As he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with the dazed sensations of one under the influence of mesmerism, ... the dazzling face and luminous eyes of the Laureate exercised over him an indescribable yet resistless authority,—­and it was certain that, wherever Sah-luma led the way, he was bound to follow.  Only, as he mechanically descended from the terrace into the garden, and linked his arm within that of his companion, he was conscious of a vague feeling of pity for himself...pity that he should have dwindled into such a nonentity, when Sah-luma was so renowned a celebrity, . . pity too that he should have somehow never been able to devise anything original in the Art of Poetry!

This last was evident, . . for he knew already that the “Idyl of Roses” Sah-luma purposed reciting could be no other than what he had fancied was his “Idyl of Roses” ... a poem he had composed, or rather had plagiarized in some mysterious fashion before he had even dreamt of the design of “Nourhalma"...However he had become in part resigned to the peculiar position he occupied,—­he was just a little sorry for himself, and that was all.  Even as the parted spirit of a dead man might hover ruthfully above the grave of its perished mortal body, so he compassionated his own forlorn estate, and heaved a passing sigh of regret, not only for all he once had been, but also for all he could never be!

CHAPTER XXVII.

In the temple of Nagaya.

The hours wore on with stealthy rapidity,—­but the two friends, reclining together under a deep-branched canopy of cypress-boughs, paid little or no heed to the flight of time.  The heat in the garden was intense—­the grass was dry and brittle as though it had been scorched by passing flames,—­and a singularly profound stillness reigned everywhere, there being no wind to stir the faintest rustle among the foliage.  Lying lazily upon his back, with his arms clasped above his head, Theos looked dreamily up at the patches of blue sky seen between the dark-green gnarled stems and listened to the measured cadence of the Laureate’s mellow voice as he recited with much tenderness the promised poem.

Of course it was perfectly familiar,—­the lines were precisely the same as those which he, Theos, remembered to have written out, thinking them his own, in an old manuscript book he had left at home.  “At-home!” ...  Where was that?  It must be a very long way off! ...  He half-closed his eyes,—­a sense of delightful drowsiness was upon him, . . the rise and fall of his friend’s rhythmic utterance soothed him into a languid peace, . . the “Idyl of Roses” was very sweet and musical, and, though he knew it of old, he heard it now with special satisfaction, inasmuch as, it being no longer his, he was at liberty to bestow upon it that full measure of admiration which he felt it deserved!