Her words carried with them a certain practical positiveness of meaning, and Theos was somewhat impressed by their seeming truth.  After all, it was a curious and unfounded conceit of a man to imagine himself the possessor of an immortal soul,—­and yet ... if all things were the outcome of a divine Creative Influence, was it not unjust of that Creative Influence to endow all humanity with such a belief if it had no foundation whatever?  And could injustice be associated with divine law? ...

He, Theos, for instance, was certain of his own immortality,—­so certain that, surrounded as he was by this brilliant company of evident atheists, he felt himself to be the only real and positive existing Being among an assembly of Shadow-figures,—­but it was not the time or the place to enter into a theological discussion, especially with Lysia, . . and for the moment at least, he allowed her assertions to remain uncontradicted.  He sat, however, in a somewhat stern silence, now and then glancing wistfully and anxiously at Sah-luma, on whom the potent wines were beginning to take effect, and who had just thrown himself down on the dais at Lysia’s feet, close to the tigress that still lay couched there in immovable quiet.  It was a picture worthy of the grandest painter’s brush, ... that glistening throne black as jet, with the fair form of Lysia shining within it, like a white sea-nymph at rest in a grotto of ocean-stalactites, . . the fantastically attired negresses on each side, with their waving peacock-plumes,—­the vivid carnation-color of the dais, against which the black and yellow stripes of the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant contrast, . . and the graceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet Laureate, who, half sitting, half reclining on a black velvet cushion, leaned his handsome head indolently against the silvery folds of Lysia’s robe, and looked up at her with eyes in which burned the ardent admiration and scarcely restrained passion of a privileged lover.

Suddenly and quite involuntarily Theos thought of Niphrata, ... alas, poor maiden! how utterly her devotion to Sah-luma was wasted!  What did he care for her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish worship?  Nothing? ... less than nothing!  He was entirely absorbed by the sovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High Priestess,—­this witch-like weaver of spells more potent than those of Circe; and musing thereon, Theos was sorry for Niphrata, he knew not why.  He felt that she had somehow been wronged,—­that she suffered, ... and that he, as well as Sah-luma, was in some mysterious way to blame for this, though he could by no means account for his own share in the dimly suggested reproach.  This peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all the vaguely incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through his perplexed brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing animation and interest of the scene that immediately surrounded him.