"I am a Poet!" he said.

A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the
listening crowd. Sah-luma's lip curled haughtily--

"A Poet!" and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt
--"Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!"

Theos looked at him steadily,--a subtle sympathy attracted him
toward this charming boaster,--involuntarily he smiled, and bent
his head courteously.

"I do not seek to figure as your rival ..." he began.

"Rival!" echoed Sah-luma--"I have no rivals!"

A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng
declared the popular approval of this assertion, and the boy
bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen to the conversation,
swept the strings of his instrument with a triumphant force and
fervor that showed how thoroughly his feelings were in harmony
with the expression of his master's sentiments. Sah-luma
conquered, with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed
coldly:

"From whence do you come, fair sir? We should know your name,--
POETS are not so common!" This with an accent of irony.

Taken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, and uncertain