Pausing in the swift torrent of her words, her white breast heaved violently with the rise and fall of her panting breath,—her dark, brilliant eyes dilated, while the symbolic Jewel she wore, and the crown of serpents' heads in her streaming hair, seemed to glitter about her like so many points of lightning. At that instant one side of the Sanctuary split asunder, giving way to a bursting wreath of flames. Seeing this, she uttered a piercing cry, and stretched out her arms.
"Zephoranim! … Save me!"
In a second, the King sprang toward her, but not before Sah-luma, wild with wrath, had interposed himself between them.
"Back!" he exclaimed passionately, addressing the infuriated monarch.. "While I live, Lysia is mine!—let her hate and deny me as she will!—and sooner than see her in thine arms, O King, I will slay her where she stands!"
His bold attitude was magnificent,—his countenance more than beautiful in its love betrayed despair, . . and for a moment the savage Zephoranim paused irresolute, his scowling brows bent on his erstwhile favorite Minstrel with an expression that hovered curiously between bitterest enmity and reluctant reverence. There seemed to be a struggling consciousness in his mind of the immortality of a Poet as compared with the evanescent power of a King,—and also a quick realization of the truth that, let his anger be what it would, they twain were partakers in the same evil, and were mutually deceived by the same false woman! But ere his saving sense of justice could prevail, a ripple of discordant, delirious laughter broke once more from Lysia's lips,—her eye shone vindictively,—her whole face became animated with a sudden glow of fiendish triumph.
"Zephoranim!" she cried, "Hero! … Warrior! … King! … Thou who hast risked thy crown and throne and life for my sake and the love of me! … Wilt lose me now? … Wilt let me perish in these raging flames, to satisfy this wanton liar and unbeliever in the gods, to whose disturbance of the Holy Ritual we surely owe this present fiery disaster! Save me, O strong and noble Zephoranim! … Save me, and with me save the city and the people! KILL SAH-LUMA!"
O barbarous, inexorable words!—they rang like a desolating knell in the ears of the bewildered, fear-stricken Theos, and startled him from his rigid trance of speechless misery. Uttering an inarticulate dull groan, he made a violent effort to rush forward—to serve as a living shield of defence to his adored friend, . . to ward off the imminent blow! Too late! too late! … Zephoranim's dagger glittered in the air, and rapidly descended … One gasping cry! … and Sah-luma lay prone,—beautiful as a slain Adonis, . . the rich red blood pouring from his heart, and a faint, stern smile frozen on the proud lips whose dulcet singing-speech was now struck dumb forever! With a shriek of agony, Theos threw himself beside his murdered comrade, . . heedless of King, Priestess, flames, and all the out-breaking fury of earth and heaven, he bent above that motionless form, and gazed yearningly into the fair colorless face.
"Sah-luma! … Sah-luma!"
No sign! … No tremulous stir of breath! Dead—dead,—dead in his prime of years—dead in the zenith of his glory!—all the delicate, dreaming genius turned to dust and ashes! … all the ardent light of inspiration quenched in the never-lifting darkness of the grave! … and in the first delirious paroxysm of his grief Theos felt as though life, time, and the world were ended for him also, with this one suddenly destroyed existence!
"O thou mad King!" he cried fiercely, "Thou hast slain the chief wonder of thy realm and reign! Die now when thou wilt, thou shalt only he remembered as the murderer of Sah-luma! … Sah-luma, whose name shall live when thine is covered in shameful oblivion!"