“And thou also, Zabastes!” retorted the King with a dark smile, jestingly drawing his sword and pointing it full at him,—­then, as the old Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel, replacing it dashingly in its sheath,—­“Thou also! ... and thine ashes shall be cast to the four winds of heaven as suits thy vocation, while those of thy master and thy master’s King lie honorably urned in porphyry and gold!”

Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.

“It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim,” he returned composedly—­ “Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,—­and the scattering of them is but a question of time!  For urns of gold and porphyry do but excite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein sealed, whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of reverent handling by future generations as those of many lesser men.  And ’tis doubtful whether the winds will know any difference in the scent or quality of the various pinches of human dust tossed on their sweeping circles,—­for the substance of a man reduced to earth-atoms is always the same,—­and not a grain of him can prove whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel pampered, or a Critic contemned!”

And he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument.  The King deigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sah-luma, who still sat pensively silent.

“How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?” he demanded gently—­“Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the midst of thy soul’s sudden sadness?”

At this, Sah-luma roused himself,—­signing to his attendant he took the harp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed his hands over it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully.  A ripple of music answered his delicate touch,—­music as soft as the evening wind murmuring among willows.  Another instant and his voice thrilled on the silence,—­a voice wonderful, far-reaching, mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, containing within it a passion that pierced to the heart of the listener, and a divine fullness such as surely was never before heard in human tones!

Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with unwonted rapidity, . . what..  What was it that Sah-luma sang? ...  A Love-song! in those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the language of Al-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine, tender as the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced evenings,—­an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and meant to strike home to the core of feeling and there inflict delicious wounds! ... but, as each well-chosen word echoed harmoniously on his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every limb, . . a black, frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, maddening terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he were suddenly thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever shine!  For Sah-luma’s song was his song! ...