“These are my human rosebuds!” said Sah-luma softly and gayly, as holding the dazzled Theos by the arm he escorted him past these radiant and exquisite forms—­“They bloom, and fade, and die, like the flowers thrown by the populace,—­proud and happy to feel that their perishable loveliness has, even, for a brief while, been made more lasting by contact with my deathless poet-fame!  Ah, Niphrata!” and he paused at the side of the girl standing by the harp—­“Hast thou sung many of my songs to-day? ... or is thy voice too weak for such impassioned cadence?  Thou art pale, . .  I miss thy soft blush and dimpling smile,—­what ails thee, my honey-throated oriole?”

“Nothing, my lord”—­answered Niphrata in a low tone, raising a pair of lovely, dusky, violet eyes, fringed with long black lashes,—­“Nothing,—­save that my heart is always sad in thine absence!”

Sah-luma smiled, well pleased.

“Let it be sad no longer then!” he said, caressing her cheek with his hand,—­and Theos saw a wave of rich color mounting swiftly to her fair brows at his touch, as though she were a white poppy warming to crimson in the ardent heat of the sun—­“I love to see thee merry,—­mirth suits a young and beauteous face like thine!  Look you, Sweet!—­I bring with me here a stranger from far-off lands,—­one to whom Sah-luma’s name is as a star in the desert!—­I must needs have thy voice in all its full lusciousness of tune to warble for his pleasure those heart-entangling ditties of mine which thou hast learned to render with such matchless tenderness! ...  Thanks, Gisenya,” ... this as another maiden advanced, and, gently removing the myrtle-wreath he wore, placed one just freshly woven on his clustering curls, . . then, turning to Theos, he inquired—­“Wilt thou also wear a minstrel-garland, my friend?  Niphrata or Gisenya will crown thee!”

“I am not worthy”—­answered Theos, bending his head in low salutation to the two lovely girls, who stood eying him with a certain wistful wonder—­“One spray from Sah-luma’s discarded wreath will best suffice me!”

Sah-luma broke into a laugh of absolute delight.

“I swear thou speakest well and like a true man!” he said joyously.  “Unfamous as thou art, thou deservest honor for the frank confession of thy lack of merit!  Believe me, there are some boastful rhymers in Al-Kyris who would benefit much by a share of thy becoming modesty!  Give him his wish, Gisenya—­” and Gisenya, obediently detaching a sprig of myrtle from the wreath Sah-luma had worn all day, handed it to Theos with a graceful obeisance—­ “For who knows but the leaves may contain a certain witchery we wot not of, that shall endow him with a touch of the divine inspiration!”

At that moment, a curious figure came shuffling across the splendid hall,—­that of a little old man somewhat shabbily attired, upon whose wrinkled countenance there seemed to be a fixed, malign smile, like the smile of a mocking Greek mask.  He had small, bright, beady black eyes placed very near the bridge of his large hooked nose,—­his thin, wispy gray locks streamed scantily over his bent shoulders, and he carried a tall staff to support his awkward steps,—­a staff with which he made a most disagreeable tapping noise on the marble pavement as he came along.