A moment or so passed, and then the slave returned, his silver rod uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-veiled female figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of flowers.  They floated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais, and there prostrated themselves two by two before the King, whose fiery glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,—­and as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying to full view such exquisite faces, such languishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-white necks and arms, such graceful voluptuous forms, that Theos caught at the tapestry near him in reeling dazzlement of sight and sense, and wondered how Sah-luma seated tranquilly in the reflective attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and indifferent a demeanor.

Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones, turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his feet,—­he scarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less the lovely donors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their places on low silken divans, provided for their accommodation, in a semicircle round the throne.  Again a silence ensued,—­Sah-luma was evidently centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-weaving,—­and his attendant gently swept the strings of the harp again to recall his wandering fancies.  Suddenly he looked up, . . his eyes were sombre, and a musing trouble shadowed the brightness of his face.

“Strange it is, O King”—­he said in low, suppressed tones that had in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,—­“Strange it is that to-night the soul of my singing dwells on sorrow!  Like a stray bird flying ’mid falling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight to storm, so does my fancy soar among drear, flitting images evolved from the downfall of kingdoms,—­and I seem to behold in the distance the far-off shadow of Death...”

“Talk not of death!” interrupted the King loudly and in haste,—­ “’Tis a raven note that hath been croaked in mine ears too often and too harshly already!  What! ... hast thou been met by the mad Khosrul who lately sprang on me, even as a famished wolf on prey, and grasping my bridle-rein bade me prepare to die!  ’Twas an ill jest, and one not to be lightly forgiven!  ’Prepare to die, O Zephoranim?’ he cried—­’For thy time of reckoning is come!’ By my soul!” and the monarch broke into a boisterous laugh—­“Had he bade me prepare live ’twould have been more to the purpose!  But yon frantic graybeard prates of naught but death, ... ’twere well he should be silenced.”  And as he spoke, he frowned, his hand involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his sword.

“Aye,—­death is an unpleasing suggestion!” suddenly said Zabastes, who had gradually moved up nearer and nearer till he made one of the group immediately round Sah-luma—­“’Tis a word that should never be mentioned in the presence of Kings!  Yet, . . notwithstanding the incivility of the statement, . . it is most certain that His Most Potent Majesty as well as His Majesty’s Most Potent Laureate, must..Die.. !” And he accompanied the words “must..die...” with two decisive taps of his staff, smacking his withered lips meanwhile as though he tasted something peculiarly savory.