There was an instant of hesitation, ... not one of the populace stirred to obey the order. Then suddenly, as though released by their monarch's command from some mesmeric spell, the before inactive mounted guards started into action, cantered sharply forward and surrounded the Obelisk, while the armed spearsmen closed together and made a swift advance upon the venerable figure that stood alone and defenseless, tranquilly awaiting their approach. But there was evidently some unknown and mysterious force pent up within the Prophet's feeble frame, for when the soldiers were just about an arm's length from him, they seemed all at once troubled and irresolute, and turned their looks away, as though fearing to gaze too steadfastly upon that grand, thought-furrowed countenance in which the eyes, made young by inward fervor, blazed forth with unearthly lustre beneath a silvery halo of tossed white hair. Zephoranim perceived this touch of indecision on the part of his men, and his black brows contracted in an ominous frown. "Halt!" he shouted fiercely, apparently to make it seem to the mob that the pause in the action of the soldiery was in compliance with his own behest, . . "Halt! ... Bind him, and bring him hither, . . I myself will slay him!" "Halt!" echoed a voice, discordantly sharp and wild.. "Halt thou also, great Zephoranim! for Death bars thy further progress!" And Khosrul, manifestly possessed by some superhuman access of frenzy, leaped from his position on the back of the stone Lion, and slipping agilely through the ranks of the startled spearmen and guards, who were all unprepared for the suddenness and rapidity of his movements, he sprang boldly on the edge of the Royal chariot, and there clung to the jewelled wheel, looking like a gaunt aerial spectre, an ambassador of coming ruin. The King, speechless with amazement and fury, dragged at his huge sword till he wrenched it out of its sheath, . . raising it, he whirled it round his head so that it gave a murderous hiss in the air, ... and yet.. was his strong arm paralyzed that he forbore to strike! "Zephoranim!" Khosrul, in terms that were piercing and dolorous as the whistling of the wind among hollow reeds,--"Zephoranim, THOU SHALT DIE TO-NIGHT! ART THOU READY? Art thou ready, proud King? ... ready to be made less than the lowest of the low? Hush! ... Hush!" and his aged face took upon itself a ghastly greenish pallor--"Hear you not the muttering of the thunder underground? There are strange powers at work! ... powers of the undug earth and unfathomed sea! ... hark how they tear at the stately foundations of Al-Kyris! ... Flame! flame! it is already kindled!--it shall enwrap thee with more closeness than thy coronation robe, O mighty Sovereign! ... with more gloating fondness than the serpent-twining arms of thy beloved! Listen, Zephoranim, listen!"