uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-
veiled female figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as
fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of
flowers. They floated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais,
and there prostrated themselves two by two before the King, whose
fiery glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,--and
as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying to full view
such exquisite faces, such languishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-
white necks and arms, such graceful voluptuous forms, that Theos
caught at the tapestry near him in reeling dazzlement of sight and
sense, and wondered how Sah-luma seated tranquilly in the
reflective attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and
indifferent a demeanor.

Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones,
turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his
feet,--he scarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less
the lovely donors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their
places on low silken divans, provided for their accommodation, in
a semicircle round the throne. Again a silence ensued,--Sah-luma
was evidently centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-
weaving,--and his attendant gently swept the strings of the harp
again to recall his wandering fancies. Suddenly he looked up, . .
his eyes were sombre, and a musing trouble shadowed the brightness
of his face.

"Strange it is, O King"--he said in low, suppressed tones that had
in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,--"Strange it is that to-
night the soul of my singing dwells on sorrow! Like a stray bird
flying 'mid falling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight