sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels that had fallen out
of his dress, he replaced them one by one,--and strove to re-
arrange the tossed and tumbled garb as best he might. While he was
thus occupied his hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a
silver chain from the Laureate's belt,--he glanced at it, . . it was
covered with fine writing, and turning it more toward the light,
he soon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and smoothly
flowing as a well-modulated harmony. He read them slowly with a
faint smile,--he recognized them as HIS OWN!--they were part of a
poem he had long ago begun, yet have never finished! And now Sah-
luma had the same idea! ... moreover he had chosen the same
rhythm, the same words! ... well! ... after all, what did it
matter? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was concerned,--he had
ceased to care for his own personality or interests,--Sah-luma had
become dearer to him than himself!

His immediate anxiety was centered in the question of how to rouse
his friend from the torpor in which he lay, and get him out of
this voluptuous garden of delights, before any lurking danger
could overtake him. Full of this intention, he presently ventured
to draw aside the curtain that concealed Lysia's pavilion, . . and
looking in, he saw to his great relief, that she was no longer
there. Her couch of crushed roses scented the place with heavy
fragrance, and the ruby lamp was still burning, . . but she herself
had departed. Now was the time for escape!--thought Theos--now,--
while she was absent,--now, if Sah-luma could be persuaded to come
away, he might reach his own palace in safety, and once there, he
could be warned of the death that threatened him through the
treachery of the woman he loved. But would he believe in, or
accept, the warning? At any rate some effort must be made to