The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an undertone,—and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on Theos, his self constituted advocate, with an appreciative and almost tender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich, soft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The doors were flung open,—the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed:
"O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!"
Zephoranim's black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his lips hard.
"So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!" he said half-scornfully—"Bring hither the captive,—an he chafes at his bonds we will ourselves release him…" and he touched his sword significantly—"to a wider freedom than is found on earth!"
A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-chamber.
A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne—arrived at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,—a man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This was Khosrul,—the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world,—the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,—the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!
Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,—at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders,—at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, … something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King,—and for a moment or so a deep silence reigned,—silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,—seated haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.
"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a sinister smile—"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou trifled with our patience,—thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,—of judgment,—of the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? … wilt denounce the Faith? … Wilt mislead the people? … Wilt curse the King? … Thou mad sorcerer!—devil bewitched and blasphemous! … What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?" And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.
Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.
"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange, foreboding chill—"Nothing—save thine own scorn of cowardice!"