"Thou art a new comer,--a stranger, if I mistake not?" he inquired in a low, abrupt, yet kindly tone.

"Yes," replied Theos in the same soft sotto-voce. "I am a mere sojourner in Al-Kyris for a few days only, ... the guest of the divine Sah-luma."

Nir-jahs raised his eyebrows with an expression of amused wonder.

"Divine!" he ejaculated "By my faith! what neophyte have we here!" and supporting himself on one elbow he stared at his companion as though he saw in him some singular human phenomenon. "Dost thou really believe," he went on jestingly, "in the divinity of poets? Dost thou think they write what they mean, or practice what they preach? Then art thou the veriest innocent that ever wore the muscular semblance of man! Poets, my friend, are the most absolute impostors, . . they melodize their rhymed music on phases of emotion they have never experienced; as for instance our Lameate yonder will string a pretty sonnet on the despair of love, he knowing nothing of despair, . . he will write of a broken heart, his own being unpricked by so much as a pin's point of trouble; and he will speak in his verso of dying for love when he would not let his little finger ache for the sake of a woman who worshipped him! Look not so vaguely! 'tis so, indeed! and as for the divine part of him, wait but a little, and thou shalt see thy poet-god become a satyr!"

He laughed maliciously, and Theos felt an angry flush rising to his brows. He could not bear to hear Sah-luma thus lightly maligned even by this half-drunken reveller, it stung him to the quick, as if he personally were included in the implied accusation of unworthiness. Nir-jalis perceived his annoyance, and added good naturedly: "Tush, man! Vex not thy soul as to thy friend's virtues or vices-- what are they to thee? And of truth Sah-luma is no worse than the rest of us. All I maintain is that he is certainly no better. I have known many poets in my day, and they are all more or less alike--petulant as babes, peevish as women, selfish as misers, and conceited as peacocks. They SHOULD be different? Oh, yes!--they SHOULD be the perpetual youth of mankind, the faithful singers of love idealized and made perfect. But then none of us are what we ought to be! Besides, if we were all virtuous, . . by the gods! the world would become too dull a hole to live in! Enough! Wilt drink with me?" and beckoning a slave, he had his own goblet and that of Theos filled to the brim with wine.




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