Sah-luma looked at him with an expressive glance of bright surprise.

“Part?” he exclaimed joyously—­“Nay, not we, my friend! ...  Not till we find each other tiresome, . . not till we prove that our spirits, like over-mettlesome steeds, do chafe and fret one another too rudely in the harness of custom, . . wherefore then, and then only, ’twill be time to break loose at a gallop, and seek each one a wider pasture-land!  Meanwhile, here’s to thee!”—­and bending his handsome head he readily drank a deep draught of the proffered wine..  “May all the gods hold fast our bond of friendship!”

And with a graceful salute he returned the jewelled cup half-empty.  Theos at once drained off what yet remained within it, and then, leaning more confidentially over the Laureate’s chair, he whispered: 

“Hast thou in very truth forgotten thy rashness of last night, Sah-luma?  Surely thou must guess how unquiet I have been concerning thee!  Tell me, . . was thy hot pursuit in vain? ... or.. didst thou discover the King?”

“Peace!” and a quick frown darkened the smooth beauty of Sah-luma’s face as he grasped Theos’s arm hard to warn him into silence,—­then forcing a smile he answered in the same low tone..  “’Twas not the King, . . it could not be!  Thou wert mistaken ...”

“Nay but,” persisted Theos gently—­“convince me of mine error!  Didst thou overtake and steadily confront yon armed and muffled stranger?”

“Not I!”—­and Sah-luma shrugged his shoulders petulantly—­“Sleep fell upon me suddenly when I left thee,—­and methinks I must have wandered home like a shadow in a dream!  Was I not drunk last night?—­Aye!—­and so in all likelihood wert thou! ... little could we be trusted to recognize either King or clown!”—­He laughed,—­ then added—­“Nevertheless I tell thee once again ’twas not the King, . .  His Majesty hath too much at stake, to risk so dangerous a pleasantry!”

Theos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at ease, . .  Sah-luma’s careless contentment increased his own disquietude.  Just then a curious-looking personage entered the apartment,—­a gray-haired, dwarfish negro, who carried slung across his back a large bundle, consisting of several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of which he presently detached from the rest and set down before the Laureate, who in return gave him a silver coin, at the same time asking jestingly: 

“Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya?—­or is it the same ill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, common-place events?”

Zibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide leathern pouch which hung from his girdle, appeared to meditate a moment,—­ then he replied: 

“If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is nothing whatever to interest the minds of the cultured.  The cheap scribes of the Daily Circular cater chiefly for the mob, and do all in their power to foster morbid qualities of disposition and murderous tendencies among the lower orders; hence though there is nothing in the news-sheet pertaining to Literature or the Fine Arts, there is much concerning the sudden death of the young sculptor Nir-jalis, whose body was found flung on the banks of the river this morning.”