make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish
jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic's chronic want of
originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a
rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and
who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and
minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous
fashion of music such as we wot not of!" And turning to Khosrul he
added--"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard? Thou
shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,--and the King
shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent
and lasting sweetness!"

Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful,
half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own
deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

"Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!" he said
mournfully--"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so
soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by
the breath of the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as
the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great
has been the measure of thine inspiration,--yet thou hast missed
its true teaching,--and of all the golden threads of poesy placed
freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou
shouldst find God! Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy
fate! ... Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits
thy destroyer!"

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and
pointed steadfastly to--the King! There was a momentary hush...a