"How comes it, Sah-luma, that the corpse of Nir-jalis was found on the shores of the river? Did we not see it weighted with iron and laid elsewhere…?"
"O simpleton!" laughed Sah-luma—"Thinkest thou Lysia's lake of lilies is a common grave for criminals? The body of Nir-jalis sank therein, 'tis true, . . but was there no after-means of lifting it from thence, and placing it where best such carrion should be found? Hath not the High Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work her will? … Verily thou dost trouble thyself overmuch concerning these trivial every-day occurences,—I marvel at thee!—Hundreds have drained the Silver Nectar gladly for so fair a woman's sake,—hundreds will drain it gladly still for the mere privilege of living some brief days in the presence of such peerless beauty! … But,—speaking of the river—didst thou remark it on thy way hither?"
"Aye!" responded Theos dreamily—"'Twas red as blood"!"
"Strange!" and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then rousing himself, said lightly, "'Tis from some simple cause, no doubt—yet 'twill create a silly panic in the city—and all the fanatics for Khosrul's new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh their prognostications of death and doom. By my faith, 'twill be a most desperate howling! … and I'll not walk abroad till the terror hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do,—some lately budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious conclusion,—and Zabastes hath orders presently to attend me that he may take my lines down from mine own dictation. Thou shalt hear a most choice legend of love an thou wilt listen—" here he laid his hand affectionately on Theos's shoulder—"a legend set about, methinks, with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor! … 'tis a rare privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes is my only auditor,—but I would swear thou art no plagiarist, and wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch pearls of fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my thoughts!—for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet's soul,—and the common thief of things petty and material is no whit more contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at ease upon this cushioned couch, and give me thy attention, … I feel the fervor rising within me, … I will summon Zabastes, …" Here he pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging bell echoing loudly through the palace, … "And thou shalt freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of my fertile genius,—my lyrical romance 'Nourhalma!'" Theos started violently, … he had the greatest difficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips. "Nourhalma!" O memory! … slow-filtering, reluctant memory! … why, why was his brain thus tortured with these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary suggestions which gradually formed themselves into a distinct and comprehensive certainty, . . "Nourhalma" was the title of HIS OWN POEM,—the poem HE had written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the Pass of Dariel!
CHAPTER XXIII.
"NOURHALMA."
His first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery was, as it had been before in the King's audience-hall, one of absolute TERROR, … feverish, mad terror which for a few moments possessed him so utterly that, turning away, he buried his aching head among the cushion where he reclined, in order to hide from his companion's eyes any outward sign that might betray his desperate misery. Clenching his hands convulsively, he silently, and with all his strength, combated the awful horror of himself that grew up spectrally within him,—the dreadful, distracting uncertainty of his own identity that again confused his brain and paralyzed his reason.
At last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning of Hell! … the frightful spiritual torment of a baffled intelligence set adrift among the wrecks and shadows of things that had formerly been its pride and glory! What was any physical suffering compared to such a frenzy of mind-agony? Nothing! … less than nothing! This was the everlasting thirst and fire spoken of so vaguely by prophets and preachers,—the thirst and fire of the Soul's unquenchable longing to unravel the dismal tangle of its own bygone deeds, . . the striving forever in vain to steadfastly establish the wavering mystery of its own existence!
"O God! … God!—what hast Thou made of me!" he groaned inwardly, as he endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,—"Who am I? … Who WAS I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so threateningly! Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! … surely I too could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sah-luma's work is but the reflex of my own? O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! … when shall it be unraveled? 'Nourhalma!' 'Twas the name of what I deemed my masterpiece! … O silly masterpiece, if it prove thus easy of imitation! … Yet stay.. let me be patient! … titles are often copied unconsciously by different authors in different lands, . . and it may chance that Sah-luma's poem is after all his own,—not mine. Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he chanted to the King last night! … O Destiny! … inscrutable, pitiless Destiny! … rescue my tortured soul from chaos! … declare unto me who,—WHO is the plagiarist and thief of Song.. MYSELF or SAH-LUMA?"
The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh obscurity was now added in his suddenly distinct and distressful remembrance of the "Pass of Dariel." Where was this place, he wondered wearily?—When had he seen it? whom had he met there?—and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence? No answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, . . he recollected the "Pass of Dariel" just as he recollected the "Field of Ardath"—without the least idea as to what connection existed between them and his own personal adventures. Presently controlling himself, he raised his head and ventured to look up,—Sah-luma stood beside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude.