Undoubtedly a curious, far-off resemblance existed between them,--yet it was a resemblance that had nothing whatever to do with the actual figure, mien, or countenance. It was that peculiar and often undefinable similarity of expression, which when noticed between two brothers who are otherwise totally unlike, instantly proclaims their relationship. Theos realized his own superior height and superior muscular development,--but what were these physical advantages compared to the classic perfection of Sah-luma's beauty?--beauty combining the delicate with the vigorous, such as is shadowed forth in the artist-conceptions of the god Apollo. His features, faultlessly regular, were redeemed from all effeminacy by the ennobling impress of high thought and inward inspiration,--his eyes were dark, with a brilliant under-reflection of steel-gray in them, that at times flashed out like the soft glitter of summer-lightning in the dense purple of an August heaven,--his olive-tinted complexion was flushed warmly with the glow of health,--and he had broad, bold, intellectual brows over which the rich hair clustered in luxuriant waves,--hair that was almost black, with here and there a curious fleck of reddish gold brightening its curling masses, as though a stray sunbeam or two had been caught and entangled therein. He was arrayed in a costume of the finest silk,--his armlets, belt, and daggersheath were all of jewels,--and the general brilliancy of his attire was furthermore increased by a finely worked flexible collar of gold, set with diamonds. The first exchange of wondering glances over, he viewed Theos with a critical, half supercilious air. "What art thou?" he demanded ... "What is thy calling?" "Theos hesitated,--then spoke out boldly and unthinkingly-- "I am a Poet!" he said. A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the listening crowd. Sah-luma's lip curled haughtily-- "A Poet!" and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt --"Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!" Theos looked at him steadily,--a subtle sympathy attracted him toward this charming boaster,--involuntarily he smiled, and bent his head courteously. "I do not seek to figure as your rival ..." he began. "Rival!" echoed Sah-luma--"I have no rivals!" A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng declared the popular approval of this assertion, and the boy bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen to the conversation, swept the strings of his instrument with a triumphant force and fervor that showed how thoroughly his feelings were in harmony with the expression of his master's sentiments. Sah-luma conquered, with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed coldly: "From whence do you come, fair sir? We should know your name,--POETS are not so common!" This with an accent of irony.