The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an undertone,—­and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on Theos, his self constituted advocate, with an appreciative and almost tender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich, soft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet.  The doors were flung open,—­the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed: 

“O great King, may thy name live forever!  Khosrul is taken!”

Zephoranim’s black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his lips hard.

“So!  For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!” he said half-scornfully—­“Bring hither the captive,—­an he chafes at his bonds we will ourselves release him...” and he touched his sword significantly—­“to a wider freedom than is found on earth!”

A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women shuddered and grew pale.  Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-chamber.

A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne—­arrived at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,—­a man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches.  This was Khosrul,—­the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world,—­the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,—­the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,—­at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders,—­at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed dignity.  There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, ... something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King,—­and