Ah, what a ridiculous spectacle is Man! the two-legged pigmy of limited brain, and still more limited sympathies, that, standing arrogantly on his little grave the earth, coolly criticises the Universe, settles law, and measures his puny stature against that awful Unknown Force, deeply hidden, but majestically existent, which for want of ampler designation we call GOD--God, whom some of us will scarcely recognize, save with the mixture of doubt, levity, and general reluctance; God, whom we never obey unless obedience is enforced by calamity; God, whom we never truly love, because so many of us prefer to stake our chances of the future on the possibility of His non-existence!
Strangely enough, thoughts of this God, this despised and forgotten Creator, came wandering hazily over Theos's mind at the present moment when, glancing round the splendid banquet-table, he studied the different faces of all assembled, and saw Self, Self, Self, indelibly impressed on every one of them. Not a single countenance was there that did not openly betray the complacent hauteur and tranquil vanity of absolute Egotism, Sah-luma's especially. But then Sah-luma had something to be proud of--his genius; it was natural that he should be satisfied with himself-- he was a great man! But was it well for even a great man to admire his own greatness? This was a pertinent question, and somewhat difficult to answer. A genius must surely be more or less conscious of his superiority to those who have no genius? Yet why? May it not happen, on occasions, that the so-called fool shall teach a lesson to the so-called wise man? Then where is the wise man's superiority if a fool can instruct him? Theos found these suggestions curiously puzzling; they seemed simple enough, and yet they opened up a vista of intricate disquisition which he was in no humor to follow. To escape from his own reflections he began to pay close attention to the conversation going on around him, and listened with an eager, almost painful interest, whenever he heard Lysia's sweet, languid voice chiming through the clatter of men's tongues like the silver stroke of a small bell ringing in a storm at sea.
"And how hast thou left thy pale beauty Niphrata?" she was asking Sah-luma in half-cold, half-caressing accents. "Does her singing still charm thee as of yore? I understand thou hast given her her freedom. Is that prudent? Was she not safer as thy slave?"
Sah-luma glanced up quickly in surprise. "Safer? She is as safe as a rose in its green sheath," he replied. "What harm should come to her?"
"I spoke not of harm," said Lysia, with a lazy smile. "But the day may come, good minstrel, when thy sheathed rose may seek some newer sunshine than thy face! ... when thy much poesy may pall upon her spirit, and thy love-songs grow stale! ... and she may string her harp to a different tune than the perpetual adoration- hymn of Sah-luma!"