so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living men.  Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile.  Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from a deep dream,—­shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,—­then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.

“Away ...  Away!” he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to every part of the vast hall—­“Wilt force me to drink blood?” He paused,—­and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued.  “Blood ...  Blood!  It stains the earth and sky! ... its red, red waves swallow up the land! ...  The heavens grow pale and tremble,—­the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered!  Blood ... blood!  The blood of the innocent! ... ’tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders ... founders ... never to rise again!”

These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced a most profound impression.  Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though silently requesting permission to retire.  But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.

“Thou art mad, Khosrul”—­then said the monarch in calmly measured accents—­“And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now retarded justice, out of pity.  Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness—­and this we cannot suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining years.  Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,—­and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman’s cunning,—­thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the realm,—­thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die.  Thou art accused...”

“Of honesty!” interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy satire in his tone.  “I have spoken Truth in an age of lies!  ’Tis a most death-worthy deed!”

He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man.  Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing—­and a brief pause ensued.  Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the scene,—­there was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil.  Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter.