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He trembled and grew faint, his dazed eyes wandered over the dainty grace and marvel of Lysia's almost unclad loveliness with mingled emotions of allurement and repugnance.
One of these, "Death of the Sculptor, Nir-jalis," seemed to burn into Theos's brain like letters of fire, how was it, he wondered, that the body of that unfortunate victim had been found on the shore of the river, when he himself had seen it loaded with iron weights, and cast into the lake that formed part of Lysia's fatal garden?
Now dost thou not at once perceive how vile were the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also how foolish was thy fancy last night with regard to the armed masquerader thou didst see in Lysia's garden?" Theos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflections.
And he hurried his pace, half leading, half carrying the reluctant poet, who, however, was too drowsy and lethargic to do more than feebly resent his action, and thus they went together along a broad path that seemed to extend itself in a direct line straight across the grounds, but which in reality turned and twisted about through all manner of perplexing nooks and corners, now under trees so closely interwoven that not a glimpse of the sky could be seen through the dense darkness of the crossed boughs, now by gorgeous banks of roses, pale yellow and white, that looked like frozen foam in the dying glitter of the moon, now beneath fairy- light trellis work, overgrown with jasamine, and peopled by thousands of dancing fire-flies, while at every undulating bend or sharp angle in the road, Theos's heart beat quickly in fear lest they should meet some armed retainer or spy of Lysia's, who might interrupt their progress, or perhaps peremptorily forbid their departure.
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.
"Nay, art THOU one of the escaped of Lysia's lovers?" he asked, suspiciously "And has the Silver Nectar failed of its usual action, and driven thy senses to the winds, that thou ravest thus? For if thou art a stranger and knowest naught of us, how speakest thou our language? ... Why wearest thou the garb of our citizens?"
His ideas on the subject, however, were very indefinite; he was in a condition of more or less absolute passiveness, save when strong shudders of grief, memory, remorse or roused passion shook him with sudden force like a storm blast shaking some melancholy cypress whose roots are in the grave. He mused on Lysia's scornful words with a perplexed pain. Was he then so selfish?
Lysia's gaze dwelt upon her with slow-dilating wonder and contempt.. such a devout and earnest supplication was evidently not commonly heard from the lips of Nagaya's victims.
To escape from his own reflections he began to pay close attention to the conversation going on around him, and listened with an eager, almost painful interest, whenever he heard Lysia's sweet, languid voice chiming through the clatter of men's tongues like the silver stroke of a small bell ringing in a storm at sea.
But he knew how useless it was to try and impart any of his inward forebodings to Sah-luma, Sah-luma, who had so lightly explained Lysia's treacherous conduct to his own entire satisfaction, . . Sah-luma, on whom neither the prophecies of Khosrul nor the various disastrous events of the day had taken any permanent effect, . . while no attempt could now be made to deter him from attending the Sacrificial Service in the Temple, seeing he had been so positively commanded thither by Lysia, through the medium of the priest Zel.
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