SCENE SIX — BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST Before the feast erupts: two pools of light, far apart on a darkened stage. In one, an old man at a window — DANIEL kneels toward a distant city he will never see again, an open scroll beside his candle; he knows the seventy years are nearly spent. In the other, BELSHAZZAR stands alone, a wine cup trembling in his hand; he has heard the reports — the Persian army is at the walls — and for one moment, with no one watching, the mask slips. Two men, the same night, the same approaching doom: one on his knees in faith, one reaching for the cup in fear. They never see each other. The audience hears them both. DANIEL. (quietly, toward the window) Seventy winters, Adonai. The scroll of Jeremiah said seventy. (he closes his eyes) It is time. If You are still there — if You were ever there — it is time. BELSHAZZAR. (to the empty room, a brittle laugh) They whisper at the border. They whisper in the dark corners of my own hall. (he drinks) Let them whisper. The dark does not get to win tonight. Not in my city. Not on my night.
