what to say. For he was afflicted with a strange and terrible
malady such as he dimly remembered having heard of, but never
expected to suffer from,--a malady in which his memory had become
almost a blank as regarded the past events of his life--though
every now and then shadowy images of by-gone things flitted across
his brain, like the transient reflections of wind-swept clouds on
still, translucent water. Presently in the midst of his painful
indecision, an answer suggested itself like a whispered hint from
some invisible prompter:

"Poets like Sah-luma are no doubt as rare as nightingales in
snow!" he said with a soft deference, and an increasing sense of
tenderness for his haughty, handsome interlocutor--"As for me, I
am a singer of sad songs that are not worth the hearing! My name
is Theos,--I come from far beyond the seas, and am a stranger in
Al-Kyris,--therefore if I have erred in aught, I must be blamed
for ignorance, not malice!"

As he spoke Sah-luma regarded him intently,--Theos met his gaze
frankly and unflinchingly. Surely there was some singular power of
attraction between the two! ... for as their flashing eyes again
dwelt earnestly on one another, they both smiled, and Sah-luma,
advancing, proffered his hand. Theos at once accepted it, a
curious sensation of pleasure tingling through his frame, as he
pressed those slender blown fingers in his own cordial clasp.

"A stranger in Al-Kyris?--and from beyond the seas? Then by my
life and honor, I insure thy safety and bid thee welcome! A singer
of sad songs? ... Sad or merry, that thou are a singer at all makes
thee the guest of the King's Laureate!" A look of conscious vanity