"Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury thine eyes in thy pillow?" he inquired … "Pardon my discourteous lack of consideration for thy comfort! … I love the sun myself so well that methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-day and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile! But thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light of Eastern lands,—wherefore thy brows must not be permitted to ache on, uncared for. See!—I have lowered the awnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,—and in very truth, the heat to-day is greater far than ordinary; one would think the gods had kindled some new fire in heaven!"
And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to and fro with an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm, while Theos gazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon him by his host's irresistible influence. Just then, too, Sah-luma appeared handsomer than ever in the half-subdued tints of radiance that flickered through the lowered pale-blue silken awnings: the effect of the room thus shadowed was as of a soft azure mountain mist lit sideways by the sun,—a mist through which the white-garmented, symmetrical figure of the Laureate stood forth in curiously brilliant outlines, as though every curve of supple shoulder and proud throat was traced with a pencil of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its way through the wide-open casements—the gentle dashing noise of the fountains in the court alone disturbed the deep, warm stillness of the morning, or the occasional sweeping rustle of peacocks' plumes as these stately birds strutted majestically up and down, up and down, on the marble terrace outside.
Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium of Theos's bewildering affliction gradually abated,—his tempest-tossed mind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium,—and falling into easy converse with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself again,—that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition permitted him to be. Yet he was not altogether free from a certain eager and decidedly painful suspense with regard to the "Nourhalma" problem,—and he was conscious of what he in his own opinion considered an absurd and unnecessary degree of excitement, when the door of the apartment presently opened to admit Zabastes, who entered, carrying several sheets of papyrus and other material for writing.
The old Critic's countenance was expressively glum and ironical,—he, however, was compelled, like all the other paid servants of the household, to make a low and respectful obeisance as soon as he found himself in Sah-luma's presence,—an act of homage which, he performed awkwardly, and with evident ill-will. His master nodded condescendingly in response to his reluctant salute, and signed to him to take his place at a richly carved writing-table adorned with the climbing figures of winged cupids exquisitely wrought in ivory. He obeyed, shuffling thither uneasily, and sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he went like an ill-conditioned cur scenting a foe,—and seating himself in a high-backed chair, he arranged his garments fussily about him, rolled up his long embroidered sleeves to the elbow, and spread his writing implements all over the desk in front of him with much mock-solemn ostentation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave a stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sah-luma and Theos,—a glance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sah-luma, absorbed in his own reflections, apparently failed to notice.
"All is in readiness, my lord!" he announced in his disagreeable croaking tones,—"Here are the clean and harmless slips of river-reed waiting to be soiled and spotted with my lord's indelible thoughts,—here also are the innocent quills of the white heron, as yet unstained by colored writing-fluid whether black, red, gold, silver, or purple! Mark you, most illustrious bard, the touching helplessness and purity of these meek servants of a scribbler's fancy! … Blank papyrus and empty quills! Bethink you seriously whether it were not better to leave them thus unblemished, the simple products of unfaulty Nature, than use them to indite the wondrous things of my lord's imagination, whereof, all wondrous though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser!"
And he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the while with a blandly suggestive, yet malign look directed at Sah-luma, who met it with a slight, cold smile of faintly amused contempt.
"Peace, fool!" he said,—"That barbarous tongue of thine is like the imperfect clapper of a broken bell that strikes forth harsh and undesired sounds suggesting nothing! Thy present duty is to hear, and not to speak,—therefore listen discerningly and write with exactitude, so shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich with gems, . . gems of high poesy that the whole world shall hoard and cherish miser-like when the poet who created their bright splendor is no more!"
He sighed—a short, troubled sigh,—and stood for a moment silent in an attitude of pensive thought. Theos watched him yearningly,—waiting in almost breathless suspense till he should dictate aloud the first line of his poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and taking up one of the long quills with which he was provided, dipped it in a reddish-purple liquid which at once stained its point to a deep roseate hue, so that when the light flickered upon it from time to time, it appeared as though it were tipped with fire. How intense the heat was, thought Theos!—as with one hand he pushed his clustering hair from his brow, not without noticing that his action was imitated almost at once by Sah-luma, who also seemed to feel the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. And what a blaze of blue pervaded the room! … delicate ethereal blue as of shimmering lakes and summer skies melted together into one luminous radiance, … radiance that, while filmy, was yet perfectly transparent, and in which the Laureate's classic form appeared to be gloriously enveloped like that of some new descended god!
Theos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled ache, . . what a marvellous scene it was to look upon, he mused! … would he,—could he ever forget it? Ah no!—never, never! not till his dying day would he be able to obliterate it from his memory,—and who could tell whether even after death he might not still recall it! Just then Sah-luma raised his hand by way of signal to Zabastes, . . his face became earnest, pathetic, even grand in the fervent concentration of his thoughts, … he was about to begin his dictation, … now … now! … and Theos leaned forward nervously, his heart beating with apprehensive expectation … Hush! … the delicious, suave melody of his friend's voice penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp-string..
"Write—" said he slowly.. "write first the title of my poem thus:
'Nourhalma: A Love-Legend of the Past.'"