his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a
jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a
courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one
suddenly wakened from a deep dream,--shading his eyes with his
lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly
attired servitor,--then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering
gesture of aversion.

"Away ... Away!" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that
penetrated to every part of the vast hall--"Wilt force me to drink
blood?" He paused,--and in the same low, horror-stricken tone,
continued. "Blood ... Blood! It stains the earth and sky! ... its
red, red waves swallow up the land! ... The heavens grow pale and
tremble,--the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the
desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the
grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood ... blood! The
blood of the innocent! ... 'tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a
broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders ... founders ... never to
rise again!"

These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity
produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged
uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking
toward the King as though silently requesting permission to
retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged
them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious
nervous reluctance.

"Thou art mad, Khosrul"--then said the monarch in calmly measured
accents--"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till