“No, by my faith!” returned Sah-luma, yawning slightly and settling his head more comfortably on his pillows—­“Nor do I care to heed the turbulence of a mob that cannot guide itself and yet resists all guidance.  Arrests? ... imprisonments? ... they are common,—­but why in the name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest and imprison the actual disturbers of the peace,—­the Mystics and Philosophers whose street orations filter through the mind of the disaffected, rousing them to foolish frenzy and disordered action?—­Why, above all men, do they not seize Khosrul?—­a veritable madman, for all his many years and seeming wisdom!  Hath he not denounced the faith of Nagaya and foretold the destruction of the city times out of number? ... and are we not all weary to death of his bombastic mouthing?  If the King deemed a poet’s counsel worth the taking, he would long ago have shut this bearded ranter within the four walls of a dungeon, where only rats and spiders would attend his lectures on approaching Doom!”

“Nay, but my lord—­” Niphrata ventured to say timidly—­“The King dare not lay hands on Khosrul ...”

“Dare not!” laughed Sah-luma lazily stretching out his hand and helping himself to a luscious nectarine from the basket at his side—­“Sweet Niphrata! ... settest thou a limit to the power of the King?  As well draw a boundary-line for the imagination of the poet!  Khosrul may be loved and feared by a certain number of superstitious malcontents who look upon a madman as a sort of sacred wild animal,—­but the actual population of Al-Kyris,—­the people who are the blood, bone, and sinew of the city,—­these are not in favor of change either in religion, laws, manners, or customs.  But Khosrul is old,—­and that the King humors his vagaries is simply out of pity for his age and infirmity, Niphrata,—­not because of fear!  Our Monarch knows no fear.”

“Khosrul prophesies terrible things!” ... murmured the girl hesitatingly—­“I have often thought ... if they should come true. ...”

“Thou timid dove!” and Sah-luma, rising from his couch, kissed her neck lightly, thus causing a delicate flush of crimson to ripple through the whiteness of her skin—­“Think no more of such folly—­ thou wilt anger me.  That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should trouble the peace of Al-Kyris the Magnificent, ... by the gods—­ the whole thing is absurd!  Let me hear no more of mobs or riots, or road-rhetoric,—­my soul abhors even the suggestion of discord.  Tranquillity! ...  Divinest calm, disturbed only by the flutterings of winged thoughts hovering over the cloudless heaven of fancy! ... this, this alone is the sum and centre of my desires.—­and to-day I find that even thou, Niphrata—­” here his voice took upon itself an injured tone,—­“thou, who art usually so gentle, hast somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy foolish talk concerning common and unpleasant circumstances, ...  “He stopped short and a line of vexation and annoyance made its appearance between his broad, beautiful brows, while Niphrata seeing this expression of almost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw herself suddenly at his feet, and raising her lovely eyes swimming in tears, she exclaimed: