of, when by its prompt use he might have mercifully ended the
cruel torments of Nir-jalis,--"Let thy stroke be strong and
unfaltering, . . stab him to the heart,--the cold, cold, selfish
heart that has never ached with a throb of pity! ... kill him!--
'tis an easy task,--for lo! how fast he sleeps!"

And suddenly throwing back a rich gold curtain that depended from
one side of the painted pavilion, she disclosed a small interior
chamber hung with amber and crimson, where, on a low, much-tumbled
couch covered with crumpled glistening draperies, lay the King's
Chief Minstrel,--the dainty darling of women,--the Laureate of the
realm, sunk in a heavy, drunken stupor, so deep as to be almost
death-like. Theos stared upon him amazed and bewildered, . . how
came he there? Had he heard any of the conversation that had just
passed between Lysia and himself? ... Apparently not, . . he seemed
bound as by chains in a stirless lethargy. His posture was
careless, yet uneasy,--his brilliant attire was torn and otherwise
disordered,--and some of his priceless jewels had fallen on the
couch, and gleamed here and there like big stray dewdrops. His
face was deeply flushed, and his straight dark brows were knit
frowningly, his breathing was hurried and irregular, . . one arm was
thrown above his head,--the other hung down nervelessly, the
relaxed fingers hovering immediately above a costly jewelled cup
that had dropped from his clasp,--two emptied wine flagons lay
cast on the ground beside him, and he had evidently experienced
the discomfort and feverous heat arising from intoxication, for
his silken vest was loosened as though for greater ease and
coolness, thus leaving the smooth breadth of his chest bare and
fully exposed. To this Lysia pointed with a fiendish glee, as she
pulled Theos forward.