"No!--Verily I have not traced, nor can I trace the smallest vestige of a similarity! Why, good Theos, there is none!--not the least in the world,--for this heroine of mine, Nourhalma, loves in vain, and sacrifices all, even her innocent and radiant life, for love, as thou wilt hear in the second half of the poem,--moreover she loves one who is utterly unworthy of her faithful tenderness. Now Niphrata is a child of delicate caprice ... she loves ME,--me, her lord,--and methinks I am not negligent or undeserving of her devotion! ... again, she has no strength of spirit,--her timorous blood would freeze at the mere thought of death,--she is more prone to play with flowers and sing for pure delight of heart than perish for the sake of love! 'Tis an unequal simile, my friend!--as well compare a fiery planet with a twinkling dewdrop, as draw a parallel between the heroic ideal maid 'Nourhalma'--and my fluttering singing-bird, Niphrata!" Theos sighed involuntarily,--but forcing a smile, let the subject drop and held his peace, while Sah-luma, taking up the thread of his poetical narrative, went on reciting. When the story began to ripen toward its conclusion he grew more animated, ... rising, he paced the room as he declaimed the splendid lines that now rolled gloriously one upon another like deep-mouthed billows thundering on the shore,--his gestures were all indicative of the fervor of his inward ecstasy,--his eyes flashed,--his features glowed with that serene, proud light of conscious power and triumph that rests on the calm, wide brows of the sculptured Apollo,--and Theos, leaning one arm in a half-sitting posture, contemplated him with a curious sensation of wistful eagerness and passionate pain, such as might be felt by some forgotten artist mysteriously permitted to come out of his grave and wander back to earth, there to see his once-rejected pictures hung in places of honor among the world's chief treasures. A strange throb of melancholy satisfaction stirred his pulses as he reflected that he might now, without any self-conceit, at least ADMIRE the poem!--since he had decided that was no longer his, but another's, he was free to bestow on it as much as he would of unstinting praise! For it was very fine,--there could be no doubt of that, whatever Zabastes might say to the contrary,--and it was not only fine, but intensely, humanly pathetic, seeming to strike a chord of passion such as had never before been sounded,--a chord to which the world would be COMPELLED to listen,--yes,--COMPELLED! thought Theos exultingly,--as Sah-luma drew nearer and nearer the close of his dictation ... The deep quiet all around was so heavy as to be almost uncomfortable in its oppressiveness,--it exercised a sort of strain upon the nerves ...