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Updated: June 8, 2025
"What! ... is the famous Sah-luma gone?" he gasped, his words half choking him in their utterance as he stretched out a skinny hand and caught at Theos's garments ... "Good youth, stay! ... Stay! ... Why burden thyself with a corpse when thou mightest rescue a living man?
Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium of Theos's bewildering affliction gradually abated, his tempest- tossed mind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium, and falling into easy converse with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself again, that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition permitted him to be.
As he pronounced these words he noiselessly departed, without any salutation whatever to Sah-luma, who heaved a sigh of relief when he had gone, and, rising from his couch came and placed one hand affectionately on Theos's shoulder.
Strangely enough, thoughts of this God, this despised and forgotten Creator, came wandering hazily over Theos's mind at the present moment when, glancing round the splendid banquet-table, he studied the different faces of all assembled, and saw Self, Self, Self, indelibly impressed on every one of them.
The sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from Theos's quivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made to control his agitation, and the Laureate turned toward him with a surprised and somewhat irritated movement that plainly evinced annoyance at the interruption. "Pardon, Sah-luma!" he murmured hastily. "'Twas a slight pang at the heart troubled me, a mere nothing!
To hours of pain and bitterness, as well as to long days of ease and amorous dreaming? ... Have I not..." here he paused and a warm flush crept through the olive pallor of his skin, his eyes grew plaintive and wistful and he threw one arm round Theos's neck as he continued: "No I.. after all 'tis vain to deny it...I have hated grief, I have loathed the very suggestion of care, I have thrust sorrow out of my sight as a thing vile and unwelcome, and I have chosen to sing to the world of rapture more than pain, inasmuch as methinks Humanity suffers enough, without having its cureless anguish set to the music of a poet's rhythm to incessantly haunt and torture its already breaking heart."
"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange, foreboding chill "Nothing save thine own scorn of cowardice!" The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt, a flush of shame reddened his dark face.
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.
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