CHAPTER XV
SAH-LUMA SINGS.
As they left the garden the night fell, or appeared to fall, with almost startling suddenness, and at the same time, in swift defiance of the darkness, Sah-luma's palace was illuminated from end to end by thousands of colored lamps, all apparently lit at once by a single flash of electricity. A magnificent repast was spread for the Laureate and his guest, in a lofty, richly frescoed banqueting-hall,—a repast voluptuous enough to satisfy the most ardent votary that ever followed the doctrines of Epicurus. Wonderful dainties and still more wonderful wines were served in princely profusion—and while the strangely met and sympathetically united friends ate and drank, delicious music was played on stringed instruments by unseen performers. When, at intervals, these pleasing sounds ceased, Sah-luma's conversation, brilliant, witty, refined, and sparkling with light anecdote and lighter jest, replaced with admirable sufficiency, the left-off harmonies,—and Theos, keenly alive to the sensuous enemy of his own emotions, felt that he had never before enjoyed such an astonishing, delightful, and altogether fairy-like feast. Its only fault was that it came to an end too soon, he thought, when, the last course of fruit and sweet comfits being removed, he rose reluctantly from the glittering board, and prepared to accompany his host, as agreed, to the presence of the King.
In a very short time, so bewilderingly short as to seem a mere breathing-space,—he found himself passing through the broad avenues and crowded thoroughfares of Al-Kyris on his way to the Royal abode. He occupied a place in Sah-luma's chariot,—a gilded car, shaped somewhat like the curved half of a shell, deeply hollowed, and set on two high wheels that as they rolled made scarcely any sound; there was no seat, and both he and Sah-luma stood erect, the latter using all the force of his slender brown hands to control the spirited prancing of the pair of jet-black steeds which, harnessed tandem-wise to the light-vehicle, seemed more than once disposed to break loose into furious gallop regardless of their master's curbing rein.
The full moon was rising gradually in a sky as densely violet as purple pansy-leaves—but her mellow lustre was almost put to shame by the brilliancy of the streets, which were lit up on both sides by vari-colored lamps that diffused a peculiar, intense yet soft radiance, produced, as Sah-luma explained, from stored-up electricity. On the twelve tall Towers of the Sacred Temple shone twelve large, revolving stars, that as they turned emitted vivid flashes of blue, green, and amber flame like light-house signals seen from ships veering shorewards,—and the reflections thus cast on the mosaic pavement, mingling with the paler beams of the moon, gave a weird and most fantastic effect to the scene. Straight ahead, a blazing arch raised like a bent bow against heaven, and having in its centre the word
ZEPHORANIM,
written in scintillating letters of fire, indicated to all beholders the name and abode of the powerful Monarch under whose dominion, according to Sah-luma, Al-Kyris had reached its present height of wealth and prosperity.
Theos looked everywhere about him, seeing yet scarcely realizing the wonders on which he gazed,—leaning one arm on the burnished edge of the car, he glanced now and then up at the dusky skies growing thick with swarming worlds, and meditated dreamily whether it might not be within the range of possibility to be lifted with Sah-luma, chariot, steeds and all into that beautiful, fathomless empyrean, and drive among planets as though they were flowers, reining in at last before some great golden gate, which unbarred should open into a lustrous Glory-Land fairer than all fair regions ever pictured!
How like a god Sah-luma looked, he mused! … his eyes resting tenderly on the light, glittering form he was never weary of contemplating. Could there be a more perfect head than that dark one crowned with myrtle? … could there be a more dazzling existence than that enjoyed by this child of happy fortune, this royal Laureate of a mighty King? How many poets starving in garrets and waiting for a hearing, would not curse their unlucky destinies when comparing themselves with such a Prince of Poesy, each word of whose utterance was treasured and enshrined in the hearts of a grateful and admiring people!
This was Fame indeed, . . Fame at its utmost best,—and Theos sighed once or twice restlessly as he inwardly reflected how poor and unsatisfying were his own poetical powers, and how totally unfitted he was to cope with a rival so vastly his superior. Not that he by any means desired to cross swords with Sah-luma in a duel of song,-that was an idea that never entered his mind; he was simply conscious of a certain humiliated feeling,—an impression that it' he would be a poet at all, he must go back to the very first beginning of the art and re-learn all he had ever known, or thought he knew.
Many strange and complex emotions were at work within him, . . emotions which he could neither control nor analyze,—and though he felt himself fully alive,—alive to his very finger-tips, he was ever and anon aware of a curious sensation like that experienced by a suddenly startled somnambulist, who, just on the point of awaking, hesitates reluctantly on the threshold of dreamland, unwilling to leave one realm of shadows for another more seeming true, yet equally transient. Entangled in perplexed reveries he scarcely noticed the brilliant crowds of people that were flocking hither and thither through the streets, many of whom recognizing Sah-luma waved their hands or shouted some gay word of greeting,—he saw, as it were without seeing. The whirling pageant around him was both real and unreal,—there was always a deep sense of mystery that hung like a cloud over his mind,—a cloud that no resolution of his could lift,—and often he caught himself dimly speculating as to what lay BEHIND that cloud. Something, he felt sure,—something that like the clew to an intricate problem, would explain much that was now altogether incomprehensible,—moreover he remorsefully realized that he had formerly known that clew and had foolishly lost it, but how he could not tell.
His gaze wandered from the figure of Sah-luma to that of the attendant harp-bearer who, perched on a narrow foothold on the back of the chariot, held his master's golden instrument aloft as though it were a flag of song,—the signal of a poet's triumph, destined to float above the world forever!
Just then the equipage—arrived at the Kings palace. Turning the horses' heads with a sharp jerk so that the mettlesome creatures almost sprang erect on their haunches, Sah-luma drove them swiftly into a spacious courtyard, lined with soldiers in full armor, and brilliantly illuminated, where two gigantic stone Sphinxes, with lit stars ablaze between their enormous brows, guarded a flight of steps that led up to what seemed to be an endless avenue of white marble columns. Here slaves in gorgeous attire rushed forward, and seizing the prancing coursers by the bridle rein, held them fast while the Laureate and his companion alighted. As they did so, a mighty and resounding clash of weapons struck the tesselated pavement,—every soldier flung his drawn sword on the ground and doffed his helmet, and the cry of
"HAIL, SAH-LUMA!"
rose in one brief, mellow, manly shout that echoed vibratingly through the heated air. Sah-luma meanwhile ascended half-way up the steps, and there turning round, smiled and bowed with an exquisite grace and infinite condescension,—and again Theos gazed at him yearningly, lovingly, and somewhat enviously too. What a picture he made standing between the great frowning sculptured Sphinxes! … contrasted with those cold and solemn visages of stone he looked like a dazzling butterfly or stray bird of paradise. His white garb glistened at every point with gems, and from his shoulders, where it was fastened with large sapphire elasps, depended a long mantle of cloth of gold, bordered thickly with swansdown,—this he held up negligently in one hand as ho remained for a moment in full view of the assembled soldiery, graciously acknowledging their enthusiastic greetings, . . then with easy and unhasting tread he mounted the rest of the stairway, followed by Theos and his harp-bearer, and passed into the immense outer entrance hall of the Royal Palace, known, as he explained to his guest, as the Hall of the Two Thousand Columns.
Here among the massively carved pillars which looked like straight, tall, frosted trunks of trees, were assembled hundreds of men young and old,—evident aristocrats and nobles of high degree, to judge from the magnificence of their costumes, while in and out their brilliant ranks glided little pages in crimson and blue,—black slaves, semi-nude or clothed in vivid colors,—court officials with jewelled badges and insignias of authority,—military guards clad in steel armor and carrying short, drawn scimetars,—all talking, laughing, gesticulating and elbowing one another as they moved to and fro,—and so thickly were they pressed together that at first sight it seemed impossible to penetrate through so dense a crowd: but no sooner did Sah-luma appear, than they all fell back in orderly rows, thus making an open avenue-like space for his admittance.
He walked slowly, with proudly-assured mien and a confident smile,—bowing right and left in response to the respectful salutations he received from all assembled,—many persons glanced inquisitively at Theos, but as he was the Laureate's companion he was saluted with nearly equal courtesy. The old critic Zabastes, squeezing his lean, bent body from out the throng, hobbled after Sah-luma at some little distance behind the harp-bearer, muttering to himself as he went, and bestowing many a side-leer and malicious grin on those among his acquaintance whom he here and there recognized. Theos noted his behavior with a vague sense of amusement,—the man took such evident delight in his own ill-humor, and seemed to be so thoroughly convinced that his opinion on all affairs was the only one worth having.
"Thou must check thy tongue today, Zabastes!" said a handsome youth in dazzling blue and silver, who, just then detaching himself from the crowd, laid a hand on the Critic's arm and laughed as he spoke—"I doubt me much whether the King is in humor for thy grim fooling! His Majesty hath been seriously discomposed since his return from the royal tiger-hunt this morning, notwithstanding that his unerring spear slew two goodly and most furious animals. He is wondrous sullen,-and only the divine Sah-luma is skilled in the art of soothing his troubled spirit. Therefore,—if thou hast aught of crabbed or cantankerous to urge against thy master's genius, thou hadst best reserve it for another time, lest thy withered head roll on the market-place with as little reverence as a dried gourd flung from a fruiterer's stall!"
"I thank thee for thy warning, young jackanapes!" retorted Zabastes, pausing in his walk and leaning on his staff while he peered with his small, black, bad-tempered eyes at the speaker-"Thou art methinks somewhat over well-informed for a little lacquey! What knowest thou of His Majesty's humors? Hast been his fly-i'-the-ear or cast-off sandal-string? I pray thee extend not thy range of learning beyond the proper temperature of the bath, and the choice of rare unguents for thy skin-greater knowledge than this would injure the tender texture of thy fragile brain! Pah!"—and Zabastes sniffed the air in disgust—"Thou hast a most vile odor of jessamine about thee! … I would thou wert clean of perfumes and less tawdry in attire!"
Chuckling hoarsely he ambled onward, and chancing to, catch the wondering backward glance of Pheos, he made expressive signs with his fingers in derision of Sah-luma's sweeping mantle, which now, allowed to fall to its full length, trailed along the marble floor with a rich, rustling sound, the varied light sparkling on it at every point and making it look like a veritable shower of gold.
On through the seemingly endless colonnades they passed, till they came to a huge double door formed of two glittering, colossed winged figures holding enormous uplifted shields. Here stood a personage clad in a silver coat-of-mail, so motionless that at first he appeared to be part of the door, .. but at the approach of Sah-luma he stirred into life and action, and touching a spring beside him, the arms of the twin colossi moved, the great double shields were slowly lowered, and the portals slid asunder noiselessly, thus displaying the sumptuous splendor of the Royal Presence-Chamber.
It was a spacious and lofty saloon, completely lined with gilded columns, between which hung numerous golden lamps having long, pointed, amber pendants, that flashed down a million sparkles as of sunlight on the magnificent mosaic floor beneath. On the walls were rich tapestries storied with voluptuous scenes of love as well as ghastly glimpses of warfare, … and languishing beauties reposing in the arms of their lovers, or listening to the songs of passion, were depicted side by side with warriors dead on the field of battle, or struggling hand to hand in grim and bleeding conflict. The corners of this wonderful apartment were decked with all sorts of flags and weapons, and in the middle of the painted ceiling was suspended a huge bird with the spread wings of an eagle and the head of an owl, that held in its curved talons a superb girandole formed of a hundred extended swords, each bare blade having at its point a bright lamp in the shape of a star, while the clustered hilts composed the centre.
Officers in full uniform were ranged on both sides of the room, and a number of other men richly attired stood about, conversing with each other in low tones, … but though Theos took in all these details rapidly at a glance, his gaze soon became fixed on the glittering Pavilion that occupied the furthest end of the saloon, where on a massive throne of ivory and silver sat the chief object of attraction, … Zephoranim the King. The steps of the royal dais were strewn ankle-deep with flowers, … . on either hand a bronze lion lay couchant, … . and four gigantic black statues of men supported the monarch's gold-fringed canopy, their uplifted arms being decked with innumerable rows of large and small pearls. The King's features were not just then visible—he was leaning back in an indolent attitude, resting on his elbow, and half covering his face with one hand. The individual in the silver coat-of-mail whispered something in Sah-luma's ear either by way of warning or advice, and then advanced, prostrating himself before the dais and touching the ground humbly with his forehead and hands. The King stirred slightly, but did not alter his position, … he was evidently wrapped in a deep and seemingly unpleasant reverie.
"Dread my lord…. !" began the Herald-in-Waiting. A movement of decided impatience on the part of the monarch caused him to stop short.
"By my soul!" said a rich, strong voice that made itself distinctly audible throughout the spacious hall—"Thou art ever shivering on the edge of thy duty when thou shouldst plunge boldly into the midst thereof! How long wilt mouth thy words? … Canst never speak plain?"
"Most potent sovereign!" went on the stammering herald—"Sah-luma waits thy royal pleasure!"
"Sah-luma!" and the monarch sprang erect, his eyes flashing fire—"Nay, that HE should wait, bodes ill for thee, thou knave! How darest thou bid him wait?—Entreat him hither with all gentleness, as befits mine equal in the realm!"
As he thus spoke, Theos was able to observe him more attentively; indeed it seemed as though a sudden and impressive pause had occurred in the action of a drama in order to allow him as spectator, to thoroughly master the meaning of one special scene. Therefore he took the opportunity offered, and, looking full at Zephoranim, thought he had never beheld so magnificent a man. Of stately height and herculean build, he was most truly royal in outward bearing,—though a physiognomist judging him from the expression of his countenance would at once have given him all the worst vices of a reckless voluptuary and utterly selfish sensualist. His straight, low brows indicated brute force rather than intellect,—his eyes, full, dark, and brilliant, had in them a suggestion of something sinister and cruel, despite their fine clearness and lustre, while the heavy lines of his mouth, only partly concealed by a short, thick black beard, plainly betokened that the monarch's tendencies were by no means toward the strict and narrow paths of virtue.
Nevertheless he was a splendid specimen of the human animal at its best physical development, and his attire, which was a mixture of the civilized and savage, suited him as it certainly would not have suited any less stalwart frame. His tunic was of the deepest purple broidered with gold,—his vest of pale amber silk was thrown open so as to display to the greatest advantage his broad muscular chest and throat glittering all over with gems,—and he wore, flung loosely across his left shoulder, a superb leopard skin, just kept in place by a clasp of diamonds. His feet were shod with gold-colored sandals,—his arms were bare and lavishly decked with jewelled armlets,—his rough, dark hair was tossed carelessly about his brow, whereon a circlet of gold studded with large rubies glittered in the light,—from his belt hung a great sheathed sword, together with all manner of hunting implements,—and beside him, on a velvet-covered stand, lay a short sceptre, having at its tip one huge egg-shaped pearl set in sapphires.
Noting the grand poise of his figure, and the statuesque grace of his attitude, a strange, hazy, far-off memory began to urge itself on Theos's mind,—a memory that with every second grew more painfully distinct, … HE HAD SEEN ZEPHORANIM BEFORE! Where, he could not tell,—but he was as positive of it as that he himself lived! … and this inward conviction was accompanied by a certain undefinable dread,—a vague terror and foreboding, though he knew no actual cause for fear.
He had however no time to analyze his emotion,—for just then the Herald-in-Waiting, having performed a backward evolution from the throne to the threshold of the audience-chamber, beckoned impatiently to Sah-luma, who at once stepped forward, bidding Theos keep close behind him. The harp-bearer followed, . . and thus all three approached the dais where the King still stood erect, awaiting them. Zabastes the Critic glided in also, almost unnoticed, and joined a group of courtiers at the furthest end of the long, gorgeously lighted room, while at sight of the Laureate the assembled officers saluted, and all conversation ceased. At the foot of the throne Sah-luma paused, but made no obeisance,—raising his glorious eyes to the monarch's face he smiled,—and Theos beheld with amazement, that here it was not the Poet who reverenced the King, but the King who reverenced the Poet!
What a strange state of things! he thought,—especially when the mighty Zephoranim actually descended three steps of his flower-strewn dais, and grasping Sah-luma's hands raised them to his lips with all the humility of a splendid savage paying homage to his intellectual conqueror! It was a scene Theos was destined never to forget, and he gazed upon it as one gazes on a magnificently painted picture, wherein two central figures fascinate and most profoundly impress the beholder's imagination. He heard, with a vague sense of mingled pleasure and sadness, the deep, mellow tones of the monarch's voice vibrating through the silence, … .
"Welcome, my Sah-luma!—Welcome at all times, but chiefly welcome when the heart is weighted by care! I have thought of thee all day, believe me! … aye, since early dawn, when on my way to the chase I heard in the depths of the forest a happy nightingale singing, and deemed thy voice had taken bird-shape and followed me! And that I sent for thee in haste, blame me not!—as well blame the desert athirst for rain, or the hungry heart agape for love to come and fill it!" Here his restless eye flashed on Theos, who stood quietly behind Sah-luma, passive, yet expectant of he knew not what.
"Whom hast thou there? … A friend?" This as Sah-luma apparently explained something in a low tone, … "He is welcome also for thy sake"—and he extended one hand, on which a great ruby signet burned like a red star, to Theos, who, bending over it, kissed it with the grave courtesy he fancied due to kings. Zephoranim appeared good-naturedly surprised at this action, and eyed him somewhat scrutinizingly as he said: "Thou art not of Sah-luma's divine calling assuredly, fair sir, else thou wouldst hardly stoop to a mere crowned head like mine! Soldiers and statesmen may bend the knee to their chosen rulers, but to whom shall poets bend? They, who with arrowy lines cause thrones to totter and fall,—they, who with deathless utterance brand with infamy or hallow with honor the most potent names of kings and emperors,—they by whom alone a nation lives in the annals of the future,—what homage do such elect gods owe to the passing holders of one or more earthly sceptres? Thou art too humble, methinks, for the minstrel-vocation,—dost call thyself a Minstrel? or a student of the art of song?"
Theos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch's countenance, as he replied in low, clear tones:
"Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! … nor do I deserve to be called even a student of that high, sweet music-wisdom in which Sah-luma alone excels! All I dare hope for is that I may learn of him in some small degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some future time I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common flower on earth can approach to a fixed star in the furthest blue of heaven!"
Sah-luma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative glance,—Zephoranim regarded him somewhat curiously.
"By my faith, thou'rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!" he said—"We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sah-luma's pleasure and our own! Stand thee near thy friend and master, and listen to the melody of his matchless voice,—thou shalt hear therein the mysteries of many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of love, in which all other passions centre and have power."
Re-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself indolently back in his throne,—whereupon two pages brought a magnificent chair of inlaid ivory and placed it near the foot of the dais at his right hand. In this Sah-luma seated himself, the pages arranging his golden mantle around him in shining, picturesque folds,—while Theos, withdrawing slightly into the background, stood leaning against a piece of tapestry on which the dead figure of a man was depicted lying prone on the sward with a great wound in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering above him expectant of its grim repast. Kneeling on one knee close to Sah-luma, the harp-bearer put the harp in tune, and swept his fingers lightly over the strings,—then came a pause. A clear, small bell chimed sweetly on the stillness, and the King, raising himself a little, signed to a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic of some office.
"Let the women enter!" he commanded—"Speak but Sah-luma's name and they will gather like waves rising to the moon,—but bid them be silent as they come, lest they disturb thoughts more lasting than their loveliness."
This with a significant glance toward the Laureate, who, sunk in his ivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation.
His beautiful face had grown grave, . . even sad, … he played idly with the ornaments at his belt, … and his eyes had a drowsy yet ardent light within them, as they flashed now and then from under the shade of his long curling lashes. The slave departed on his errand … and Zabastes edging himself out from the hushed and attentive throng of nobles stood as it were in the foreground of the picture, his thin lips twisted into a sneer, and his lean hands grasping his staff viciously as though he longed to strike somebody down with it.
A moment or so passed, and then the slave returned, his silver rod uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-veiled female figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of flowers. They floated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais, and there prostrated themselves two by two before the King, whose fiery glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,—and as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying to full view such exquisite faces, such languishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-white necks and arms, such graceful voluptuous forms, that Theos caught at the tapestry near him in reeling dazzlement of sight and sense, and wondered how Sah-luma seated tranquilly in the reflective attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and indifferent a demeanor.
Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones, turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his feet,—he scarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less the lovely donors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their places on low silken divans, provided for their accommodation, in a semicircle round the throne. Again a silence ensued,—Sah-luma was evidently centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-weaving,—and his attendant gently swept the strings of the harp again to recall his wandering fancies. Suddenly he looked up, . . his eyes were sombre, and a musing trouble shadowed the brightness of his face.
"Strange it is, O King"—he said in low, suppressed tones that had in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,—"Strange it is that to-night the soul of my singing dwells on sorrow! Like a stray bird flying 'mid falling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight to storm, so does my fancy soar among drear, flitting images evolved from the downfall of kingdoms,—and I seem to behold in the distance the far-off shadow of Death…"
"Talk not of death!" interrupted the King loudly and in haste,—"'Tis a raven note that hath been croaked in mine ears too often and too harshly already! What! … hast thou been met by the mad Khosrul who lately sprang on me, even as a famished wolf on prey, and grasping my bridle-rein bade me prepare to die! 'Twas an ill jest, and one not to be lightly forgiven! 'Prepare to die, O Zephoranim?' he cried—'For thy time of reckoning is come!' By my soul!" and the monarch broke into a boisterous laugh—"Had he bade me prepare live 'twould have been more to the purpose! But yon frantic graybeard prates of naught but death, … 'twere well he should be silenced." And as he spoke, he frowned, his hand involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his sword.
"Aye,—death is an unpleasing suggestion!" suddenly said Zabastes, who had gradually moved up nearer and nearer till he made one of the group immediately round Sah-luma—"'Tis a word that should never be mentioned in the presence of Kings! Yet, . . notwithstanding the incivility of the statement, . . it is most certain that His Most Potent Majesty as well as His Majesty's Most Potent Laureate, MUST..DIE.. !" And he accompanied the words "must..die…" with two decisive taps of his staff, smacking his withered lips meanwhile as though he tasted something peculiarly savory.
"And thou also, Zabastes!" retorted the King with a dark smile, jestingly drawing his sword and pointing it full at him,—then, as the old Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel, replacing it dashingly in its sheath,—"Thou also! … and thine ashes shall be cast to the four winds of heaven as suits thy vocation, while those of thy master and thy master's King lie honorably urned in porphyry and gold!"
Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.
"It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim," he returned composedly—"Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,—and the scattering of them is but a question of time! For urns of gold and porphyry do but excite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein sealed, whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of reverent handling by future generations as those of many lesser men. And 'tis doubtful whether the winds will know any difference in the scent or quality of the various pinches of human dust tossed on their sweeping circles,—for the substance of a man reduced to earth-atoms is always the same,—and not a grain of him can prove whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel pampered, or a Critic contemned!"
And he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument. The King deigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sah-luma, who still sat pensively silent.
"How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?" he demanded gently—"Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the midst of thy soul's sudden sadness?"
At this, Sah-luma roused himself,—signing to his attendant he took the harp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed his hands over it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully. A ripple of music answered his delicate touch,—music as soft as the evening wind murmuring among willows. Another instant and his voice thrilled on the silence,—a voice wonderful, far-reaching, mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, containing within it a passion that pierced to the heart of the listener, and a divine fullness such as surely was never before heard in human tones!
Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with unwonted rapidity, . . what.. WHAT was it that Sah-luma sang? … A Love-song! in those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the language of Al-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine, tender as the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced evenings,—an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and meant to strike home to the core of feeling and there inflict delicious wounds! … but, as each well-chosen word echoed harmoniously on his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every limb, . . a black, frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, maddening terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he were suddenly thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever shine! For Sah-luma's song was HIS song! … HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! … He knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his youth when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every couplet.. every rhyme! … The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . . HIS ALONE! … and Sah-luma had no right to it! He, Theos, was the Poet, . . not this royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas and filched his jewels of thought…aye! and he would tell him so to his face! … he would speak! … he would cry aloud his claims in the presence of the King and demand instant justice! … .
He strove for utterance,—his voice was gone! … his lips were moveless as the lips of a stone image! Stricken absolutely mute, but with his sense of hearing quickened to an almost painful acuteness, he stood erect and motionless,—rage and fear contending in his heart, enduring the torture of a truly terrific mystery of mind-despair, . . forced, in spite of himself, to listen passively to the love-thoughts of his own dead Past revived anew in his Rival's singing!