Theos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at ease, . . Sah-luma's
careless contentment increased his own disquietude. Just then a
curious-looking personage entered the apartment,--a gray-haired,
dwarfish negro, who carried slung across his back a large bundle,
consisting of several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of
which he presently detached from the rest and set down before the
Laureate, who in return gave him a silver coin, at the same time
asking jestingly:

"Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya?--or is it the same
ill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, common-place events?"

Zibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide leathern
pouch which hung from his girdle, appeared to meditate a moment,--
then he replied:

"If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is nothing
whatever to interest the minds of the cultured. The cheap scribes
of the Daily Circular cater chiefly for the mob, and do all in
their power to foster morbid qualities of disposition and
murderous tendencies among the lower orders; hence though there is
nothing in the news-sheet pertaining to Literature or the Fine
Arts, there is much concerning the sudden death of the young
sculptor Nir-jalis, whose body was found flung on the banks of the
river this morning."

Theos started, . . Sah-luma listened with placid indifference. "'Tis
a case of self-slaughter"--pursued Zibya chattily.. "or so say the
wise writers who are supposed to know everything, . . self-slaughter
committed during a state of temporary insanity! Well, well! I