had they gone than they sped back again, their faces scorched and blackened, and uttering cries and woeful lamentations they flung themselves wildly among the struggling crowds in the main body of the Temple, and fought for life in the jaws of death, every one for Self, and no one for another!  Volumes of smoke rolled up from the ground, in thick and suffocating clouds, accompanied by incessant sharp reports like the close firing of guns, . . jets of flame and showers of cinders broke forth fountain-like, scattering hot destruction on every hand, . . while a few flying sparks caught the end of the “Silver Veil”—­and withered it into nothingness with one bright resolute flare!

Half maddened by the shrieks and dying groans that resounded everywhere about him, and yet all the time feeling as though he were some spectator set apart, and condemned to watch the progress of a ghastly phantasmagoria in Hell, Theos was just revolving in his mind whether it would or would not be possible to make a determined climb for escape through one of the tall painted windows, some of which were not yet reached by the fire, when, with a sudden passionate exclamation, Sah-luma broke from his hold and rushed to the Sanctuary.  Quick as lightning, Theos followed him, . . followed him close, as he sprang up the steps and confronted Lysia with eager, outstretched arms.  The dead Niphrita lay near him, . . fair as a sculptured saint, with the cruel wound of sacrifice in her breast,—­but he seemed not to see that piteous corpse of Faithfulness!  His grief for her death had been a mere transient emotion, . . his stronger earthly passions re-asserted their tempestuous sway,—­and for sweet things perished and gone to heaven he had no further care.  On Lysia, and on Lysia’s living beauty alone, his eyes flamed their ardent glory.

“Come! ...  Come!” he cried..  “Come, my love—­my life! ...  Let me save thee! ...  Or if I cannot save thee, let us die together!”

Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the King, with a swift forward movement like the pounce of some desert-panther, turned fiercely upon him, . . amazement, jealousy, distrust, revenge, all gathering stormily in the black frown of his bent vindictive brows.  His great chest heaved pantingly—­his teeth glittered wolfishly through his jetty beard, . . and in the terrible nerve-tension of the moment, the fury of the spreading conflagration was forgotten, at any rate, by Theos, who, stricken numb and rigid by a shock of alarm too poignant for expression, stared aghast at the three figures before him...Sah-luma, Lysia, Zephoranim, . . especially Zephoranim, whose bursting wrath threatened to choke his utterance.

“What sayest thou, Sah-luma?” he demanded in a sort of ferocious gasping whisper ...  “Repeat thy words! ...  Repeat them!” ... and his hand clutched at his dagger-hilt, while his restless, lowering glance flashed from Lysia to the Laureate and from the Laureate back to Lysia again..  “Death encompasses us, . . this is no time for trifling! ...  Speak!".. and his voice suddenly rose to a frantic shout of rage, “Speak!  What is this woman to thee?”