slow, light grace of moonbeams flitting over a smooth ocean. They
seemed made for each other, ... he could not separate them in his
thoughts; but the strangest part of the matter was the feeling he
had, that he himself somehow belonged to them and they to him. His
ideas on the subject, however, were very indefinite; he was in a
condition of more or less absolute passiveness, save when strong
shudders of grief, memory, remorse or roused passion shook him
with sudden force like a storm blast shaking some melancholy
cypress whose roots are in the grave. He mused on Lysia's scornful
words with a perplexed pain. Was he then so selfish? "The one
great absolute 'I' scrawled on the face of Nature!" Could that
apply to him? Surely not! since in his present state of mind he
could hardly lay claim to any distinct personality, seeing that
that personality was forever merging itself and getting lost in
the more clearly perfect identity of Sah-luma, whom he regarded
with a species of profound hero-worship such as one man seldom
feels for another. To call himself a Poet NOW seemed the acme of
absurdity; how should such an one as he attempt to conquer fame
with a rival like Sah-luma already in the field and already
supremely victorious?

Full of these fancies, he scarcely heeded the wonders through
which he passed, as he followed his two radiant guides along. His
eyes were tired, and rested almost indifferently on the
magnificence that everywhere surrounded him, though here and there
certain objects attracted his attention as being curiously
familiar. These lofty corridors, gorgeously frescoed, . . these
splendid groups of statuary, . . these palm-shaded nooks of verdure
where imprisoned nightingales warbled plaintive songs that were
all the sweeter for their sadness, ... these spacious marble