Ormaz broke into a laugh. "And thou dost rule them, wise Virgin, with a rod of iron!" he said satirically ... "The King himself is but a slave in thy hands!" "The King is a devout believer,"--remarked a dainty, effeminate-looking youth, arrayed in a wonderfully picturesque garb of glistening purple,--"He pays his vows to Nagaya three times a day, at sunrise, noon, and sunset,--and 'tis said he hath oft been seen of late in silent meditation alone before the Sacred Veil, even after midnight. Maybe he is there at this very moment, offering up a royal petition for those of his less pious subjects who, like ourselves, love good wine more than long prayers. Ah!--he is a most austere and noble monarch,--a very anchorite and pattern of strict religious discipline! "And he shook his head to and fro with an air of mock solemn fervor. Every one laughed, . . and Ormaz playfully threw a cluster of half-crushed roses at the speaker. "Hold thy foolish tongue, Pharnim,--" he said,--"The King doth but show a fitting example to his people, . . there is a time to pray, and a time to feast, and our Zephoranim can do both as becomes a man. But of his midnight meditations I have heard naught, . . since when hath he deserted his Court of Love for the colder chambers of the Sacred Temple?" "Ask Lysia!" muttered Nir-jalis drowsily, under his breath--"She knows more of the King than she cares to confess!" His words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they were distinct enough for all present to hear. A glance of absolute dismay went round the table, and a breathless silence followed like the ominous hush of a heated atmosphere before a thunder-clap. Nir-jalis, apparently struck by the sudden stillness, looked lazily round from among the tumbled cushions where he reclined,--a vacant, tipsy smile on his lips. "What a company of mutes ye are!" he said thickly.. "Did ye not hear me? I bade ye ask Lysia, . ." and all at once he sat bolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of passion.. "Ask Lysia!" he repeated loudly.. "Ask her why the mighty Zephoranim creeps in and out the Sacred Temple at midnight like a skulking slave instead of a King! ... at midnight, when he should be shut within his palace walls, playing the fool among his women! I warrant 'tis not piety that persuades him to wander through the underground Passage of the Tombs alone and in disguise! Sah-luma! ... pretty pampered hound as thou art! ... thou art near enough to Our Lady of Witcheries,--ask her, ... ask her! ... she knows, . . "and his voice sank into an incoherent murmur, . . "she knows more than she cares to confess!" Another deep and death like pause ensued, ... and then Lysia's silvery cold tones smote the profound silence with calm, clear resonance.