“Hist, Sah-luma!” he whispered ...  “Saw you not the King?”

Sah-luma started as though he had received a dagger thrust, . . his very lips turned pale in the moonlight.

“The king?” he echoed, with an accent of incredulous amazement ...  “The King? ... thou art mad! ... it could not be!  Where didst thou see him?”

In silence Theos pointed to the dark shrubbery.  Sahluma shook himself free of his friend’s hold, and, standing erect, gazed in the direction indicated, with an expression of mingled fear, distrust, bewilderment, and wrath on his features, . . he was suddenly but effectually sobered, and all the delicate beauty of his face came back like the rich tone of a fine picture restored.  His hand fell instinctively toward the jewelled hilt of the poniard at his belt.

“The King?” he muttered under his breath, ...  “The King? ...  Then.. is Khosrul right after all, and must one learn wisdom from a madman? ...  By my soul! ...  If I thought...”  Here he checked himself abruptly and turned upon Theos ...  “Nay, thou art deceived!” he said with a forced smile.. “’Twas not the King! ... ’twas some rash, unknown intruder whose worthless life must pay the penalty of trespass!”—­and he drew his flashing weapon from his sheath..  “This shall unmask him! ...  And thou, my friend, get thee away and home, . . fear nothing for my safety! ... go hence and quickly; I’ll follow thee anon!”

And before Theos could utter a word of warning, he plunged impetuously into the innermost recess of the dense foliage behind which the mysterious armed figure had just vanished, and was instantly lost to sight.

“Sah-luma! ...  Sah-luma!”—­called Theos passionately ...  “Come back!  Whether wilt thou go? ...  Sah-luma!”

Only silence answered him,—­silence rendered even more profound by the subdued, faint rustling of the wind among the leaves,—­and agitated by all manner of vague alarms and dreary forebodings, he stood still for a moment hesitating as to whether he should follow his friend or no.  Some instinct stronger than himself, however, persuaded him that it would be best to continue his road,—­he therefore went on slowly, hoping against hope that Sah-luma might still rejoin him,—­but herein he was disappointed.  He waited a little while near the illuminated water, dreamily eying the beautiful marble nymph crowned with her wreath of amethystine flame, . . she resembled Lysia somewhat, he thought,—­only this was a frozen fairness, while the peerless charms of the cruel High Priestess were those of living flesh and blood.  Yet the remembrance of all the tenderly witching loveliness that might have been his, had he slain Sah-luma at her bidding, now moved him neither to regret nor lover’s passion, but only touched his spirit with a sense of bitter repulsion, . . while a strange pity for the Poet Laureate’s infatuation awoke in him,—­pity that any man could he so reckless, blind, and desperate as to love a woman for her mere perishable beauty of body, and never care to know whether the graces of her mind were equal to the graces of her form.