he was a great man! But was it well for even a great man to admire
his own greatness? This was a pertinent question, and somewhat
difficult to answer. A genius must surely be more or less
conscious of his superiority to those who have no genius? Yet why?
May it not happen, on occasions, that the so-called fool shall
teach a lesson to the so-called wise man? Then where is the wise
man's superiority if a fool can instruct him? Theos found these
suggestions curiously puzzling; they seemed simple enough, and yet
they opened up a vista of intricate disquisition which he was in
no humor to follow. To escape from his own reflections he began to
pay close attention to the conversation going on around him, and
listened with an eager, almost painful interest, whenever he heard
Lysia's sweet, languid voice chiming through the clatter of men's
tongues like the silver stroke of a small bell ringing in a storm
at sea.

"And how hast thou left thy pale beauty Niphrata?" she was asking
Sah-luma in half-cold, half-caressing accents. "Does her singing
still charm thee as of yore? I understand thou hast given her her
freedom. Is that prudent? Was she not safer as thy slave?"

Sah-luma glanced up quickly in surprise. "Safer? She is as safe as
a rose in its green sheath," he replied. "What harm should come to
her?"

"I spoke not of harm," said Lysia, with a lazy smile. "But the day
may come, good minstrel, when thy sheathed rose may seek some
newer sunshine than thy face! ... when thy much poesy may pall
upon her spirit, and thy love-songs grow stale! ... and she may
string her harp to a different tune than the perpetual adoration-