"Prince Menon!" cried Nakir-Kish, seeking to win a friend where he dare not make an enemy, and Semiramis turned and bowed before the King.
The monarch frowned, and for a space he pondered, weighing the value of the Syrian's knowledge against the measure of his royal pride; yet it came to him that her arts had left him but a single path, for in her secret lay the nation's welfare and the King's. His chieftains plotted treason, while the army trembled between revolt and loyalty, wavering, waiting for a leader's cry to plunge them headlong into open war--a war at which the Bactrians would laugh aloud in very joy. Peace, then, the Syrian offered--peace and victory--her price the forgiveness of a single man. Forgiveness! It was galling to the King, yet, where a King drinks gall, it were well that he drain his goblet with a smile, as though the draught lay sweet upon his tongue; therefore Ninus smiled, rising to speak in a voice which all might hear:
"Listen, my children. Long have I yearned to take Prince Menon to my heart; yet, because of stubbornness, he sitteth upon his mound, devoured by spleen. If now he would once more call himself my son, a father will bid him welcome, even as he welcometh a daughter in Shammuramat."
At this a mighty shout went up, and the Syrian's great eyes filled with tears. She fell upon her knees and would have pressed her lips to the monarch's hand, but Ninus raised her and kissed her upon the mouth.
Then before them all Semiramis told her tale of the water-way beneath the hills; of the cleft in the cliffs on the further side where the Bactrians damned a mountain stream, raising the waters to the height desired. She told of the outposts guarding this secret round about, while through the fertile lands an army of hunters combed the forests and the fields for game; this game to be borne to the hidden cleft and loaded on barges, whence it floated through the bowels of the earth unto waiting Zariaspa.
"And thus," cried Semiramis, "cometh food to our hated enemies--stores and a flow of sweet, cool water, when Assyria must sit outside the walls, unconquering, hungered and athirst."
She ceased, and silence lay within the royal tent, silence save for the sound of heavy breathing and, anon, a gasp of wonderment; yet, presently, the High Priest Nakir-Kish strode forth, with the aim of sharing in the Syrian's fame. He raised his naked arms, a light of battle in his eyes, his voice a tempest charged with the fires of prophecy: