Theos glanced at him with a vague emotion of wonder and self-
reproachful sadness.

"Nay, wouldst thou indeed have consoled her, Sah-luma?" he
inquired gravely, "How?"

"How?" and Sah-luma laughed musically.. "My simple friend, dost
thou ask me such a babe's question?"... He sprang from his couch,
and standing erect, pushed his clustering dark hair off his wide,
bold brows. . "Am I disfigured, aged, lame, or crooked-limbed? ...
Cannot these arms embrace?--these lips engender kisses?--these
eyes wax amorous? ... and shall not one brief hour of love with me
console the weariest maid that ever pined for passion? ... Now, by
my faith, how solemn is thy countenance! ... Art thou an
anchorite, good Theos, and wouldst thou have me scourge my flesh
and groan, because the gods have given me youth and vigorous
manhood?"

He drew himself up with an inimitable gesture of pride,--his
attitude was statuesque and noble,--and Theos looked at him as he
would have looked at a fine picture, with a sense of critically
satisfied admiration.

"Most assuredly I am no anchorite, Sah-luma!" he said smiling
slightly, yet with a touch of sorrow in his voice. "But methinks
the consolement thou wouldst offer to enamoured maids is far more
dangerous than lasting! Thy love to them means ruin,--thy embraces
shame,--thy unthinking passion death! What!--wilt thou be a
spendthrift of desire?--wilt thou drain the fond souls of women as
a bee drains the sweetness of flowers?--wilt thou, being honey-