“O God!” he dumbly prayed.  “Thou, with whom all things are possible, give eyes to this blind trouble of my heart!  I am but as a grain of dust before thee, . . a poor perishable atom, devoid of simplest comprehension! ...  Do Thou of Thy supernal pity teach me what I must know!”

As he thought out this unuttered petition, a tense cord seemed to snap suddenly in his brain, . . a rush of tears came to his relief, and through their salt and bitter haze the face of Sah-luma appeared to melt into a thin and spiritual brightness,—­a mere aerial outline of what it had once been, . . the glazed dark eyes seemed to flash living lightning into his, . . the whole lost Personality of the dead Poet seemed to environ him with a mysterious, potent, incorporeal influence.. an influence that he felt he must now or never repel, reject, and utterly resist! ...  With a shuddering cry, he tore his reluctant arms away from the beloved corpse, . . with trembling, tender fingers he closed and pressed down the white eyelids of those love-expressive eyes, and kissed the broad poetic brow!

“Whatever thou wert or art to me, Sah-luma, “he murmured in sobbing haste,—­“thou knowest that I loved thee, though now I leave thee!  Farewell!”—­and his voice broke in its strong agony—­ “O how much easier to divide body from soul than part myself from thee!  Sah-luma, beloved Sah-luma!  God give thee rest! ...  God pardon thy sins,—­and mine!”

And he pressed his lips once more on the folded rigid hands; . . as he did so, he inadvertently touched the writing-tablet that hung from the dead Laureate’s girdle.  The red glow of the fire around him enabled him to see distinctly what was written on it, . . there were about twenty lines of verse, in exquisitely clear and fine caligraphy, ... and, as he read, he knew them well, . . they were the last lines of the poem “Nourhalma”!

He dared trust his own strength no longer, . . one wild, adoring, lingering, parting look at his dead rival in song, whom he had loved better than himself,—­and then,—­full of a nameless fear, he fled! ... fled recklessly, and with swift, mad fury as though demons followed in pursuit, . . fled through the burning city, as a lost and frenzied spirit might speed through the deserts of Hell!  Everywhere about him resounded the crackling hiss of the flames, and the crash of falling buildings, . . mighty pinnacles and lofty domes melted and vanished before is eyes in a blaze of brilliant destruction! ... on—­on he went, meeting confused, scattered crowds of people, whose rushing, white-garmented figures looked like ghosts flying before a storm, . . the cries and shrieks of women and children, and the groans of men were mingled with the restless roaring of lions and other wild beasts burnt out of their dens in the Royal Arena, the distant circle of which could be dimly seen, surrounded by fountain-like jets of fire.  Some of these maddened animals ran against him, as he sped along