"Not so!" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-"for the colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? ... nay!--for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on the mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and passion? ... Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or stir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals of a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and habitude,--but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a perfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions? No!--but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,--not one world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his rhythmic splendor,--not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The heart,--the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet's genius,--and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!" Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward, clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder: "Bravely spoken, sir stranger!" he exclaimed--"Thou hast well vindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!--thou hast a musical tongue of thine own!--who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in time to come!--And thou, Zabastes--" here he turned upon the old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical disdain--"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual! Thou art thyself a disappointed author--hence thy spleen! Thou art blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,--for thee the very sun is a blot rather than a brightness,--thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee! Aye, aye!--we know thee for a beauty hating fool,--and though we laugh at thee, we find thee wearisome! Stand thou aside and be straightway forgotten!--we will entreat Sah-luma for another song."