On a sumptuous throne sat Ninus, with Sozana at his side, for the queen had passed away ere Nineveh was complete; so now his daughter held the highest place in the monarch's heart. The hall was thronged with chieftains, priests, and the king's good friends. At the feet of Ninus sat Menon, and at his side the Arabian Prince, Boabdul Ben Hutt, whom the king had urged to grace his festival. There were kings of Tyre and Sidon, from beside the Sea of the Setting Sun, whose cities sent their caravans of tribute and of tax with muttered curses trailing after them; and likewise came the sons of Canaan, giant Khatti chiefs still restless beneath their yoke, princes of Babylon, Syrians, lords of the desert and the sea; grim mountaineers who had fought like rats in the caverns of their rocky homes; governors, rulers, and a swarm of wives and daughters of these men, all now unveiled at the mandate of the King.
From behind a pillar Memetis looked upon Sozana's face, his hope an oasis whence his soul might drink the waters of his love; yet now must he sip lest Ninus mark his thirst and be aggrieved thereat. So, with his eyes, the Egyptian looked out upon the throng, yet with his heart he saw one maid alone.
A goodly gathering it was, in rich attire, in armor and robes of state, the warriors of a hundred wars, the proudest beauty of the court, assembled now to view the monster tablet carven in honor of the King. It was newly set within the wall, hidden from sight by crimson draperies, and on either side stood the sculptor Bobardol and the High Priest Nakir-Kish, the one to draw the cloth aside, the other to bless the _stele_ in the name of Asshur.
A breathless silence fell upon the courtiers; King Ninus gave a sign, and the sculptor drew the draperies aside. On the _stele_ was pictured in _bas-relief_ a wondrous exploit of the King, who, mounted on a rearing charger, battled with a king of beasts. This lion was springing upon the withers of the steed, seeking to drag the hunter from his seat with teeth and claws, while Ninus gripped its throat and crushed its skull with a haft of his broken spear.
A triumph of art it was, bespeaking valor spirited and rare, rather than exactness of the facts concerning this glorious happening, and a murmur of admiration rose to every lip because of the daring monarch and the skill of Bobardol.