Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders,--at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, ... something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King,--and for a moment or so a deep silence reigned,--silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting of his quickened breath. "We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a sinister smile--"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou trifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith? ... Wilt mislead the people? ... Wilt curse the King? ... Thou mad sorcerer!--devil bewitched and blasphemous! ... What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?" And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath. Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly. "Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange, foreboding chill--"Nothing--save thine own scorn of cowardice!" The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive--and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man's bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority ... "Unloose his fetters!" he commanded. The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright. Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.