A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel
armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with
quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne--arrived
at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted
asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the
bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man,
with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous
shadow of his bent and shelving brows,--a man whose aspect was so
grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of
mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all
assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This
was Khosrul,--the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the
world,--the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,--the
dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments
which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long,
untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered,
matted locks below his shoulders,--at his majestic form which in
spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of
fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally
grand and awe-inspiring about him, ... something commanding as
well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he
confronted the King,--and for a moment or so a deep silence
reigned,--silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired
by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance rested upon
him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated haughtily
upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his
sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his