on the surging throng of eager and timid faces, the brilliant costumes, the flash of jewels, the glimmer of swords and the dark outlines of the fluttering tapestry,—­all forming together a curious chiaroscuro, from which the massive figure of Zephoranim stood out in bold and striking prominence against the white and silver background of his throne.  Vaguely bewildered and lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Theos looked upon everything with an odd sense of strained calmness, . . the glittering saloon whirled before his eyes like a passing picture in a magic glass...and then...an imperative knowledge forced itself upon his mind,—­he had witnessed this self-same scene before!  Where? and when? ...  Impossible to say,—­but he distinctly remembered each incident!  This impression however left him as rapidly as it had come, before he had any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that moment Sah-luma’s hand caught his own,—­Sah-luma’s voice whispered in his ear: 

“Let us away, my friend,—­there will be naught now but mounting of guards and dire confusion,—­the King is as a lion roused, and will not cease growling till his vengeance be satisfied!  A plague on this shatter-pated Prophet!—­he hath broken through my music, and jarred poesy into discord!—­By the Sacred Veil!—­Didst ever hear such a hideous clamor of contradictory tongues! ... all striving to explain what defies explanation, namely, Khosrul’s flight, for which, after all, no one is to blame so much as Zephoranim himself,—­but ’tis the privilege of monarchs to shift their own mistakes and follies on to the shoulders of their subjects!  Come!  Lysia awaits us, and will not easily pardon our tardy obedience to her summons,—­let us hence ere the gates of the palace close.”

Lysia! ...  The “unvirgined Virgin”—­the “Queen Courtesan”!  So had said Khosrul.  Nevertheless her name, like a silver clarion, made the heart of Theos bound with indescribable gladness and feverish expectation, and without an instant’s pause he readily yielded to Sah-luma’s guidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of the swaying crowd.  Arm-in-arm, the twain,—­one a poet renowned, the other a poet forgotten,—­threaded their rapid way between the ranks of nobles, officers, slaves, and court-lacqueys, who were all excitedly discussing the recent scare, the Prophet’s escape, and the dread wrath of the King,—­and hurrying along the vast Hall of the Two Thousand Columns, they passed together out into the night.

CHAPTER XVII.

A virgin UNSHRINED.