carnation-color of the dais, against which the black and yellow
stripes of the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant
contrast, . . and the graceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet
Laureate, who, half sitting, half reclining on a black velvet
cushion, leaned his handsome head indolently against the silvery
folds of Lysia's robe, and looked up at her with eyes in which
burned the ardent admiration and scarcely restrained passion of a
privileged lover.

Suddenly and quite involuntarily Theos thought of Niphrata, ...
alas, poor maiden! how utterly her devotion to Sah-luma was
wasted! What did he care for her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish
worship? Nothing? ... less than nothing! He was entirely absorbed
by the sovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High
Priestess,--this witch-like weaver of spells more potent than
those of Circe; and musing thereon, Theos was sorry for Niphrata,
he knew not why. He felt that she had somehow been wronged,--that
she suffered, ... and that he, as well as Sah-luma, was in some
mysterious way to blame for this, though he could by no means
account for his own share in the dimly suggested reproach. This
peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all the vaguely
incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through his perplexed
brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing animation and
interest of the scene that immediately surrounded him.

The general conversation was becoming more and more noisy, and the
laughter more and more boisterous,--several of the young men were
now very much the worse for their frequent libations, and Nir-
jalis, particularly, began again to show marked symptoms of an
inclination to break loose from all the bonds of prudent reserve.