Like an enraged Queen she stood,--one white, jewelled arm stretched forth menacingly,--her bosom heaving, and her face aflame with wrath, but Theos, leaning against Sah-luma's couch, heard her with as much impassiveness as though her threatening voice were but the sound of an idle wind. Only, when she ceased, he turned his untroubled gaze calmly and full upon her,--and then,--to his own infinite surprise she shivered and shrank backwards, while over her countenance flitted a vague, undefinable, almost spectral expression of terror. He saw it, and swift words came at once to his lips,--words that uttered themselves without premeditation.
"To-morrow, Lysia, thou shalt claim nothing!" he said in a still, composed voice that to himself had something strange and unearthly in its tone ... "Not even a grave! Get thee hence! ... pray to thy gods if thou hast any,--for truly there is need of prayer! Thou shalt not harm Sah-luma, . . his love for thee may be his present curse,--but it shall not work his future ruin! As for me, . . though canst not slay me, Lysia,--seeing that to myself I am dead already! ... dead, yet alive in thought, . . and thou dost now seem to my soul but the shadow of a past Crime, . . the ghost of a temptation overcome and baffled! Ah, thou sweet Sin!" here he suddenly moved toward her and caught her hands hard, looking fearlessly the while at her flushed half-troubled face,--"I do confess that I have loved thee, . . I do own that I have found thee fair! ... but now--now that I see thee as thou art, in all the nameless horror of thy beauty, I do entreat,".. and his accents sank to a low yet fervent supplication--"I do entreat the most high God that I may be released from thee forever!"
She gazed upon him with dilated, terrified eyes, ... and he dimly wondered, as he looked, why she should seem to fear him?--Not a word did she utter in reply, . . step by step she retreated from him, . . her glittering, exquisite form grew paler and more indistinct in outline--and presently, catching at the gold curtain that divided the two pavilions, she paused...still regarding him steadfastly. An evil smile curved her lips, . . a smile of cold menace and derisive scorn, . . the iris-colored jewel on her breast darted forth vivid flashes of azure, and green and gray, . . the snakes in her hair seemed to rise and hiss at him, . . and then,-- with an awful unspoken threat written resolvedly on every line of her fair features, . . she let the gold draperies fall softly,--and so disappeared, . . leaving him alone with Sah-luma! He stood for a moment half amazed, half perplexed,--then, drawing a deep breath, he pushed the clustering hair off his forehead with an unconscious gesture of relief. She was gone! ... and he felt as though he had gained a victory over something, though he knew not what. The cold air from the lake blew refreshingly on his heated brow, . . and a thousand odors from orange-flowers and jessamine floated caressingly about him. The night was very still,--and approaching the opening of the tent, he looked out. There, in the soft sky gloom, moved the majestic procession of the Undiscovered Worlds seeming to be no more than bright dots on the measureless expanse of pure ether, . . there, low on the horizon, the yellow moon swooned languidly downwards in a bed of fleecy cloud,--the drowsy chirrup of a dreaming bird came softly now and again from the deep-branched shadows of the heavy foliage,--and the lilies on the surface of the lake nodded mysteriously among the slow ripples, like wise, white elves whispering to one another some secret of fairyland. And Sah-luma still slept, . . and still that puzzled and weary frown darkened the fairness of his broad brow, . . and, coming back to his side, Theos stood watching him with a yearning and sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels that had fallen out of his dress, he replaced them one by one,--and strove to re- arrange the tossed and tumbled garb as best he might. While he was thus occupied his hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a silver chain from the Laureate's belt,--he glanced at it, . . it was covered with fine writing, and turning it more toward the light, he soon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and smoothly flowing as a well-modulated harmony. He read them slowly with a faint smile,--he recognized them as HIS OWN!--they were part of a poem he had long ago begun, yet have never finished! And now Sah- luma had the same idea! ... moreover he had chosen the same rhythm, the same words! ... well! ... after all, what did it matter? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was concerned,--he had ceased to care for his own personality or interests,--Sah-luma had become dearer to him than himself!