A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng declared the popular approval of this assertion, and the boy bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen to the conversation, swept the strings of his instrument with a triumphant force and fervor that showed how thoroughly his feelings were in harmony with the expression of his master’s sentiments.  Sah-luma conquered, with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed coldly: 

“From whence do you come, fair sir?  We should know your name,—­ poets are not so common!” This with an accent of irony.

Taken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, and uncertain what to say.  For he was afflicted with a strange and terrible malady such as he dimly remembered having heard of, but never expected to suffer from,—­a malady in which his memory had become almost a blank as regarded the past events of his life—­though every now and then shadowy images of by-gone things flitted across his brain, like the transient reflections of wind-swept clouds on still, translucent water.  Presently in the midst of his painful indecision, an answer suggested itself like a whispered hint from some invisible prompter: 

“Poets like Sah-luma are no doubt as rare as nightingales in snow!” he said with a soft deference, and an increasing sense of tenderness for his haughty, handsome interlocutor—­“As for me, I am a singer of sad songs that are not worth the hearing!  My name is Theos,—­I come from far beyond the seas, and am a stranger in Al-Kyris,—­therefore if I have erred in aught, I must be blamed for ignorance, not malice!”

As he spoke Sah-luma regarded him intently,—­Theos met his gaze frankly and unflinchingly.  Surely there was some singular power of attraction between the two! ... for as their flashing eyes again dwelt earnestly on one another, they both smiled, and Sah-luma, advancing, proffered his hand.  Theos at once accepted it, a curious sensation of pleasure tingling through his frame, as he pressed those slender blown fingers in his own cordial clasp.

“A stranger in Al-Kyris?—­and from beyond the seas?  Then by my life and honor, I insure thy safety and bid thee welcome!  A singer of sad songs? ...  Sad or merry, that thou are a singer at all makes thee the guest of the King’s Laureate!” A look of conscious vanity illumined his face as he thus announced with proud emphasis his own title and claim to distinction.  “The brotherhood of poets,” he continued laughingly—­“is a mystic and doubtful tie that hath oft been questioned,—­but provided they do not, like ill-conditioned wolves, fight each other out of the arena, there should be joy in the relationship”.  Here, turning full upon the crowd, he lifted his rich, melodious voice to higher and more ringing tones: