "our Lord, Baal-Moloch, the Saviour, awaits thee! Come with us to his temple."
To Artemisia the words sounded far away; yet she heard them distinctly, and they seemed to leave her no choice but to obey. A deep sense of peace crept over her as she looked into the fathomless eyes of the priest, that were fixed steadfastly upon hers, and from which she could not withdraw her own. Dimly she felt that never again should she see Clearchus or behold the land of Attica. Never should she hear his beloved voice or feel his arms around her, clasping her close to his breast. It was the will of the Gods. Everything earthly seemed to recede and fall away from her as in a dream, leaving her alone with the grim priest, her master. They two were floating upon a mighty current that was bearing them, she knew not whither. She was at peace, and all was ended. The terror she had felt a few moments before had left her. It seemed remote and long ago, and she smiled to think of it and of how foolish it had been.
Hiram saw her form droop and her muscles relax, and these signs of his victory did not escape him. The expression of his face did not change, however, and he still kept his eyes fastened upon hers. The sombre figures of his subordinates stood motionless beside him, and the soldiers of his guard, lean and weather-worn, blocked the doorway, glancing now at the two young women and now at the slave girls cowering in the background.
"Come with me!" Hiram said quietly, stretching his strong hand toward Artemisia.
She made an uncertain step toward him, but Thais caught her by the arm and drew her back.
"What do you mean by this mummery?" she cried, with blazing eyes. "Get thee gone and tell thy God that Artemisia is not for him!"
"Chafe not, daughter," Hiram replied calmly. "The will of Baal must be obeyed. There can be no escape."
"You shall not have her!" Thais cried. "Your creed demands a willing sacrifice!"
"And she is willing," the priest said, in the same even tone.
"She is not!" Thais said.
"Follow me!" Hiram exclaimed, slightly raising his voice.
Artemisia made a feeble effort to obey, and Thais felt the arm that she held draw away from her grasp.
"Sorcerer!" she cried desperately, retaining her hold, "she is not willing of her own will. Release her from thy spell!"
"She is willing," Hiram repeated, "and thou shalt see her place herself voluntarily in the hands of the Giver of Life."
He made a slight sign, and the three priests who followed him stepped forward. One of them twisted Thais' hand from Artemisia's arm, retaining her wrist in his clutch, while another seized her on the opposite side, rendering her helpless. The third took Artemisia gently by the hand. She offered no resistance, but suffered herself to be led down the marble stairs with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing. Thais followed between her captors. Her face was pale to the lips, and yellow flames danced in her eyes.
"Priest of Baal!" she said, "thou hast shown no mercy and none shalt thou receive—neither thou nor thy God!"
"Blaspheme not," Hiram said; "the vengeance of our Lord is bitter."
"More bitter still shall be the vengeance of men," Thais exclaimed in her despair, "and they are now beating at the walls who shall make thee feel it!"
Hiram made no reply. If he felt a misgiving, his face did not betray it. He led the way with measured tread down the staircase, followed by his two captives and by the guard.
"Artemisia!" Thais cried in anguish, "speak to me!"
Artemisia made no response, nor did she turn her head. It was evident that she had not heard. Laying aside her pride, Thais determined to make a final effort. When they reached the deserted entrance hall, she raised her voice.
"Phradates! Phradates!" she cried. "Save us from these men!"
Her cry echoed through the recesses of the hall, but it brought no response.
"Phradates!" Thais called again as the outer doors swung back, revealing the wind-swept street.
This time a figure emerged from the marble columns. It was that of Mena the Egyptian, who advanced with a malicious smile upon his sharp face.
"My master is upon the walls," he said impudently, though he bowed low. "He is fighting to save the city from your friends."
Something of the suppressed triumph in his bearing struck the attention of Thais, agitated as she was.
"Is this thy work?" she demanded, looking at him between narrowing eyelids. "Thou shalt pay for it, slave, upon the cross, to the last drop of thy blood!"
"Thou dost me too much honor," Mena replied, bowing again in mock humility.
"Come," said one of Thais' captors, roughly. "Baal must not be kept waiting."
The slanting rain smote their faces as they emerged into the street, where throngs of men and women were crowding toward the Temple of Moloch. On this side, as yet, nothing could be seen of the fierce conflict that was raging for the possession of the children in the Hebrew quarter. The sounds of it were lost in the rushing of the wind and the crashing of the thunder.
The people of Tyre hastened forward in silence and with bowed heads. A nameless dread possessed them. Amid the confusion wrought by man and the elements, friends and neighbors touched shoulders without a glance of recognition. A weight of oppression seemed to dull their minds and restrict their lungs. They were like creatures that listen furtively in hidden terror to catch the forewarning of some catastrophe, the nature of which they know not. All bonds were dissolved. Husbands became separated from their wives in the press and made no attempt to rejoin them.
Even the priests of Moloch who followed Hiram were affected by the universal uneasiness, and Thais felt the hands that clasped her wrists tremble. Hiram himself walked gravely and slowly, apparently oblivious of what was going on about him. He seemed indifferent alike to the pelting of the storm and the danger from falling stones. A mass of rock plunged into the crowd close before him, crushing a man beneath its ponderous weight. The step of the pontiff did not waver, and he passed the spot without so much as a glance at the mangled body pinned down by the missile. His consciousness of the protection of Moloch freed him from all sense of personal danger.
The people made way for him in silence, huddling to the sides of the street and closing in after the soldiers had passed. Artemisia walked with her eyes upon the sombre figure that strode before her. Her face was as colorless as the linen chiton that clung to her figure in the rain, disclosing the maidenly outline of her bosom. Her breathing was even and regular, as though she were sleeping with open eyes.
Anger raged in Thais' breast as in that of a lioness, bound with chains, which sees her cubs taken from her. She knew the hopelessness of struggling with her captors, for even if she could free herself, she would still be powerless to rescue Artemisia.
Around the gloomy temple stood thousands of men and women, mournfully and silently waiting in the rain for the procession to enter. The great bronze doors stood open, revealing the dark interior of the building, where a few torches cast a flickering light upon the face of the monstrous idol, whose cruel features seemed to be twisting themselves with hideous grimaces.
Streamers of pale blue smoke were drawn through the apertures over the head of the image by the wind, and the inside of the temple was filled with a smoky haze that increased the obscurity. This came from the fire of scented wood that the priests had kindled in the body of the idol. They fed it continually from behind; and the faint smoke, rising from carefully disposed openings in the breast and shoulders of the figure, partially veiling its face, added to the mystery and solemnity of the ceremony.
As Hiram approached the entrance, two lines of black-robed priests issued silently to right and left, pushing back the crowd and forming a lane which led up the two flights of shallow stone steps to the doorway. The spectators reverently bowed their heads. Their faith in the power of Baal, bred in them from infancy, was strong upon them, and deep was their fear of his wrath. Many times had he listened to their prayers, and more than once had he refused to listen, permitting the calamity that they besought him to avert. But never since he had become their God, at a time beyond the limit of tradition, had they gone to him in such dreadful extremity. Would he intervene, or would he leave them to their fate?
All eyes were turned to the impassive face of Hiram, searching there for an answer to the question that was in every mind. The chief priest gave no sign. He paced slowly into the open space between the ranks of the priests, his black vestments fluttering about him in voluminous folds. His eyes looked straight forward into the temple, seeking the face of Baal. In his footsteps walked Artemisia, her head now drooping slightly, like a flower cut from its stem. The priests began a slow chant, so low that its words of praise could hardly be understood.
Halfway up the second flight of steps, behind the row of priests, Pethuel appeared in the crowd. He had managed somehow to reach the temple in advance of his flock. The rain glistened upon his white hair and snowy beard. Pressing forward as Hiram advanced, he raised his voice above the mystic words of the chant.
"Priest of Baal!" he cried to his rival, "thy God is fled! Behold, his image shall be broken in thy temple. The wrath of the Lord God of Hosts is upon you; for the cup of Tyre's iniquities runneth over!"
He ceased and a murmur ran through the crowd; but no hand was raised against the old man. The priests looked at Hiram, who passed on without so much as turning his eyes, and they continued their chant. Not even when the brother who walked beside Artemisia was struck down by an arrow on the threshold of the temple did Hiram pause. The shaft, falling obliquely, buried itself between its victim's shoulders, and he fell upon his face in his death agony. His comrades lifted him quickly and bore him out of sight; but the people continued to gaze at the stain of blood upon the stones where he had fallen.
As Artemisia and Thais vanished in the doorway, the sounds of conflict caused by the rising of the Hebrews reached the temple.
"It is Alexander!" said one to another in the crowd, and because of the words of Pethuel, the cry was more easily believed. Panic seized upon the multitude. Thousands of those who had assembled fled back to their homes. Others ran toward the royal palace, and still others sought the harbors. Scores found refuge in the temple, fighting with each other to enter first through the wide doorway. The dread that had weighed them down had taken shape. The evil was upon them.