"Strange!" and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then rousing himself, said lightly, "'Tis from some simple cause, no doubt--yet 'twill create a silly panic in the city--and all the fanatics for Khosrul's new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh their prognostications of death and doom. By my faith, 'twill be a most desperate howling! ... and I'll not walk abroad till the terror hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do,--some lately budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious conclusion,--and Zabastes hath orders presently to attend me that he may take my lines down from mine own dictation. Thou shalt hear a most choice legend of love an thou wilt listen--" here he laid his hand affectionately on Theos's shoulder--"a legend set about, methinks, with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor! ... 'tis a rare privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes is my only auditor,--but I would swear thou art no plagiarist, and wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch pearls of fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my thoughts!--for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet's soul,--and the common thief of things petty and material is no whit more contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at ease upon this cushioned couch, and give me thy attention, ... I feel the fervor rising within me, ... I will summon Zabastes, ..." Here he pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging bell echoing loudly through the palace, ... "And thou shalt freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of my fertile genius,--my lyrical romance 'Nourhalma!'" Theos started violently, ... he had the greatest difficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips. "Nourhalma!" O memory! ... slow-filtering, reluctant memory! ... why, why was his brain thus tortured with these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary suggestions which gradually formed themselves into a distinct and comprehensive certainty, . . "Nourhalma" was the title of HIS OWN POEM,--the poem HE had written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the Pass of Dariel! CHAPTER XXIII. "NOURHALMA."