“O God! ...  God!—­what hast Thou made of me!” he groaned inwardly, as he endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,—­ “Who am I? ...  Who was I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so threateningly!  Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! ... surely I too could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sah-luma’s work is but the reflex of my own?  O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! ... when shall it be unraveled?  ‘Nourhalma!’ ’Twas the name of what I deemed my masterpiece! ...  O silly masterpiece, if it prove thus easy of imitation! ...  Yet stay.. let me be patient! ... titles are often copied unconsciously by different authors in different lands, . . and it may chance that Sah-luma’s poem is after all his own,—­not mine.  Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he chanted to the King last night! ...  O Destiny! ... inscrutable, pitiless Destiny! ... rescue my tortured soul from chaos! ... declare unto me who,—­who is the plagiarist and thief of Song..  Myself or Sah-luma?”

The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh obscurity was now added in his suddenly distinct and distressful remembrance of the “Pass of Dariel.”  Where was this place, he wondered wearily?—­When had he seen it? whom had he met there?—­ and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence?  No answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, . . he recollected the “Pass of Dariel” just as he recollected the “Field of Ardath”—­without the least idea as to what connection existed between them and his own personal adventures.  Presently controlling himself, he raised his head and ventured to look up,—­Sah-luma stood beside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude.

“Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury thine eyes in thy pillow?” he inquired ...  “Pardon my discourteous lack of consideration for thy comfort! ...  I love the sun myself so well that methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-day and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile!  But thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light of Eastern lands,—­wherefore thy brows must not be permitted to ache on, uncared for.  See!—­I have lowered the awnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,—­and in very truth, the heat to-day is greater far than ordinary; one would think the gods had kindled some new fire in heaven!”

And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to and fro with an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm, while Theos gazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon him by his host’s irresistible influence.  Just then, too, Sah-luma appeared handsomer than ever in the half-subdued tints of radiance that flickered