“My lord!  Sah-luma!  Singing-angel of Niphrata’s soul!—­Forgive me!  It is true, ... thou shouldst never hear of strife or contention among the coarser tribe of men,—­and I, ...  I, poor Niphrata, would give my life to shield thee from the faintest shadow of annoy!  I would have thy path all woven sunbeams,—­thou shouldst live like a fairy monarch embowered ’mid roses, sheltered from rough winds, and folded in loving arms, fairer maybe, hut not more fond than mine!” ...  Her voice broke,—­stooping, she kissed the silver fastening of his sandal, and springing up, rushed from the room before a word could be uttered to bid her stay.

Sah-luma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased perplexity.

“She is often thus!” he said in a tone of playful resignation,—­ “As I told thee, Theos,—­women are butterflies, hovering hither and thither on uneasy pinions, uncertain of their own desires.  Niphrata is a woman-riddle,—­sometimes she angers me,—­sometimes she soothes, ... now she prattles of things that concern me not,—­ and anon converses with such high and lofty earnestness of speech, that I listen amazed, and wonder where she hath gathered up her store of seeming wisdom.”

“Love teaches her all she knows!” interrupted Theos quickly and with a meaning glance.

Sah-luma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the clear olive pallor of his complexion.

“Aye,—­poor tender little soul, she loves me,".. he said carelessly—­“That is no secret!  But then all women love me,—­I am more like to die of a surfeit of love than of anything else” He moved towards the open window “Come!—­” he added—­“It is the hour of sunset,—­there is a green hillock in my garden yonder from whence we can behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god’s departure.  ’Tis a sight I never miss,—­I would have thee share its glory with me.”

“But art thou then indifferent to woman’s tenderness?” asked Theos half banteringly, as he took his arm—­“Dost thou love no one?”

“My friend”—­replied Sah-luma seriously—­“I love Myself!  I see naught that contents me more than my own Personality,—­and with all my heart I admire the miracle and beauty of my own existence!  There is nothing even in the completest fairness of womanhood that satisfies me so much as the contemplation of my own genius,—­ realizing as I do its wondrous power and perfect charm!  The life of a poet such as I am is a perpetual marvel!—­the whole Universe ministers to my needs,—­Humanity becomes the merest bound slave to the caprice of my imperial imagination,—­with a thought I scale the stars,—­with a wish I float in highest ether among spheres undiscovered yet familiar to my fancy—­I converse with the spirits of flowers and fountains,—­and the love of women is a mere drop in the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight!  Yes,—­I adore my own Identity! ... and of a truth Self-worship is the only Creed the world has ever followed faithfully to the end!”