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Ardath

<h2 id="id00727" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVI.</h2> <h5 id="id00728">THE PROPHET OF DOOM.</h5> A few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,—then the first sharpness of his strange mental agony subsided. The strained tension of his nerves gave way, and a dull apathy of grief inconsolable settled upon him. He felt himself to be a man mysteriously accurst,—banished as it were out of life, and stripped of all he had once held dear and valuable. HOW HAD IT HAPPENED? Why was he set apart thus, solitary, poor, and empty of all worth, WHILE ANOTHER REAPED THE FRUITS OF HIS GENIUS? … He heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking the vast hall as the Laureate ended his song—and, drooping his head, some stinging tears welled up in his eyes and fell scorchingly on his clasped hands—tears wrung from the very depth of his secretly tortured soul. At that moment the beautiful Sah-luma turned toward him smiling, as one who looked for more sympathetic approbation than that offered by a mixed throng,—and meeting that happy self-conscious, bland, half-inquiring gaze, he strove his best to return the smile. Just then Zephoranim's fiery glance swept over him with a curious expression of wonder and commiseration. "By the gods, yon stranger weeps!" said the monarch in a half-bantering tone…then with more gentleness he added.. "Yet 'tis not the first time Sah-luma's voice hath unsealed a fountain of tears! No greater triumph can minstrel have than this,—to move the strong man's heart to woman's tenderness! We have heard tell of poets, who singing of death have persuaded many straightway to die,—but when they sing of sweeter themes, of lover's vows, of passion-frenzies, and languorous desires, cold is the blood that will not warm and thrill to their divinely eloquent allurements. Come hither, fair sir!" and he beckoned to Theos, who mechanically advanced in obedience to the command—"Thou hast thoughts of thine own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love's fervor of delight, . . hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells whereby the most dauntless heroes in every age have been caught, conquered, and bound by no stronger chain than a tress of hair, or a kiss more luscious than all the honey hidden in lotus-flowers?" Theos looked up dreamily…his eyes wandered from the King to Sah-luma as though in wistful search for some missing thing, . . his lips were parched and burning and his brows ached with a heavy weight of pain, … but he made an effort to speak and succeeded, though his words came slowly and without any previous reflection on his own part. "Alas, most potent Sovereign!" he murmured.. "I am a man of sad memories, whose soul is like the desert, barren of all beauty! I may have sung of love in my time, but my songs were never new,—never worthy to last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith, passion, or heart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams devise, Sah-luma knows, . . and in Sah-luma's song all my best thoughts are said!" There was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he spoke,—and the King eyed him compassionately. "Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered!" he observed in gentle accents.. "Thou hast a look as of one bereft of joy. Hast lost some maiden love of thine? … and dost thou mourn her still?" A pang bitter as death shot through Theos's heart, . . had the monarch suddenly pierced him with his great sword he could scarcely have endured more anguish! For the knowledge rushed upon him that he had indeed lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable, so pure and perfect, that all the world weighed in the balance against it would have seemed but a grain of dust compared to its inestimable value! … but what that love was, and from whom it emanated, he could no more tell than the tide can tell in syllabled language the secret of its attraction to the moon. Therefore he made no answer, . . only a deep, half-smothered sigh broke from him, and Zephoranim apparently touched by his dejection continued good-naturedly: "Nay, nay!—we will not seek to pry into the cause of thy spirit's heaviness…Enough! think no more of our thoughtless question,—there is a sacredness in sorrow! Nevertheless we shall strive to make thee in part forget thy grief ere thou leavest our court and city, . . meanwhile sit thou there"—and he pointed to the lower step of the dais, . . "And thou, Sah-luma, sing again, and this time let thy song he set to a less plaintive key." He leaned hack in his throne, and Theos sat wearily down among the flowers at the foot of the dais as commanded. He was possessed by a strange, inward dread,—the dread of altogether losing the consciousness of his own identity,—and while he strove to keep a firm grasp on his mental faculties he at the same time abandoned all hope of ever extricating himself from the perplexing enigma in which he was so darkly involved. Forcing himself by degrees into comparative calmness, he determined to resign himself to his fate,—and the idea he had just had of boldly claiming the ballad sung by Sah-luma as his own, completely passed out of his mind. How could he speak against this friend whom he loved, ..aye!—more than he had ever loved any living thing!—besides what could he prove? To begin with, in his present condition ho could give no satisfactory account of himself,—if he were asked questions concerning his nation or birth-place he could not answer them, . . he did not even know where he had come from, save that his memory persistently furnished him with the name of a place called "ARDATH." But what was this "Ardath" to him, he mused?—What did it signify? … what had it to do with his immediate position? Nothing, so far as he could tell! His intellect seemed to be divided into two parts—one a total blank, . . the other filled with crowding images that while novel were yet curiously familiar. And how could he accuse Sah-luma of literary theft, when he had none of his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case? Of course he could easily repeat his boyhood's verses word for word, … but what of that? He, a stranger in the city, befriended and protected by the Laureate, would certainly be considered by the people of Al-Kyris as far more likely to steal Sah-luma's thoughts than that Sah-luma should steal his! No!—there was no help for it,—as matters stood he could say nothing,—he could only feel as though he were the sorrowful ghost of some long-ago dead author returned to earth to hear others claiming his works and passing them off as original compositions. And thus he was scarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sah-luma, giving back the harp to his attendant, rose up, and standing erect in an attitude unequalled for grace and dignity, began to recite a poem he remembered to have written when he was about twenty years of age,—a poem daringly planned, which when published had aroused the bitterest animosity of the press critics on account of what they called its "forced sublimity." The sublimity was by no means "forced"—it was the spontaneous outcome of a fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and high-soaring aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . . all they saw was a young man presuming to be original, and down they came upon him accordingly. He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured through that ill-fated and cruelly condemned composition,—and now he was listlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement it evoked here in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed more strange and weird than the strangest dream! It was a story of the gods before the world was made,—of love deep buried in far eternities of light, . . of vast celestial shapes whose wanderings through the blue deep of space were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and wonder-spheres of beauty, . . a fanciful legend of transcendent heavenly passion, telling how all created worlds throbbed amorously in the purple seas of pure ether, and how Love and Love alone was the dominant cloud of the triumphal march of the Universe…And with what matchless eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear and rounded tenderness of accent! … how exquisitely his voice rose and fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many leaves, … while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entrancing joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly art infused a touch of minor pathos,—a suggestion of the eternal complaint of Nature which even in the happiest moments asserts itself in mournful under-tones. The effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a few soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp by his attendant harpist and introduced just at the right moments; and Theos, notwithstanding the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened to every well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a gradually deepening sense of peace,—he knew not why, for the verses, in themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. The various impressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness—the King moved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and paling, his hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels that blazed on his breast—the women's eyes at one moment sparkled with delight and at the next grew humid with tears,—the assembled courtiers pressed forward, awed, eager, and attentive,—the very soldiers on guard seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper disturbed the harmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that rippled from the Laureate's lips. When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of applause that the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in the strong vibration of so many uplifted voices,—shouts of frenzied rapture echoed again and again through the vaulted roof like thuds of thunder,—shouts in which Theos joined,—as why should he not? He had as good a right as any one to applaud his own poem! It had been sufficiently abused heretofore,—he was glad to find it now so well appreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,—though he had no intention of putting forward any claim to its authorship. No,—for it was evident he had in some inscrutable way been made an outcast from all literary honor,—and a sort of wild recklessness grew up within him,—a bitter mirth, arising from curiously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and tenderness for Sah-luma,—and it was in this spirit that he loudly cheered the triumphant robber of his stores of poesy, and even kept up the plaudits long after they might possibly have been discontinued. Never perhaps did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the exquisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit moved by it, … his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam of sunshine all over his beautiful face, but, save for this, he gave no sign of even hearing the deafening acclamations that resounded about him on all sides. "A new Ilyspiros!" cried the King enthusiastically, and, detaching a magnificently cut ruby from among the gems he wore, he flung it toward his favored minstrel. It flashed through the air like a bright spark of flame and fell, glistening redly, on the pavement just half-way between Theos and Sah-luma…Theos eyed it with faintly amused indifference, … the Laureate bowed gracefully, but did not stoop to raise it,—he left that task to his harp-bearer, who, taking it up, presented it to his master humbly on one knee. Then, and only then Sah-luma received it, kissed it lightly and placed it negligently among his other ornaments, smiling at the King as he did so with the air of one who graciously condescends to accept a gift out of kindly feeling for the donor. Zabastes meanwhile had witnessed the scene with an expression of mingled impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly on his furrowed features, and as soon as the hubbub of applause had subsided, he struck his staff on the ground with an angry clang, and exclaimed irritably: "Now may the god shield us from a plague of fools! What means this throaty clamor? Ye praise what ye do not understand, like all the rest of the discerning public! Many is the time, as the weariness of my spirit witnesseth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehearse,—but never in all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he given utterance to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon as to-night! Strange it is that the so-called 'poetical' trick of confusedly heaping words together regardless of meaning, should so bewilder men and deprive them of all wise and sober judgment! By my faith! … I would as soon listen to the gabble of geese in a farmyard as to the silly glibness of such inflated twaddle, such mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such ranting verbosity…" A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,—laughter in which no one joined more heartily than Sah-luma himself. He had resumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he surveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amusement, while the King's stentorian "Ha, ha, ha!" resounded in ringing peals through the great audience-chamber. "Thou droll knave!" cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the drops his merriment had brought into his eyes—"Wilt kill me with thy bitter-mouthed jests? … of a truth my sides ache at thee! What ails thee now? … Come,—we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be restrained,—speak!—what flaw canst thou find in our Sah-luma's pearl of poesy?—what spots on the sun of his divine inspiration? As the Serpent lives, thou art an excellent mountebank and well deservest thy master's pay!" He laughed again,—but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His withered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of impenetrable obstinacy,—tucking his long staff under his arm he put his fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts up certain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he began: "Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty Zephoranim, I would in the first place say that the poem so greatly admired by your Majesty, is totally devoid of common sense. It is purely a caprice of the imagination,—and what is imagination? A mere aberration of the cerebral nerves,—a morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on the impossible,—on things that have never been, and never will be. Thus, Sah-luma's verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a moon-struck madman,—moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED SUBLIMITY…" here Theos gave an involuntary start,—then, recollecting where he was, resumed his passive attitude—"which is in every way distasteful to the ears that love plain language. For instance, what warrant is there for this most foolish line: "'The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.' 'Tis vile, 'tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any other stars chant? … who can prove that the heavenly bodies are given to the study of music? Hath Sah-luma been present at their singing lesson?" Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject, advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on: "Hear yet another jarring simile: "'The wild winds moan for pity of the world.' Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!—for the tales of shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,—and however much a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of Nature, he is after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams. One couplet hath most discordantly annoyed my senses—'tis the veriest doggerel: "'The sun with amorous clutch Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!' O monstrous piece of extravagance!—for how can the Sun (his Deity set apart) 'clutch' without hands?—and as for 'the emerald girdle of the rose'—I know not what it means, unless Sah-luma considers the green calyx of the flower a 'girdle,' in which case his wits must be far gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in the common natural protection of a bud before it blooms! There was a phrase too concerning nightingales,—and the gods know we have heard enough and too much of those over-praised birds! …" Here he was interrupted by one of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the laughter of the whole court broke forth in joyous echoes. "Laugh—laugh!" said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the throng with a derisive smile—"Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of folly!—and cling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for you in the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty and perishable are they all,—they shine for a moment, then break and vanish,—and the colors wherewith they sparkled, colors deemed immortal in their beauty, shall pass away like a breath and be renewed no more!" "Not so!" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-"for the colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? … nay!—for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on the mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and passion? … Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or stir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals of a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and habitude,—but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a perfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions? No!—but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,—not one world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his rhythmic splendor,—not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The heart,—the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet's genius,—and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!" Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward, clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder: "Bravely spoken, sir stranger!" he exclaimed—"Thou hast well vindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!—thou hast a musical tongue of thine own!—who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in time to come!—And thou, Zabastes—" here he turned upon the old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical disdain—"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual! Thou art thyself a disappointed author—hence thy spleen! Thou art blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,—for thee the very sun is a blot rather than a brightness,—thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee! Aye, aye!—we know thee for a beauty hating fool,—and though we laugh at thee, we find thee wearisome! Stand thou aside and be straightway forgotten!—we will entreat Sah-luma for another song." 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!" The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,—a flush of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive—and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man's bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority … "Unloose his fetters!" he commanded. The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright. Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently. "Unloose him, I say! … By the gods! must I repeat the same thing twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their sovereign? … And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,—methinks ye might have tied him with thread and met with small resistance! I have known many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when captured! Unloose him—and quickly too!—Our pleasure is that, ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man." In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters wrenched asunder,—and in a very short space Khosrul stood at comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King's generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to move,—his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still bound,—and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from a deep dream,—shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,—then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion. "Away … Away!" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to every part of the vast hall—"Wilt force me to drink blood?" He paused,—and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. "Blood … Blood! It stains the earth and sky! … its red, red waves swallow up the land! … The heavens grow pale and tremble,—the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood … blood! The blood of the innocent! … 'tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders … founders … never to rise again!" These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance. "Thou art mad, Khosrul"—then said the monarch in calmly measured accents—"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now retarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness—and this we cannot suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,—and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman's cunning,—thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the realm,—thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die. Thou art accused…" "Of honesty!" interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy satire in his tone. "I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! 'Tis a most death-worthy deed!" He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man. Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing—and a brief pause ensued. Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the scene,—there was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter. "Now by the Sacred Veil,"—he said gayly, addressing himself to the King—"Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,—a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I live, 'twas not ill-devised for a madman's brain! … and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic's chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!" And turning to Khosrul he added—"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard? Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,—and the King shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and lasting sweetness!" Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes. "Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!" he said mournfully—"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea! … thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the measure of thine inspiration,—yet thou hast missed its true teaching,—and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find God! Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! … Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!" And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed steadfastly to—the King! There was a momentary hush…a stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing. "By all the virtues of Nagaya!" he cried—"This is most excellent fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite in the realm? … Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience,—though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,—'tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma, through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals of future history—for the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the renown of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma!—aye, even cry aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!" Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic assurance of his sovereign's friendship,—but nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had evidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul's words, and the restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. "What is this Khosrul?" he thought half resentfully—"and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired Sah-luma so dark and unmerited an end? … "Hark! … what was that low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed? … He listened,—then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had suddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair, outstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror personified. "Victory… Victory!" he cried, catching at the King's last word … "There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! … Thy conquests are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! … Destruction clamors at thy palace-gates! … and the enemy that cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be trodden down as wheat,—thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail as children bewildered with fear:—thy great engines of battle shall be to thee as naught,—and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury! Zephoranim! Zephoranim! …" and his voice shrilled with terrific emphasis through the vaulted chamber … "The days of recompense are come upon thee,—swift and terrible as the desert-wind! … The doom of Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! … its beauty, its greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the waning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings shall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! … Fire! …" and here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, his dark garments brushing against Theos as he passed,—and springing on the first step, stood boldly within hand-reach of the King, who, taken aback by the suddenness of his action, stared at him with a sort of amazed and angry fascination.. "To arms, Zephoranim! … To arms! … take up thy sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire! Fire! … How shall the King quench it? … how shall the mighty monarch defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air with red devouring tongues of flame! … the thick smoke reeks of blood! … Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of ashes! Who will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call upon the desert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on the wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters of the earth,—all nations shall shudder and be astonished at the direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress of kingdoms! Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered herself to be led astray by her rulers! … she hath drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath followed after idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts of her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore because Al-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth repentance, so shall destruction descend furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the mid-watches of the night,—she shall be swept away from the surface of the earth, … wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens, and the generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings, princes, and warriors!—Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!" and now his wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous plaintiveness—"Weep!—for never again on earth shall be found a fairer dwelling-place for the lovers of joy! … never again shall be builded a grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris! Al-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! … thou art become a forgotten heap of ruin! … the sands of the desert shall cover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire concerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none shall shed tears for the grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the names of thy mighty heroes and men of fame,—for thou shalt vanish utterly and be lost far out of memory even as though thou hadst never been!" Here he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard,—his blazing eyes preternaturally large and brilliant fixed themselves steadfastly on the sculptured ivory shield that surmounted the back of the King's throne, and over his drawn and wrinkled features came an expression of such ghastly horror that instinctively every one present turned their looks in the same direction. Suddenly a shriek, piercing and terrible, broke from his lips,—a shriek that like a swiftly descending knife seemed to saw the air discordantly asunder. "See … See!" he cried in fierce haste and eagerness … "See how the crested head gleams! … How the soft, shiny throat curves and glistens! … how the lithe body twists and twines! … Hence!—Hence, accursed Snake! ..thou poisoner of peace! … thou quivering sting in the flesh!—thou destroyer of the strength of manhood! What hast thou to do with Zephoranim, that thou dost wind thy many coils about his heart? … Lysia … Lysia! …" here the King started violently, his face flushing darkly red, "Thou delicate abomination! … Thou tyrannous treachery.. what shall be done unto thee in the hour of darkness! Put off, put off the ornaments of gold and the jewels wherewith thou adornest thy beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of an endless affliction! … for thou shalt be girdled round about with flame, and fire shall be thy garment! … thy lips that have drunken sweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness!—vainly shalt thou make thyself fair and call aloud on thy legion of lovers, . . they shall be as dead men, deaf to thine entreaties, and none shall answer thee,—no, not one! None shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort,—in the midst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish! … and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou unvirgined Virgin!—thou Queen-Courtesan!" Scarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King with a furious oath sprang upon him, grasped him by the throat, and thrusting him fiercely down on the steps of the dais, placed one foot on his prostrate body. Then drawing his gigantic sword he lifted it on high, … the blight blade glittered in air…an audible gasp of terror broke from the throng of spectators, … another second and Khosrul's life would have paid the forfeit for his temerity…when crash! … a sudden and tremendous clap of thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was extinguished! Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, close, suffocating darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in sullen, vibrating echoes, and there was a short, impressive silence. Then piercing through the profound gloom came the clamorous cries and shrieks of frightened women, . . the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and struggling of a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless, nerveless, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit when striving together for escape from some imminent deadly peril,—and though the King's stentorian voice could be heard above all the tumult loudly commanding order, his alternate threats and persuasions were of no avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which the whole court was thrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to Nagaya and the Sun-God.. curses from the soldiery, who intent on saving themselves were brutally trying to force a passage to the door regardless of the wailing women, whose frantic appeals for rescue and assistance were heart-rending to hear, . . all these sounds increased the horror of the situation,—and Theos, blind, giddy, and confused, listened to the uproar around him with something of the affrighted compassion that a stranger in Hell might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the ceaseless plaints of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored to grope his way to Sah-luma's side,—and just then lights appeared, . . lights that were not of earth's kindling, . . strange, wandering flames that danced and flitted along the tapestried walls like will-o'-the-wisps on a dark morass, and flung a ghastly blue glare on the pale, uneasy faces of the scared people, till gathering in a sort of lurid ring round the throne, they outlined in strong relief the enraged, Titanesque figure of Zephoranim whose upraised sword looked in itself like an arrested flash of lightning. Brighter and brighter grew the weird lustre, illumining the whole scene.. the vast length of the splendid hall, . . the shining armor of the soldiers…the white robes of the women…the flags and pennons that hung from the roof and swayed to and fro as though blown by a gust of wind.. every object near and distant was soon as visible as in broad day,—and then…a terrible cry of rage burst from the King,—the cry of a maddened wild beast. "Death and fury!" he shouted, striking his sword with a fierce clang against the silver pedestal of the throne, . . "Where is Khosrul?" The silence of an absolute dismay answered him, … Khosrul had fled! Like a cloud melting in air, or a ghost vanishing into the nether-world, he had mysteriously disappeared! … he had escaped, no one knew how, from under the very feet and out of the very grasp of the irate monarch, whose baffled wrath now knew no bounds. "Dolts, idiots, cowards!".. and he hurled these epithets at the timorous crowd with all the ferocity of a giant hurling stones at a swarm of pigmies.. "Babes that are frighted by a summer thunder-storm! … Ye have let yon accursed heretic slip from my hands ere I had choked him with his own lie! O ye fools! Ye puny villains! … I take shame to myself that I am King of such a race of weaklings! Lights! … Bring lights hither, ye whimpering slaves,—ye shivering poltroons! … What! call yourselves men! Nay, ye are feeble girls prankt out in men's attire, and your steel corselets cover the faintest hearts that ever failed for dastard fear! Shut fast the palace-gates! … close every barrier! … search every court and corner, lest haply this base false Prophet be still here in hiding,—he that blasphemed with ribald tongue the High Priestess of our Faith, the holy Virgin Lysia! … Are ye all turned renegades and traitors that ye will suffer him to go free and triumph in his lawless heresy? Ye shameless knaves! Ye milk-veined rascals! … What abject terror makes ye thus quiver like aspen-leaves in a storm? … this darkness is but a conjurer's trick to scare women, and Khosrul's followers can so play with the strings of electricity that ye are duped into accepting the witch-glamour as Heaven's own cloud-flame! By the gods! If Al-Kyris falls, as yon dotard pronounceth, her ruins shall bury but few heroes! O superstitious and degraded souls! … I would ye were even as I am—a man dauntless,—a soldier unafraid." His powerful and indignant voice had the effect of partially checking the panic and restoring something like order,—the pushing and struggling for an immediate exit ceased,—the armed guards in shamed silence began to marshal themselves together in readiness to start on the search for the fugitive,—and several pages rushed in with flaring torches, which cast a wondrous fire-glow on the surging throng of eager and timid faces, the brilliant costumes, the flash of jewels, the glimmer of swords and the dark outlines of the fluttering tapestry,—all forming together a curious chiaroscuro, from which the massive figure of Zephoranim stood out in bold and striking prominence against the white and silver background of his throne. Vaguely bewildered and lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Theos looked upon everything with an odd sense of strained calmness, . . the glittering saloon whirled before his eyes like a passing picture in a magic glass…and then…an imperative knowledge forced itself upon his mind,—HE HAD WITNESSED THIS SELF-SAME SCENE BEFORE! Where? and when? … Impossible to say,—but he distinctly remembered each incident! This impression however left him as rapidly as it had come, before he had any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that moment Sah-luma's hand caught his own,—Sah-luma's voice whispered in his ear: "Let us away, my friend,—there will be naught now but mounting of guards and dire confusion,—the King is as a lion roused, and will not cease growling till his vengeance be satisfied! A plague on this shatter-pated Prophet!—he hath broken through my music, and jarred poesy into discord!—By the Sacred Veil!—Didst ever hear such a hideous clamor of contradictory tongues! … all striving to explain what defies explanation, namely, Khosrul's flight, for which, after all, no one is to blame so much as Zephoranim himself,—but 'tis the privilege of monarchs to shift their own mistakes and follies on to the shoulders of their subjects! Come! Lysia awaits us, and will not easily pardon our tardy obedience to her summons,—let us hence ere the gates of the palace close." Lysia! … The "unvirgined Virgin"—the "Queen Courtesan"! So had said Khosrul. Nevertheless her name, like a silver clarion, made the heart of Theos bound with indescribable gladness and feverish expectation, and without an instant's pause he readily yielded to Sah-luma's guidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of the swaying crowd. Arm-in-arm, the twain,—one a POET RENOWNED, the other a POET FORGOTTEN,—threaded their rapid way between the ranks of nobles, officers, slaves, and court-lacqueys, who were all excitedly discussing the recent scare, the Prophet's escape, and the dread wrath of the King,—and hurrying along the vast Hall of the Two Thousand Columns, they passed together out into the night. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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