“Now by the Sacred Veil,”—­he said gayly, addressing himself to the King—­“Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much gravity!  I recognize in him one of my craft,—­a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars?  As I live, ’twas not ill-devised for a madman’s brain! ... and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic’s chronic want of originality!  Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!” And turning to Khosrul he added—­“Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard?  Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,—­and the King shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and lasting sweetness!”

Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate’s half-mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

“Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!” he said mournfully—­“Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon forgotten!  Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun!  Great has been the measure of thine inspiration,—­yet thou hast missed its true teaching,—­and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God!  Alas, Sah-lum!  Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! ...  Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and there sits thy destroyer!”

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed steadfastly to—­the King!  There was a momentary hush...a stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.

“By all the virtues of Nagaya!” he cried—­“This is most excellent fooling!  I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite in the realm? ...  Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience,—­though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,—­’tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and grave of aspect.  Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma, through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals of future history—­for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the renown of the greatest King.  Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma!—­aye, even cry aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!”