"I got this secret where I got my blood--from my father; and he from his, and he from his. For, you see, we have been in this trade for thousands of years. You know that story the priests tell about the discovery of the art of dyeing? Well, it is true, because it was to one of my grandfathers that the great god Melkarth came when his dog ate off the head of a shell-fish, and colored his jaws with such beautiful tints that the nymph Tyrus refused to marry the god until he gave her a gown of the same color. It was my ancestor, the first Trypho, who helped the great Melkarth get his bride; and to no one else than to Trypho, the last, should the noble King Hiram come for a gown for his beautiful queen: whom may Tyrus bless! Come now, and see if the cloth I have prepared for your lady be not as lovely as was that of Tyrus herself. No woman could refuse a lover who wooed with such a garment in his hands as I have made." Trypho led the way to another room, where cloths were hung before a window, by manipulating the screens of which the artisan adjusted the light that gave the required tone to the color. "Truly a divine art!" cried Trypho, in his enthusiastic appreciation of his own work. "For see, I must use the beams of Baal, the sun-god, to bring it to perfection. It must be a divine art that uses Divinity." "Does Baal let you use his beams at your will?" asked the king. "Then you must be the god, and Baal your servant. Baal could not make that splendid tint without you." The man stared at the king as if stricken dumb by the blasphemy he had heard. His look of perplexity tempted Hiram to banter him further. "And indeed, Trypho, I think you are more divine in your naked muscle, daubed with this insect's blood, which you can transform into beauty, than the brass image of Moloch is when dyed with children's blood. No beautiful thing was ever taken out of the blood vat at his feet. How say you, Trypho?" tapping the man's bare shoulders. The workman made no reply, but moved a pace or two away from the king, looking at him in a sort of stupid terror. Recovering his senses, he pointed to a hanging of finest texture, whose exquisite tint brought an exclamation of delight from his visitor. It only needed to be washed in a decoction made from a certain sea-weed, found on the coast of Crete, to fix its color. "This is for the robe of the queen of Tyre," said Trypho, bowing low, in as much obeisance to his own pride in his work as to the royal dignity of his visitor. "You, Trypho, shall have a skin of finest wine from the marriage feast," said the king, grasping the hand of the workman, and leaving in it a gold daric.