ere to answer him at once? Take a month, or if he will not
give it, a week. Much may happen in that time."

"The counsel is wise," he said, catching at this straw. "Daughter, be in
the great hall of audience with your attendants three hours after noon,
for then we must receive Ithobal boldly in all pomp, and deal with
him as best we may. And now I go to ask peace for the Levite from
the priests of El, and to discover whom the sacred colleges desire to
nominate as the new Baaltis. Doubtless it will be Mesa, the daughter
of her who is dead, though many are against her. Oh! if there were no
priests and no women, this city would be easier to govern," and with an
impatient gesture Sakon left the room.

*****

It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and the great hall of audience
in Zimboe was crowded with a brilliant assemblage. There sat Sakon, the
governor, and with him his council of the notables of the city;
there were prince Aziel and among his retinue, Issachar the prophet,
fierce-eyed as ever, though hardly recovered from the rough handling he
had experienced in the temple. There were representatives of the college
of the priests of El. There were many ladies, wives and daughters
of dignitaries and wealthy citizens, and with them a great crowd of
spectators of all classes gathered in the lower part of the hall, for
a rumour had spread about that the farewell audience given by Sakon to
King Ithobal was likely to be stormy.

When all were gathered, a herald announced that Ithobal, King of the
Tribes, waited to take his leave of Sakon, Governor of Zimboe, before
departing to his own land on the morrow.

"Let him be admitted," said Sakon, who looked weary and ill at ease.
Then as the herald bowed and left, he turned and whispered something
into the ear of his daughter Elissa, who stood behind his chair,
her face immovable as that of an Egyptian Sphinx, but magnificently
apparelled in gleaming robes and jewelled ornaments--which Metem,
looking on them, reflected with satisfaction were now his property.

Presently, preceded by a burst of savage music, Ithobal entered. He was
gorgeously arrayed in a purple Tyrian robe decked with golden chains,
while on the brow, in token of his royalty, he wore a golden circlet in
which was set a single blood-red stone. Before him walked a sword-bearer
carrying a sword of ceremony, a magnificent ivory-handled weapon
encrusted with rough gems and inlaid with gold, while behind him, clad