if thou must needs address thyself to any one soul in particular, why let it be me,—­for though, thanks to mine own excellent good sense, I have no faith in angels nor crosses, nor everlasting life, nor any of the strange riddles wherewith thou seekest to perplex and bewilder the brains of the ignorant, still am I Laureate of the realm, and ready to hold argument with thee,—­yea!—­until such time as these dumfounded soldiers and citizens of Al-Kyris shall remember their duty sufficiently to seize and take thee captive in the King’s great name!”

As he ceased a deep sigh ran, like the first sound of a rising wind among trees, through the heretofore motionless multitude,—­a faint, dawning, yet doubtful smile reflected itself on their faces,—­and the old familiar shout broke feebly from their lips: 

“Hail, Sah-luma!  Let us hear Sah-luma!”

Sah-luma looked down upon them all in airy derision.

“O fickle, terror-stricken fools!” he exclaimed—­“O thankless and disloyal people!  What!—­ye will see me now? ... ye will hear me? ...  Aye! but who shall answer for your obedience to my words!  Nay, is it possible that I, your country’s chosen Chief Minstrel, should have stood so long among ye disregarded!  How comes it your dull eyes and ears were fixed so fast upon yon dotard miscreant whose days are numbered?  Methought t’was but Sah-luma’s voice that could persuade ye to assemble thus in such locust-like swarms.. since when have the Poet and the People of Al-Kyris ceased to be as one?”

A vague, muttering sound answered him, whether of shame or dissatisfaction it was difficult to tell.  Khosrul’s vibrating accent struck sharply across that muffled murmur.

“The Poet and the People of Al-Kyris are further asunder than light and darkness!” he cried vehemently—­“For the Poet has been false to his high vocation, and the People trust in him no more!”

There was an instant’s hush, ... a hush as it seemed of grieved acquiescence on the part of the populace,—­and during that brief pause Theos’s heart gave a fierce bound against his ribs as though some one had suddenly shot at him with a poisoned arrow.  He glanced quickly at Sah-luma,—­but Sah-luma stood calmly unmoved, his handsome head thrown back, a cynical smile on his lips and his eyes darker than ever with an intensity of unutterable scorn.

“Sah-luma! ...  Sah-luma!” and the piercing, reproachful voice of the Prophet penetrated every part of the spacious square like a sonorous bell ringing over a still landscape:  “O divine Spirit of Song pent up in gross clay, was ever mortal more gifted than thou!  In thee was kindled the white fire of Heaven,—­to thee were confided the memories of vanished worlds, . . for thee God bade His Nature wear a thousand shapes of varied meaning,—­the sun, the moon, the stars were appointed as thy servants,—­for thou wert born poet, the mystically chosen Teacher and Consoler