As he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with the dazed sensations of one under the influence of mesmerism, ... the dazzling face and luminous eyes of the Laureate exercised over him an indescribable yet resistless authority,--and it was certain that, wherever Sah-luma led the way, he was bound to follow. Only, as he mechanically descended from the terrace into the garden, and linked his arm within that of his companion, he was conscious of a vague feeling of pity for himself...pity that he should have dwindled into such a nonentity, when Sah-luma was so renowned a celebrity, . . pity too that he should have somehow never been able to devise anything original in the Art of Poetry!
This last was evident, . . for he knew already that the "Idyl of Roses" Sah-luma purposed reciting could be no other than what he had fancied was HIS "Idyl of Roses" ... a poem he had composed, or rather had plagiarized in some mysterious fashion before he had even dreamt of the design of "Nourhalma"...However he had become in part resigned to the peculiar position he occupied,--he was just a little sorry for himself, and that was all. Even as the parted spirit of a dead man might hover ruthfully above the grave of its perished mortal body, so he compassionated his own forlorn estate, and heaved a passing sigh of regret, not only for all HE ONCE HAD BEEN, but also for all HE COULD NEVER BE!