the old Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel,
replacing it dashingly in its sheath,--"Thou also! ... and thine
ashes shall be cast to the four winds of heaven as suits thy
vocation, while those of thy master and thy master's King lie
honorably urned in porphyry and gold!"

Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.

"It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim," he returned composedly--
"Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,--and the scattering of them
is but a question of time! For urns of gold and porphyry do but
excite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein
sealed, whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of
reverent handling by future generations as those of many lesser
men. And 'tis doubtful whether the winds will know any difference
in the scent or quality of the various pinches of human dust
tossed on their sweeping circles,--for the substance of a man
reduced to earth-atoms is always the same,--and not a grain of him
can prove whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel
pampered, or a Critic contemned!"

And he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument. The King
deigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sah-luma, who
still sat pensively silent.

"How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?" he demanded
gently--"Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the
midst of thy soul's sudden sadness?"

At this, Sah-luma roused himself,--signing to his attendant he