Theos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch’s countenance, as he replied in low, clear tones: 

“Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! ... nor do I deserve to be called even a student of that high, sweet music-wisdom in which Sah-luma alone excels!  All I dare hope for is that I may learn of him in some small degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some future time I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common flower on earth can approach to a fixed star in the furthest blue of heaven!”

Sah-luma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative glance,—­ Zephoranim regarded him somewhat curiously.

“By my faith, thou’rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!” he said—­“We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sah-luma’s pleasure and our own!  Stand thee near thy friend and master, and listen to the melody of his matchless voice,—­thou shalt hear therein the mysteries of many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of love, in which all other passions centre and have power.”

Re-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself indolently back in his throne,—­whereupon two pages brought a magnificent chair of inlaid ivory and placed it near the foot of the dais at his right hand.  In this Sah-luma seated himself, the pages arranging his golden mantle around him in shining, picturesque folds,—­while Theos, withdrawing slightly into the background, stood leaning against a piece of tapestry on which the dead figure of a man was depicted lying prone on the sward with a great wound in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering above him expectant of its grim repast.  Kneeling on one knee close to Sah-luma, the harp-bearer put the harp in tune, and swept his fingers lightly over the strings,—­then came a pause.  A clear, small bell chimed sweetly on the stillness, and the King, raising himself a little, signed to a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic of some office.

“Let the women enter!” he commanded—­“Speak but Sah-luma’s name and they will gather like waves rising to the moon,—­but bid them be silent as they come, lest they disturb thoughts more lasting than their loveliness.”

This with a significant glance toward the Laureate, who, sunk in his ivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation.

His beautiful face had grown grave, . . even sad, ... he played idly with the ornaments at his belt, ... and his eyes had a drowsy yet ardent light within them, as they flashed now and then from under the shade of his long curling lashes.  The slave departed on his errand ... and Zabastes edging himself out from the hushed and attentive throng of nobles stood as it were in the foreground of the picture, his thin lips twisted into a sneer. and his lean hands grasping his staff viciously as though he longed to strike somebody down with it.