prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in
his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while
the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with
the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.

"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a
sinister smile--"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too
long hast thou trifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy
heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of
the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith?
... Wilt mislead the people? ... Wilt curse the King? ... Thou mad
sorcerer!--devil bewitched and blasphemous! ... What shall hinder
me from at once slaying thee?" And he half drew his formidable
sword from its sheath.

Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.

"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his
voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a
strange, foreboding chill--"Nothing--save thine own scorn of
cowardice!"

The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame
reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the
captive--and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the
old man's bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless
condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion,
for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with
a gesture of authority ...