took the harp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed
his hands over it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully. A
ripple of music answered his delicate touch,--music as soft as the
evening wind murmuring among willows. Another instant and his
voice thrilled on the silence,--a voice wonderful, far-reaching,
mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, containing within
it a passion that pierced to the heart of the listener, and a
divine fullness such as surely was never before heard in human
tones!

Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with
unwonted rapidity, . . what.. WHAT was it that Sah-luma sang? ... A
Love-song! in those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the
language of Al-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine,
tender as the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced
evenings,--an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and meant to
strike home to the core of feeling and there inflict delicious
wounds! ... but, as each well-chosen word echoed harmoniously on
his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every limb, . . a black,
frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, maddening
terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he were suddenly
thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever shine!
For Sah-luma's song was HIS song! ... HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! ...
He knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his
youth when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to
the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every
couplet.. every rhyme! ... The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . .
HIS ALONE! ... and Sah-luma had no right to it! He, Theos, was the
Poet, . . not this royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas
and filched his jewels of thought...aye! and he would tell him so