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Updated: June 25, 2025
Theos, holding Sah-luma's arm, stepped eagerly across the threshold; he was brimful of expectation: . . and what mattered it to him whether the weed-like things that grew in this strange pavilion were pure or poisonous, provided he might look once more upon the witching face that long ago had so sweetly enticed him to his ruin! ... Stay! what was he thinking of? Long ago?
Niphrata or Gisenya will crown thee!" "I am not worthy" answered Theos, bending his head in low salutation to the two lovely girls, who stood eying him with a certain wistful wonder "One spray from Sah-luma's discarded wreath will best suffice me!" Sah-luma broke into a laugh of absolute delight. "I swear thou speakest well and like a true man!" he said joyously.
And he hastened on, Theos treading close in his footsteps and thinking as he went of the new enigma thus proposed to puzzle afresh the weary workings of his mind. HIS poem of Nourhalma or rather the poem he had fancied was his had been entirely completed down to the last line; now Sah-luma's was left "TO BE FINISHED HEREAFTER."
Still as stone he kept his strained, steadfast gaze fixed on Sah-luma's corpse, slowly absorbing the full horror of a tremendous Suggestion, that like a scorching lava-flood swept into every subtle channel of his brain.
"By my faith, thou'rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!" he said "We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sah-luma's pleasure and our own! Stand thee near thy friend and master, and listen to the melody of his matchless voice, thou shalt hear therein the mysteries of many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of love, in which all other passions centre and have power."
Here she stopped in her incoherent speech, and strove to release her hand from Sah-luma's, her blue eyes filling with infinite anxiety and distress.
"Theos hesitated, then spoke out boldly and unthinkingly "I am a Poet!" he said. A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the listening crowd. Sah-luma's lip curled haughtily "A Poet!" and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt "Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!"
Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! ... surely I too could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sah-luma's work is but the reflex of my own? O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! ... when shall it be unraveled?
For Sah-luma's song was HIS song! ... HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! ... He knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his youth when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every couplet.. every rhyme! ... The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . . HIS ALONE! ... and Sah-luma had no right to it!
The King's features were not just then visible he was leaning back in an indolent attitude, resting on his elbow, and half covering his face with one hand. The individual in the silver coat-of-mail whispered something in Sah-luma's ear either by way of warning or advice, and then advanced, prostrating himself before the dais and touching the ground humbly with his forehead and hands.
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