He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured through that ill-fated and cruelly condemned composition,—­and now he was listlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement it evoked here in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed more strange and weird than the strangest dream!  It was a story of the gods before the world was made,—­of love deep buried in far eternities of light, . . of vast celestial shapes whose wanderings through the blue deep of space were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and wonder-spheres of beauty, . . a fanciful legend of transcendent heavenly passion, telling how all created worlds throbbed amorously in the purple seas of pure ether, and how Love and Love alone was the dominant cloud of the triumphal march of the Universe...And with what matchless eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear and rounded tenderness of accent! ... how exquisitely his voice rose and fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many leaves, . . while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entrancing joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly art infused a touch of minor pathos,—­a suggestion of the eternal complaint of Nature which even in the happiest moments asserts itself in mournful under-tones.  The effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a few soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp by his attendant harpist and introduced just at the right moments; and Theos, notwithstanding the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened to every well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a gradually deepening sense of peace,—­he knew not why, for the verses, in themselves, were strangely passionate and wild.  The various impressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness—­the King moved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and paling, his hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels that blazed on his breast—­the women’s eyes at one moment sparkled with delight and at the next grew humid with tears,—­the assembled courtiers pressed forward, awed, eager, and attentive,—­the very soldiers on guard seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper disturbed the harmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that rippled from the Laureate’s lips.

When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of applause that the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in the strong vibration of so many uplifted voices,—­shouts of frenzied rapture echoed again and again through the vaulted roof like thuds of thunder,—­shouts in which Theos joined,—­as why should he not?  He had as good a right as any one to applaud his own poem!  It had been sufficiently abused heretofore,—­he was glad to find it now so well appreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,—­though he had no intention of putting forward any claim to its authorship.  No,—­for it was evident he had in some inscrutable