As he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a golden salver on which were placed a tall flagon, two goblets, and a basket of fruit.  She approached Theos first, and he, raising himself on his elbow, surveyed her with fresh admiration and interest while he poured out the wine from the flagon into one of those glistening cups, which he noticed were rough with the quantity of small gems used in their outer ornamentation.

He was struck by her fair and melancholy style of loveliness, and as she stood before him with lowered eyes, the color alternately flushing and paling on her cheeks, and her bosom heaving restlessly beneath the loosely drawn folds of her prim rose-hued gown, an inexplicable emotion of pity smote him, as if he had suddenly been made aware of some inward sorrow of hers which he was utterly powerless to console.  He would have spoken, but just then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and when he had selected a fine peach from the heaped-up dainties offered for his choice, he still watched her as she turned to Sah-luma, who smiled, and bade her set down her salver on a low, bronze stand at his side.  She did so, and then with the warm blood burning in her cheeks, stood waiting and silent.  Sah-luma, with a lithe movement of his supple form, lifted himself into a half-sitting posture, and throwing one arm round her waist, drew her close to his breast and kissed her.

“My fairest moonbeam!” he said gayly—­“Thou art as noiseless and placid as thy yet unembodied sisters that stream through heaven and dance on the river when the world is sleeping!  Myrtle! ...” and he detached a spray from the bosom of her dress—­“What hast thou to do with the poet’s garland?  By my faith, thou art like Theos yonder, and hast chosen to wear a sprig of my faded crown for thine adornment—­is’t not so?” A hot and painful blush crimsoned Niphrata’s face,—­a softness as of suppressed tears glistened in her eyes,—­she made no answer, but looked beseechingly at the little twig Sah-luma held.  “Silly child!” he went on laughingly, replacing it himself against her bosom, where the breath seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear—­ “Thou art welcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, if thou thinkest them of value, but I would rather see the rosebud of love nestled in that pretty white breast of thine, than the cast-off ornaments of fame!”

And filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, looking at Theos smilingly as he did so.

“To your health, my noble friend!” he cried, “and to the joys of the passing hour!”

“A wise toast!” answered Theos, placing his lips to his own goblet’s rim,—­“For the past is past,—­’twill never return,—­the future we know not,—­and only the present can be called our own!  To the health of the divine Sah-luma, whose fame is my glory!—­ whose friendship is dear to me as life!”