“Ask Lysia!” muttered Nir-jalis drowsily, under his breath—­“She knows more of the King than she cares to confess!”

His words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they were distinct enough for all present to hear.  A glance of absolute dismay went round the table, and a breathless silence followed like the ominous hush of a heated atmosphere before a thunder-clap.  Nir-jalis, apparently struck by the sudden stillness, looked lazily round from among the tumbled cushions where he reclined,—­a vacant, tipsy smile on his lips.

“What a company of mutes ye are!” he said thickly..

“Did ye not hear me?  I bade ye ask Lysia, . .” and all at once he sat bolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of passion..  “Ask Lysia!” he repeated loudly..  “Ask her why the mighty Zephoranim creeps in and out the Sacred Temple at midnight like a skulking slave instead of a King! ... at midnight, when he should be shut within his palace walls, playing the fool among his women!  I warrant ’tis not piety that persuades him to wander through the underground Passage of the Tombs alone and in disguise!  Sah-luma! ... pretty pampered hound as thou art! ... thou art near enough to Our Lady of Witcheries,—­ask her, ... ask her! ... she knows, . . “and his voice sank into an incoherent murmur, . . “she knows more than she cares to confess!”

Another deep and death like pause ensued, ... and then Lysia’s silvery cold tones smote the profound silence with calm, clear resonance.

“Friend Nir-jalis,” she said, . . how tuneful were her accents, . . how chilly sweet her smile! ...  “Methinks thou art grown altogether too wise for this world! ... ’tis pity thou shouldest continue to linger in so narrow and incomplete a sphere! ...  Depart hence therefore! ...  I shall frely excuse thine absence, since thy hour has come! ...”

And, taking from the table at her side a tall crystal chalice fashioned in the form of a lily set on a golden stem, she held it up toward him.  Starting wildly from his couch he looked at her, as though doubting whether he had heard her words aright, . . a strong shudder shook him from head to foot, . . his hands clenched themselves convulsively together,—­and then slowly, slowly, he staggered to his feet and stood upright.  He was suddenly but effectually sobered—­the flush of intoxication died off his cheeks—­and his eyes grew strained and piteous.  Theos, watching him in wonder and fear, saw his broad chest heave with the rapid-drawn gasping of his breath, ..he advanced a step or two—­then all at once stretched out his hands in imploring agony.

“Lysia!” he murmured huskily.  “Lysia! ... pardon! ... spare me! ...  For the sake of past love have pity!”

At this Sah-luma sprang up from his lounging posture on the dais, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his whole face flaming with wrath.

“By my soul!” he cried, “what doth this fellow prate of? ...  Past love? ...  Thou profane boaster! ... how darest thou speak of love to the Priestess of the Faith?”