"Thou art wondrous merry, Nir-jalis," she said, in languid, lazily
enunciated accents. "Knowest thou not that too much mirth
engenders weeping, and that excessive rejoicing hath its fitting
end in grievous lamentation? Nay, even now already thou lookest
more sadly! What sombre cloud has crossed thy wine-hued heaven? Be
happy while thou mayest, good fool! ... I blame thee not! Sooner
or later all things must end! ... in the mean time, make thou the
most of life while life remains; 'tis at its best an uncertain
heritage, that once rashly squandered can never be restored,--
either here or hereafter."

The words were gently, almost tenderly, spoken; but Nir-jalis
hearing them, grew white as death--his smile faded, leaving his
lips set and stern as the lips of a marble mask. Stooping, he
raised his fallen goblet and held it out almost mechanically to a
passing slave, who re-filled it with wine, which he drank off
thirstily at a draught, though the generous liquid brought no
color back to his drawn and ashy features.

Lysia paid no further heed to his evident discomfiture; bidding
Sah-luma and Theos follow her, she descended the few steps that
led from the raised platform into the body of the brilliant hall;
the rocky screen of amethyst closed behind her as noiselessly as
it had opened, and in another moment she stood among her assembled
guests, who at once surrounded her with eager salutations and
gracefully worded flatteries. Smiling on them all with that
strange smile of hers that was more scornful than sweet, and yet
so infinitely bewitching, she said little in answer to their
greetings, . . she moved as a queen moves through a crowd of
courtiers, the varied light of crimson and green playing about her