"To starve! To perish of thirst! To die of pestilence! The gods have left us. We are undone!"

"Aye, the gods have left you," the voice continued harshly. "Ye are given over to the vengeance of the God of Abraham. Howl, Egypt! Rend thyself and cover thy head with ashes. Thy destruction is but begun. For a hundred years thou hast oppressed Israel. Now is the hour of the children of God!"

Masanath wrung her hands, but the voice went on.

"As the Nile flows, so hath the blood of Israel been wasted by the hand of Egypt. Now shall the God of Abraham drain her veins, even so, drop for drop. For the despoiling of Israel shall her pastures and stables be filled with stricken beasts—for the heavy hand of the Pharaohs shall the heavens thunder and scourges fall. And the wrath of God shall cool not till Egypt is a waste, shorn of her corn and her vineyards and her riches, and foul with dead men."

Nothing could have been more vindictive than this disembodied voice. Masanath thrust her fingers through her hair, and drawing her elbows forward, sheltered her face with them.

"When have I offended against the Hebrew?" she cried, sick with terror. "Why should your awful God destroy the innocent and the friend of Israel among the people of Egypt?"

Rachel, who had stood beside her, with an increasing cloud on her face, now spoke in Hebrew. There was mild protest in her tones.

"The plague will pass," the voice from the inner crypt continued. "Seven days will it endure, no more."

"Deborah is mystic," Rachel added softly, "and is gifted with prophetic eyes. Much hath she suffered at Egypt's hands, and her tongue grows harsh when she speaks of the oppression."

"Nay, but let me go," Masanath begged. "Where are my servants? Came they not after me when I fled?"

"None followed thee, Lady, and thy raft went adrift."

"Let me out of this hideous place, then, for I must seek them. They may be dead."

Her tone was imperious, and Rachel, silently obedient, led her to the entrance and pushed aside the door. Instantly the terrible turmoil over Egypt smote upon her ears; next she saw the Nile, moving slowly, black where its clear surfaces had been green, scarlet and froth-ridden where the sun had shone upon transparent ripples and white foam; after that, the strange odor came to her, recalling the smell of the altars, but now magnified till it was overpoweringly strong. She sickened and turned away.

Setting the door in place, Rachel led her back into a corner of the outer chamber and laid her down on the matting there.

"The Lord God will care for thy servants. Fret thyself no further, but be content here until the horror shall pass. I shall attend thee, so thou shalt not miss their ministrations." The Israelite spoke with gentle authority, smoothing the dark hair of her guest. Command in the form of persuasion is doubly effective, since it induces while it compels. Masanath was most amenable to this manner of entreaty, since it disarmed her pride while it governed her impulses. Thus, though her inclination urged against it, she ate when the Israelite brought her a bit of cold fowl and a beaker of wine at midday and again at sunset. And at night, she slept because the Israelite told her she was safe and bade her close her eyes.

But once she awoke. The lamp burned behind a wooden amphora rack and the interior of the stone chamber was not dark. The voice in the inner chamber was still and the human-eyed beast in the corner was now only a small hairy roll. In the silence she would have been dismayed, but close beside her sat the Israelite. One hand toyed absently with the golden rings of a collar about her throat. The face was averted, the hair unplaited and falling in a shower of bright ripples over the bosom and down the back. The beauty of the picture impressed itself on Masanath, in spite of her drowsiness. But as well as the beauty, the dejection in the droop of the head, the unhappiness on the face, were apparent even in the dusk. Here was sorrow—the kind of sorrow that even the benign night might not subdue. Masanath was well acquainted with such vigils as the golden Israelite seemed to be keeping.

Her love-lorn heart was stirred. She spoke to Rachel softly.

"Come hither and lie down by me," she said. "I am afraid and thou art unhappy. Give me some of thy courage and I will sorrow with thee."

The Israelite smiled sadly and obeyed.

It was dawn when the fan-bearer's daughter awoke again.

The door had been set aside, and on the rock threshold a squat copper lamp was sending up periodic eruptions of dense white vapor. Rachel was feeding the ember of the cotton wick with bits of chopped root. The breeze from the river blew the fumes back into the cave, filling the dark recesses with a fresh and pungent odor.

Masanath, wondering and remembering, raised her head to look through the opening. Day was broad over Egypt, and the turmoil had subsided. The silence was heavy. But the Nile was still a wallowing torrent of red.

She sank back and drew the wide sleeves of her dress over her face. Rachel put the lamp aside, set the door in place and came to her.

"Thou art better for thy long sleep," she said. "Now, if thou canst bear, as well, with the meager food this house affords, the plague will not vex thee sorely." Then, in obedience to the Israelite's offer, Masanath sat up and suffered Rachel to dress her hair and bathe her tiny hands and face with a solution of weak white wine.

"The water which we had stored with us is also corrupted. I fear we shall thirst, if we have but wine to wet our lips," Rachel explained.

"Thou dost not tell me that ye abide in this place?" the fan-bearer's daughter asked, taking the piece of fowl and hard bread which Rachel offered her.

"Even so," Rachel responded after a little silence.

"Holy Isis! guests of a spirit! What a ghastly hospice for women! How came ye here?"

For a moment there was silence, so marked that Masanath ceased her dainty feeding and drew back a little.

"Are ye lepers?" she asked in a frightened voice.

"Nay, we are fugitives," Rachel answered.

"Fugitives! What strait brought you to seek such asylum as this?"

Again a speaking pause.

"Who art thou, Lady?" Rachel asked, at last.

"I am Masanath, daughter of Har-hat, fan-bearer to the Pharaoh."

"And thou art a friend of the oppressed?" the Israelite continued.

"It is my boast before the gods," the Egyptian answered with dignity.

"I am Rachel, of Israel, daughter of Maai, and I have fled from shame. In all Egypt, this is the one and only refuge for such as I. If my hiding-place were published, no help could save me from the despoiler. My one protector is she who lies within. She is my foster-mother, old and ill from abuse at the hands of brutal servants. Thou hast my story."

As Rachel ceased, Deborah called from within.

"There is more," she said. "Come hither. I am moved to tell thee."

Masanath obeyed with hesitation and, pausing in the doorway of the inner chamber, heard the story of the Israelites. Great was her perplexity and her sorrow when she heard the name of Kenkenes spoken calmly and without grief. They did not know he was dead! She held her peace till the story was done, How much more would her heart have been tortured could the old woman have given her the name of the offending noble! Instead, all unsuspecting, she heard the story of Har-hat's wrong-doing with now and then an exclamation of indignation, condemning him heartily in her soul.

"The time for the Egyptian's return is long past, but he will come soon," Deborah concluded.

Masanath slowly turned her head and looked at Rachel. This, then, was the love of that dear, dead artist, for whom Memphis mourned and had ceased to wait. How doubly grievous his loss, for Rachel was undone thereby! How heart-breaking to see her wait for him who would come no more! Masanath choked back her tears and said, when she was composed again:

"Ye need not molder in this cave, I can hide you in Memphis."

"Nay, we will await him here."

"But the Nile will be upon your refuge in three weeks. Ye would starve if ye drowned not," the Egyptian protested earnestly.

"It may be we shall not wait so long," Rachel put in.

Masanath looked at her while she thought busily. "If I tell it, I break a heart. But if they bide here, they die. None other will come to them by chance or on purpose."

"I would not risk it," she answered. Returning to the pallet of matting she finished her breakfast in silence. After a little sigh she glanced at the wine in one of the small amphoras which Rachel had brought to her as a drinking-cup. "Mayhap the plague is past," she said, hinting, "and I am athirst."

Rachel took up another jar and went forth. The hairy creature in the corner, tethered to the amphora rack, slipped his collar and followed her.

As soon as the Israelite was gone, Masanath went into the inner chamber. Standing by the old woman, who lay upon a mattress, set on the top of the sarcophagus, she said hurriedly:

"Ye may not remain here. Kenkenes is known to me and he will not return."

"Thou dost not tell me he was false to us," Deborah exclaimed. "Nay, I will not believe it," she declared.

"Nay, he was the soul of honor, but he is dead."

"Dead!" the old woman cried, catching at her dress.

"Hush! Tell her not!"

"Aye, thou art right. Tell her not! But—but how did he die?"

"By drowning. His boat was discovered battered and overturned among the wharf-piling at Memphis, some weeks agone."

The old woman was silent for a moment and then she shook her head.

"He is a resourceful youth and he may have procured another boat and set this one adrift to deceive his enemies. Yet, the time has been so long, it may be; it may be."

"None in Memphis doubts it. His father hath given him up and his house and his people are in mourning. But we may not lose this moment in surmises. Wilt thou go with me into Memphis—if this sending is withdrawn?"

"There is no other choice," Deborah answered after some pondering. "Kenkenes offered us refuge with his father—alas! that the young man should die!" After shaking her head and muttering to herself in her own tongue, she went on. "But Rachel hesitated to accept, at first from maiden shyness, though now she hath a secret fear, I doubt not, that the Egyptian may have played her false. The sorry news must be told her ere she would go."

"Nay, keep it from her yet a while. Tell her not now."

"How may we?" Deborah asked helplessly.

"Listen. I am a householder in Memphis for a year. The place is secure from much visiting and only my trusted servants are there. They will not tell her—none else will—thou and I shall keep discreet tongues, but if the fact creep out, in the way of such things, we need not accuse ourselves of killing her hope. As thou sayest, the young man may not be dead. But let us not risk anything.

"And furthermore," she caught up the line of her talk before Deborah could answer, "I may as well work good out of an evil I can not escape. I am betrothed to the heir of the crown of Egypt—"

Deborah flung up her hand, drawing away in her amazement.

"Thou! A coming queen over the proud land of Mizraim—a guest in the retreat of enslaved Israel!"

Masanath bent her head. "Ye, in your want and distress, are not more poor or wretched than I."

The old Israelite's brilliant eyes glittered in the dark.

"Hold!" she exclaimed. "Thou art not a slave—"

"Nay, am I not?" Masanath rejoined swiftly. "A slave, a chattel, doubly enthralled! But enough of this, I would have said that if I wed the prince, I can ask Rachel's freedom at his hands."

"So thou canst," Deborah said eagerly—but before she could continue, Rachel appeared at the outer opening, the amphora held by one arm, the ape by the other. Her face was alight with a smile that seemed dangerously akin to tears.

"Here is water, clean and fresh, but the Nile is bank-full of the plague. It was Anubis that showed me!" She lowered the amphora into the rack and took up the linen band the ape had slipped. "Oh, it is ungrateful to tie thee, Anubis," she went on, "but thou must not betray us, thou good creature."

"It was Anubis!" Deborah repeated inquiringly.

"Aye. Not once did the hideous sight disturb him. He was athirst and he made me a well in the sand with his paws. See how Jehovah hath sent us succor by humble hands." She stroked the hairy grotesque and tethered him reluctantly.

Deborah muttered under her breath. "I liked the creature not, since he made me think of the abominable idolatries of Mizraim, but he hath served the oppressed. He shall be more endurable to me."

The night fell and the dawn came again and again, but holy Hapi was denied. Hour by hour the fuming lamp was set before the entrance, the door was put a little aside, that the entering air might be purified for those within. When the aromatic was exhausted, Rachel sought for the root once more, among the herbs at the river-bank; for the atmosphere, unsweetened, was beyond endurance.

Never a boat appeared on the water, nor was any human being seen abroad. Egypt retired to her darkest corner and shuddered.

But after the seven days were fulfilled, the horror on the waters was gone. It went as miasma is dispelled by the sun and wind—as pestilence is killed by the frost—unseen, unprotesting. The lifting of the plague was as awesome as its coming, but it was not horrible. That was the only difference. Egypt rejoiced, but she trembled nevertheless and went about timidly.

The Israelite and the Egyptian carried the punt, the boat of Khafra and Sigur, and launched it on the clean waters. Then they prepared themselves and Deborah and Anubis for a journey, and ere they departed, Masanath, at Rachel's bidding, wrote with a soft soapstone upon the rock over the portal of the tomb, the whereabouts of its whilom dwellers:

"Her, whom thou seekest, thou wilt find at the mansion of Har-hat in the city."

At sunset, Rachel, all unsuspecting, was sheltered in the house of her enemy.

Masanath's servants had sought for her, frantically and without system or method. Pepi and Nari had been saved by the gods. They did not know where she had gone, and nothing human or divine could have driven them over the Nile to search for her in the Arabian hills. And for that reason likewise, they did not notify Har-hat of his daughter's loss. The messenger would have had to cross the smitten river. They intended to send for the fan-bearer, but they waited for the plague to lift. When it was gone, Masanath returned to them.



CHAPTER XXX

"HE HARDENED HIS HEART"

The Nile rose and fell and the seasons shifted until eight months had passed. The period was inconsiderable, but its events had never been equaled in a like space, or a generation, or a whole dynasty, or in all the history of Egypt.

When the ancient Hebrew shepherd from Midian first demanded audience with Meneptah, Egypt was autocrat of the earth and mistress of the seas. Her name was Glory and Perpetual Life and her substance was all the fullness of the earth and the treasures thereof. But eight months after the Hebrew shepherd had gone forth from that first audience, how had the mighty fallen! She was stripped of her groves and desolated in her wheat-fields; her gardens were naked, her vineyards were barren, and the vultures grew fat on the dead in her pastures. About the thrice-fortified walls of her cities her gaunt husbandmen were camped, pensioners upon the granaries of the king. Her commerce had stagnated because she had no goods to barter; her society ceased to revel, for her people were called upon to preserve themselves. Her arts were forgotten; only religion held its own and that from very fear. Egypt was on her knees, but the gods were aghast and helpless in the face of the hideous power of the unsubstantial, unimaged God of Israel.

Never had a monarch been forced to meet such conditions, but in all the mighty line of Pharaohs no feebler king than Meneptah could have faced them. In treating with the issue he had fretted and fumed, promised and retracted, temporized with the Hebrew mystic or stormed at him, hesitated and resolved, and reconsidered and deferred while his realm descended into the depths of ruin and despair.

It would seem that the dire misfortunes would have pressed the timid monarch into immediate submission. But a glance at conditions may explain the cause of his obduracy.

At this period in theological chronology, human attributes for the first time were eliminated from the character of a god. Moses depicted the first purely divine deity. Omnipotence was ascribed to the gods, but Pantheism being full of paradoxes, the gods were not omnipotent. Loud as were the panegyrics of the devout, the devout recognized the limitations of their divinities. None had ever dreamed of a deity that was actually omnipotent, actually infinite. Meneptah measured the God of Israel by his own gods. Furthermore, the miracles did not amaze him as they appalled Egypt. He was exceedingly superstitious; in his eye the most ordinary natural phenomenon was a demonstration of the occult. No matter that the advanced science of his time explained rainfall, unusual heat or cold, over-fruitful or unproductive years, pestilence and sudden death, eclipses, comets and meteors,—he believed them to be the direct results of sorcery. Calamitous as the effects may have been upon other people, he had ever escaped harm from these sources. It was not strange that in time he ceased to fear miracles, and the demonstrations of Moses were not so terrifying, inasmuch as they did not greatly affect him.

His horses died, but Arabia was near to replenish his stables; the pests annoyed him, but his servants fended them from him; the blains troubled him, but his court physicians were able and gave him relief; the thunders frightened him, but his fright passed with the storm. Whenever the sendings became unendurable he had but to yield to gain a respite, and then he forgot the experience in a day. Meanwhile he ate, slept and walked in the same luxury he had known in happier years.

Therefore, Meneptah neither realized his peril nor was personally much aggrieved by the troublous times.

It did not occur to him that all the people of his realm were not sheltered against the plagues by wealth and many servants. He could not understand why Egypt should be restive under the same afflictions that he had borne with fortitude. Summoning all evidence from his point of view, he was able to present to himself a case of personal persecution and ill-use. The Hebrews belonged to him, and because he held them their God afflicted Egypt. Egypt complained and would have him sacrifice his private property, his slaves, for its sake. To the peevish king the demand was unreasonable. Yet he was not extraordinary in his behavior. Unselfishness was not an attribute of ancient kings.

Meneptah was a man that wished to be swayed. He craved approbation and was helpless without an abettor. His puny ideas had to be championed by another before they became fixed convictions. After the plague of locusts, the Hebrew question reached serious proportions. Har-hat had estranged most of the ministers, and in his strait Meneptah felt vaguely and for the first time that he needed the acquiescence of others in addition to the fan-bearer's ready concord.

One early morning, in a corridor leading from the entrance, he met Hotep. A sudden impulse urged him to consult his scribe.

"Where hast thou been?" he asked, noticing Hotep's street dress.

"To the temple, O Son of Ptah."

"What hast thou to ask of the gods that thy king can not give thee?"

Hotep hesitated, and the color rushed into his cheeks. The Hathors tortured him with an opportunity he dared not seize. How could he ask for Masanath?

"I went to pray for that which all Egyptians crave at this hour—the succor of Egypt," he said, instead.

Meneptah signed his scribe to follow him to a seat near by.

"Why may I not require of thee the services of a higher minister?" he began, after he had seated himself. "Never hast thou failed me, and I can not say so much of the great nobles above thee. Serve me well in this, Hotep, and thou mayest take the place of some one of these."

"Let me but serve thee," the scribe returned placidly; "that is reward in itself."

"Thou knowest," the king began, plunging into the heart of the question, "that I yielded to these ravening wolves, Mesu and Aaron. I have consented to release the Israelites. But other thought hath come to me in the night. Thou knowest that no evil hath befallen the land of Goshen. Har-hat explaineth this strange thing by the location of the strip. The Nile toucheth it not and rains fall there. Furthermore the winds blow differently in that district, and withal the hand of Rannu of the harvests hath sheltered it. It may be, but to me it seemeth that the Hebrew sorcerer hath cast a protecting spell over the spot. But whatever the cause, the race of churls and their riches have escaped misfortune. Thinkest thou not, good Hotep, that, if they must go, we may by right require their flocks of them to replenish the pastures of Egypt?"

Surely the Hathors were exploiting themselves this day. Another opportunity for good and what would come of it? Hotep knew the man with whom he dealt. Still it were a sin to slight even an unprofitable chance that seemed to offer alleviation for Egypt. He would proceed cautiously and do his best.

"Be the little lamp trimmed never so brightly, O Son of Ptah, it may not help the sun. Thou art monarch, I am thy slave. How can I mold thee, my King?"

"Others have swayed me, thou modest man."

"In that hour when thou wast swayed, O Meneptah, another than thyself ruled over Egypt."

Meneptah looked in amazement at his scribe. He had never considered the influence of Har-hat in that light, but, by the gods, it seemed strangely correct. He straightened himself.

"Be thou assured, Hotep, that I weigh right well whatever counsel mine advisers offer me before I indorse it."

Hotep bowed. "That I know. And for that reason do I hesitate to give thee my little thoughts. It would hurt the man in me to see them thrust aside."

"Thou evadest," Meneptah contended smiling.

"Wherefore?"

"Because, O King, I should advise against thine inclinations."

"Wherefore?" Meneptah demanded again, this time with some asperity.

"We hold the Hebrews," was the undisturbed reply; "through destruction and plague we have held them. They boast the calamities as sendings from their God. Egypt's afflictions multiply; every resort hath failed us. One is left—to free the slaves and test their boast."

Meneptah's face had grown deprecatory.

"Dost thou espouse the cause of thy nation's enemy?" he asked.

"I espouse the cause of the oppressed, and which, now, is more oppressed—Egypt or the Hebrew?"

This was different sort of persuasion from that which the king had heard since Har-hat took up the fan. The scribe was compelling him by reason; the man's personality was not entering at all into the argument. Meneptah's high brows knitted. He felt his feeble resolution filter away; his inclination to hold the Hebrews stayed with him, but the power to withstand Hotep's strong argument was not in him.

"What wouldst thou have me do?" he asked querulously.

"I am but a mouthpiece for thy realm; I counsel not for myself. The strait of Egypt demands that thou set the Hebrew free, yield his goods and his children to him, and be rid of him and his plagues for ever."

Hotep spoke as if he were reciting a law from the books of the great God Toth. His tone did not invite further contention. He had read the king his duty, and it behooved the king to obey. A silence ensued, and by the signs growing on Meneptah's face, Hotep predicted acquiescence. It can not be said, however, that he noted them hopefully. Much time would elapse in which much contrary persuasion was possible before Israel could depart from Egypt.

Rameses came out of the dusk at the end of the corridor. The king raised himself eagerly and summoned his son.

"Hither, my Rameses!"

With suspense in his soul, Hotep saw the prince approach. Rameses had never expressed himself upon the Hebrew question, and the scribe knew full well that neither himself nor Har-hat, nor all the ministers, nor heaven and earth could militate against the counsel of that grim young tyrant. Meneptah spoke with much appeal in his voice.

"Rameses, I need thee. Awake out of thy dream and help me. What shall I do with the Hebrews?"

"I have trusted to my father's sufficient wisdom to help him in his strait, without advice of mine," was the indifferent reply.

"Aye; but I crave thy counsel, now, my son."

"Then, neither god nor devil could make me loose my grasp did I wish to hold the Hebrews!"

Hotep sighed, inaudibly, and was moved to depart, had not lack of the king's permission made him stay.

"But consider the losses to my realm," Meneptah made perfunctory protest. The prince's full lip curled.

"This is but a new method of warfare," he answered. "Instead of going forth with thy foot-soldiers and thy chariots, thy javelins and thy shields, thou sufferest siege within thy borders. Wilt thou fling up thy hands and open thy gates to thine enemy, while yet there is plenty within the realm and men to post its walls? Let it not be written down against thee, O my father, that thou didst so. Losses to Egypt!" the phrase was bitter with scorn. "Dost thou remember how many dead the Incomparable Pharaoh left in Asia? How many perished of thirst in the deserts and of cold in the mountains, and of pestilence in the marshes? Ran not the rivers of the Orient with Egyptian blood, and where shall the souls of those empty bodies dwell which rotted under the sun on the great plains of the East? The Incomparable Pharaoh cast out the word 'surrender' from his tongue. Wilt thou restore it and use it first in this short-lived conflict with a mongrel race of shepherds? Nay, if thou dost give over now, it shall not be an injustice to thee if it come to pass that thou shalt bow to a brickmaker as thy sovereign, sacrifice to the Immaterial God and swear by the beard of Abraham!"

Meneptah winced under the acrid reproach of his son.

"It hath ever been mine intent to keep the Hebrews, but I would not act unadvised," he explained apologetically.

"Wherefore, then, these frequent consultations with the wolf from Midian?" was the quick retort. "Thou art unskilled in the ways of war, my father. The king who would conquer treats not with his enemy. Thou dost risk the respect of thy realm for thee. Strengthen thy fortifications and exhaust the cunning of thy besieger. And if he invade thy lines again with insolence and threats, treat him to the sword or the halter. If thou art a warrior, prove thy deserts to the name. And if Egypt backs thee not in thy stand against the Hebrew, then it is not the same Egypt that followed Rameses the Great to glory!"

The king put up his hand.

"Enough! They shall not go; they shall not go!"



CHAPTER XXXI

THE CONSPIRACY

One morning early in March Seti stood beside the parapet on the palace of the king in Tanis. His eyes were fixed on the shimmering line of the northern level, but he did not see it. Some one came with silent footfall and laid a hand on his arm.

He turned and looked into Ta-user's eyes. His face softened and he took the hand between his own.

"Alas! this day thou returnest into the Hak-heb," he said.

She nodded. "Would I could take thee with me, but not yet, not yet. Wait till thou art a little older."

He sighed and looked away again. "What weighty things absorb my prince?" she asked. "What especial labors is he planning?"

His face clouded. "Dost thou mock me, Ta-user?" he returned.

"Hadst thou no thought at all?" she persisted.

"I merely pondered on mine own uselessness," he answered.

"Fie!"

"Nay, even thou must see it. I live on my father's bounty; I accept my people's homage; I adore the gods. I bear no arms; I neither prepare to reign nor expect to serve. I am a thing set above the healthy labor of the world and below the cares of the exalted. I am nothing."

"Fie! I say."

Seti looked at her reproachfully.

"Thou hast wealth," she began and paused.

"Wherein doth that make me useful?"

"Much can be done with gold. Is there none in need?"

"None who asks has been denied. Yet what right have I to deal alms to them from whom my riches come? If I yielded up everything, to my very cloak, should I have done more than return to them what they have given me? I should still be a penniless prince, more useless than ever." He sat down on the broad lintel capping the parapet, but retained her hand.

"Ta-user," he continued, as she opened her lips to speak, "what wouldst thou have me do?"

"I would have thee be useful."

"I shall throw away my lordly trappings," he said, "and become a lifter of the shadoof[1] this day."

"Seti," she said sternly, putting his hand away, "with thy people imperiled by the sorcery of a wizard, with thy realm desolated by the plagues of his sending, canst thou, on whom I have built so much, thus lightly consider thy uses and ignore the things set at thy very hand to do?"

The prince looked at her with not a little discomfiture showing on his young face. But the interrogation was emphatic, and she awaited an answer.

"I have no weight with my father," he said soberly. "Thou knowest that Egypt will never have peace until the Hebrews depart. But I can not persuade my father to release them and I can not persuade the Israelite to content himself to stay. Thou dost demand much of me if thou dost demand of me the impossible."

As much of contempt as it was wise to show glimmered in her eyes.

"And thou art at thy wits' end?" she asked.

"A little way to go. Help me, Ta-user. Bear with me."

She moved closer to him and absently smoothed down the fine locks, disordered by the wind. Presently she lifted his face and said with sudden impulsiveness:

"Dost, of a truth, believe everything that is told thee?"

"Am I over-credulous?" he asked.

"Thou art. Thou believest this Hebrew to be honest in his show of interest in his people?"

"I can not doubt him, Ta-user. One has but to see him to be convinced."

"One has but to see him to know that he might be coaxed into passiveness with that for which an Israelite would sell his mummy—gold!"

"Nay! Nay!" Seti exclaimed. "Thou dost wrong him! He is the soul of misdirected zeal. His is an earnestness not to be frightened with death nor abated with bribes."

She laughed a cool little laugh.

"Deliver to him but the price he names, and the Israelitish unrest will settle like a swarm of smoked bees."

"Ta-user, it is thou that art deceived," Seti remonstrated. "Even the Pharaoh does not hesitate to assert that Mesu is terribly upright. Not even he would dream of offering the wizard Hebrew a peace-tribute."

Once again she laughed. "Mind me, I speak reverently of the divine Meneptah, the Shedder of Light, but I do not marvel that he is no more willing to deliver over to Mesu one color of gold than another."

Seti looked at her with a puzzled expression. Gazing down into his eyes, she said with sudden solemnity:

"My Prince, may I give my life into thy hands?"

Impulsively he pressed her hand to his lips.

"The gods overtake me with their vengeance if I guard it not," he exclaimed.

She drew him from his place on the parapet and led him to a seat in a corner near the double towers. There she sat, and he dropped down at her feet. He crossed his arms over her lap and lifted his face to her. For a moment she was silent, contemplating the young countenance. What were the thoughts that came to her then? Did she applaud or rebuke herself? Did she pity or despise him?

Is there more of evil than of good wrought by the mind working silently?

Seti was ripe to be plucked by treachery. His was the faith that is insulted by a suggestion of wariness.

"While I dwelt obscurely in the Hak-heb," she began, "I was much among the partizans of Amon-meses. They are friends of the Pharaoh now, so what I tell is dead sedition. But I heard it when it lived, and thou knowest the penalty invited by him who listens to criticism of the king. Attend me, then, for the story is short.

"The history of Mesu is an old tale to thee. Thy noble grandsire's first queen, Neferari Thermuthis, adopted the Hebrew, and when she died he shared in the allotment of her treasure. But Mesu was an exile in Midian at the time, and his share was left with Shaemus, then the heir, to be given over to the foster-son when he should return. But Shaemus died, and all thy father's older brothers, so the gracious Meneptah came to wear the crown. To him fell the guardianship of the Hebrew's treasure till what time he should return out of Midian. Mesu hath returned. Hath thy father delivered to him his inheritance?"

Seti's face flamed, but, before he could speak, she went on. "Not so; not one copper weight. It lies untouched in the treasury. Thine august sire does not use it, because he hath wealth more than he can spend. But it is the Hebrew's, and if it were delivered into his hands it would redeem Egypt. I know it. There, it is done. My life is in thy hands."

The prince looked at her with wide eyes, his cheeks flushed, his lips silent.

"Wouldst thou have proof?" she continued recklessly. "Seek out Hotep, who hath been keeper of the records at Pithom and ask him."

"Did he tell thee?" Seti demanded.

"Nay; I learned it from another source, not in the palace." The prince lapsed into silence, his eyes averted. Ta-user regarded him intently. Suddenly he raised his head.

"Dost thou know the amount of his share?" he asked.

"It is but a moderate part of the queen's fortune, since each of the king's children by his many women was included."

Seti winced, for there was something dimly offensive in the calm way she stated the bald fact.

"It is not much, as princely dowers go," she added casually.

"He shall have it," Seti said almost impatiently. "Out of mine own wealth he shall have it—not as a bribe—he would not have it so—but because it is his."

She caught his hands to her breast and cried out in delight.

"And I shall be thy lieutenant, and none shall know of it, save thee and me."

He smiled up at her.

"Nay, there is danger in this," he said gently, "and I would not imperil thee. Already thou hast overstepped safety for Egypt's sake and mine. More than this I will not let thee do."

An expression of panic swept over her face. He interpreted it as hurt.

"Thou hast been my guide for so long, Ta-user. Let me choose this once for thee."

She pouted, and putting him away from her, arose and left him. He followed her and took her hands.

"A confederate thou must have," she complained; "and whom dost thou trust more than Ta-user?"

"It is not a matter of trust," he explained, "but of thine immunity should the Hathors frown upon my plan."

"It matters not," she protested. "Whom wilt thou trust and imperil instead of Ta-user?"

"Thou dost hurry me in my plan-making," he remonstrated mildly. "Mayhap I shall choose Hotep."

She flung up her head, her face the picture of dismay.

"Nay, nay! not Hotep! Of all thy world, not Hotep!" she exclaimed.

He lifted his brows in amazement.

"Surely thou dost not question his fidelity—his power?"

"Nay! but dost thou not guess what he will do? Thou child! Abet thee! Nay! he would set his foot upon thy plan and foil thee at once with his politic hand."

"Hotep will obey as I command; that thou knowest," he said with dignity.

"Thou wilt not reach the point of command with him," she vehemently insisted. "He would catch thine intent ere thou hadst stated it and would make thee aghast at thyself in a twinkling by his smooth reasoning and vivid auguries. Nay, if thou art to have thy way in this, I wash my hands of it. We are as good as undone."

She turned away from him, but he followed her contritely.

"I submit," he said helplessly. "Advise me, but I—nay, ask me not to endanger thee, Ta-user."

She shook her head and moved on. He advanced a step or two after her, stopped, and wheeling about, resumed his place at the parapet.

After a little pause she was beside him again.

"Shall we forego this thing?" she asked.

"Nay," he answered quietly. "I can achieve it without help." She drew a breath as if to speak but held her peace. They stood in silence side by side for a while.

Presently she slipped between him and the parapet.

"Hast thou not called me wise in thy time?" she asked. "I believed thee, then."

"I told thee a truth, but I might have added that thou art over-brave," he said, catching her drift.

"Listen, then, to me. Thou, in thy young credulity, seest in this only justice to an enemy. I, in the wisdom of riper years and the discernment bred of experience with knaves, see in it the redemption of Egypt. If the heaviest penalty overtook us is it not a result worth achieving at any cost? Seti, believe me; grant me my belief! It is the one hope of thy father's kingdom. Shall it fail because thou wast envious for my safety above Egypt's? I can aid thee to success. That thou hast said. If thou failest, though thou dost attempt it alone, dost thou dream that I could see thee punished without crying out, 'It was I who urged him!' If thou art undone, likewise am I. If thou art to succeed, wilt thou selfishly keep thy success to thyself?"

She slipped her arm about his neck and pressed close to him.

"Nay, Seti, thou dost overestimate the peril. The Hebrew will not betray us, and who else will know of it? I shall make a journey into Goshen, find Mesu and bid him meet thee at a certain place. There thou shalt come at a certain time with the treasure, and the feat is done. But if we fail—" she flung her head back and bewitched him with a heavy eye—"will it be hard for me to persuade the king?"

Seti contemplated her with bewilderment in his face. The youth and innocence in his young soul revolted, but there was another element that yielded and was pleased.

"Have it thy way, Ta-user," he said, with hesitation in his words, while he continued to gaze helplessly into her compelling eyes.

She laughed and kissed him. "I will see thee again soon." Putting him back from her, she descended the stairway.

In the shadow at the foot she came upon two figures, walking close together, the taller of the two bending over the smaller. The pair started apart at sight of the princess.

"A blessing on thy content, Ta-meri," the princess said. "And upon thine, Nechutes."

The cup-bearer bowed and rumbled his appreciation of her courtesy.

"Dost thou leave us, Ta-user?" his wife asked.

"Aye, I return to the Hak-heb. O, I am glad to go. Would I could leave the same quiet here in Tanis that I hope to find in Nehapehu."

"Aye, I would thou couldst. But is it not true, my Princess, that one may make his own content even in the sorriest surroundings?" Nechutes asked.

"For himself, even so. But the very making of one's selfish content may work havoc with the peace of another. That I have seen."

"Aye," Nechutes responded uncomfortably, wondering if the princess meant to confess her disappointment to them.

"It makes me quarrel at the Hathors. The most of us deserve the ills that overtake us. But he—alas—none but the good could sing as he sang!"

The cup-bearer dropped his indifference immediately.

"Ha! Whom dost thou mean?" he demanded.

"Oh!" the princess exclaimed. "Perchance I give thee news."

"If thou meanest Kenkenes, indeed thou dost give us news. What of him? We know that he is dead. Is there anything further?"

"Of a truth, dost thou not know? Nay, then, far be it from me to tell thee—anything." She passed round them and started to go on. In a few paces, Nechutes overtook her.

"Give us thy meaning, Ta-user," he said earnestly. "Kenkenes was near to me—to Ta-meri. What knowest thou?"

"The court buzzes with it. Strange indeed that ye heard it not. It is said, and of a truth well-nigh proved, that the heart of the singer broke when Ta-meri chose thee, Nechutes, and that—that the disaster which befell him may have been sought."

Nechutes seized her arm, and Ta-meri cried out,

"He sent Ta-meri to me," the cup-bearer said wrathfully. "Thy news is—"

"Alas! Nechutes," the princess said sorrowfully, "it was sacrifice. He knew that Ta-meri loved thee and he nobly surrendered, but was the hurt any less because he submitted?"

Nechutes released her and turned away. Ta-meri covered her face with her hands and followed him. He did not pause for her, and she had to hasten her steps to keep up with him. The princess looked after them for a space and went on.

Straight through the corridors toward the royal apartments she went. Her copper eyes had taken on a luminousness that was visible in the dark. There was an elasticity in her step that spoke of exultation.

The Hathors were indulging her beyond reason.

A soldier of the royal guard paced outside the doorway of the king's apartments. Ta-user flung him a smile and, passing him without a word of leave-asking, smiled again and disappeared through the door.

Meneptah, who sat alone, raised his head from the scroll he was laboriously spelling. If he had meant to resent the intrusion, the impulse died within him at the charming obeisance the princess made.

As she rose at his sign, Har-hat entered. Ta-user came near to the king, smiling triumphantly at the fan-bearer.

"The gods sped my feet," she said, "and I am here first. Hold thy peace, noble Har-hat. Mine is the first audience."

Having reached the king's side, she dropped on her knees and folded her hands on the arm of his chair.

"A boon, O Shedder of Light! So much thou owest me. Behold, I came to thee on the hope of thy promises. What have I won therefrom? Naught save, perchance, the smiles of Egypt at my disappointment."

Meneptah's face flushed.

"Say on, O my kinswoman," he said, moving uncomfortably.

"Kinswoman! And a year agone, I thought to hear, 'O my daughter.'"

The color in the king's face deepened.

"Wilt thou reproach me, Ta-user, for my son's wilfulness?" was his tactless reply.

Ta-user shot an amused glance at the discomfited countenance of Har-hat and went on.

"Nay, O my Sovereign. I do but wish to incline thine ear to me. Say first thou wilt grant me my boon."

He looked at her doubtfully, but she drew nearer and lifted her face to his.

"I do not ask for thy crown, or thy son, or for an army, or treasure, or anything but that which thou wouldst gladly give me, because of thy just and generous heart."

The doubt faded out of his face.

"Thou hast my word, Ta-user."

"And for that I thank thee." She bent her head and touched her lips to the hand lying nearest her.

"Give me ear, then," she continued. "Thou hast among thy ministers a noble genius, the murket, Mentu—"

The king broke in with a dry smile. "Wouldst have him for a mate?"

She shook her head till the emeralds pendent from the fillet on her forehead clinked together. Nothing could have been more childlike than the pleased smile on her face.

"Nay, nay, he would not have me," she protested. "But he hath a son."

Har-hat moved forward a pace. She noted the movement and playfully waved him back. "Encroach not. This hour is mine." Har-hat's face wore a dubious smile.

"He hath a son," she repeated.

"He had a son, but he is dead," the king answered.

"Not so! He is in prison where thy counselor, the wicked, unfeeling, jealous, rapacious Har-hat hath entombed him!"

Har-hat sprang forward as the king lifted an amazed and angry face.

"Back!" she cried, motioning at him with her full arm. "It is time the Hathors overtook thee, thou ineffable knave!"

"I protest!" the fan-bearer cried, losing his temper.

"Enough of this play," Meneptah said sternly. "Go on with thy tale, Ta-user. I would know the truth of this."

"Thou wilt not learn it from the princess," Har-hat exclaimed.

"Ah!" Ta-user ejaculated, a world of innocence, surprise and wounded feeling in the word.

"Thy words do not become thee, Har-hat," Meneptah said. The fan-bearer closed his lips and gazed fixedly at the princess.

She drooped her head and went on in a voice low with hurt.

"The gods judge me if my every word is not true! Har-hat imprisoned him because the gallant young man loved the maiden whom Har-hat would have taken for his harem."

Meneptah's face blazed. "Go on," he said sharply.

"The fan-bearer had some little right on his side, for the young man had committed sacrilege in carving a statue, and had stolen the maiden away and hidden her when Har-hat would have taken her. The maiden is an Israelite, and her hiding-place is known to this day only by herself and her unhappy lover. Now comes thy villainy, O thou short of temper," she continued, looking at the fan-bearer.

"Thy father, O Shedder of Light, the Incomparable Pharaoh who reigns in Osiris, gave Mentu a signet—"

The king interrupted. "I know of that. Go on."

"When Kenkenes was overtaken and thrust into prison he sent this signet to thee, O my Sovereign, with a petition for his release and for the maiden's freedom. The writing and the signet came into Har-hat's hands and he ignored them, though the signet commanded him in the name of the holy One." Her voice lowered with awe and dismay at his unregeneracy. "Kenkenes is still in prison."

"Now, by the gods, Har-hat!" Meneptah exclaimed angrily. "I would not have dreamed such baseness in thee!"

The fan-bearer was stupefied with wrath and astonishment. Words absolutely refused to come to him. Ta-user accused him with the wide eyes of fearless righteousness. Presently she went on:

"Already hath he languished eight months in prison. His offense against the gods and against the laws of the land hath been expiated. I would have thee set him free now, O Meneptah, that he may return to his love and comfort her."

Meneptah reached for the reed pen.

"Hold!" cried Har-hat.

"Thou dost forget thyself, good Har-hat," the princess said with dignity. "Thou speakest with thy sovereign."

"But I will be heard!" he exclaimed violently. "Hear me! I pray thee, Son of Ptah!"

Meneptah removed the wetted pen and waited.

"Thou didst give the maiden to me thyself!" he began precipitately. "Thy document of gift I have yet. He stole her, hid her away, committed sacrilege and abused two of my servants nigh unto death when they sought for her. Hath he any more right to her than I? Art thou assured that he hath an honorable purpose in mind for her? She is comely and well instructed in service, and I would have put her in my daughter's train, even as the Hebrew Miriam was lady-in-waiting to Neferari Thermuthis. If thou dost examine the records of the petitions to thee thou wilt find that I asked her expressly for household service. It is false that I had any other purpose in mind.

"As to the signet," he continued breathlessly, "there is no word upon it concerning the palliation of a triple crime! Shall we invoke the king in the blameless name of the holy One, and demand forgiveness in the name of Him who forgiveth no sin? Furthermore, thou didst give the writing into my hands, and in obedience to thy command, I acted as I thought best. My purposes have been wilfully distorted!"

Meneptah frowned with perplexity. But while he pondered, Ta-user drew near to him and said to him very softly:

"If his words be true, O my Sovereign, one lovely Israelite is as serviceable as another. The young man loves this maiden. Doubt it not! He is a worthy off-spring of that noble sire, Mentu. If he offended, he hath suffered sufficiently. Let him go, I pray thee."

"It is my word against her surmises, O Meneptah," Har-hat insisted.

The king frowned more and stroked his cheek.

"Thine anger should be abated by this time, Har-hat," he said feebly.

"His rebellion is not yet broken. I have not the slave yet," the fan-bearer retorted.

"Mayhap he is ready to surrender her now."

"Not so!" the princess put in. "He hath endured eight months. If it were eight hundred years his silence would be the same. It is proof of my boast that he loves her. No man who would comfort his flesh alone would suffer such lengths of mortification of flesh! Let him go, my King, and give the clean-souled fan-bearer another Israelite for his daughter."

"Why camest thou not sooner with this to the king?" Har-hat demanded.

"I have but this moment learned of it, and I could not leave the court without one last act for the good of the oppressed," she replied.

"Have it thy way, Ta-user. Come to me in an hour," Meneptah began.

"Nay, write it now."

"Thou art insistent."

"Thou didst promise," she whispered, her face so close to his that the light from the facets of her emeralds turned on his cheek.

He took up his pen and wrote.

"Now promise that the signet shall go back to Mentu," she continued.

"As thou wilt, Ta-user," the king replied.

She caught up the roll, hesitated for a moment, and then kissed his cheek deliberately and was gone.

A moment later Har-hat overtook her in the hall.

"Hyena!" he exclaimed. "What is thy game?"

She laughed and shook the scroll in his face.

"It is my turn at the pawns now. Thou didst play between me and the crown. Now I shall harass thee for the joy of it. Thinkest thou I cared aught for the dreamer and his loves? Bah! I heard this tale eight months agone while I had naught to do but eavesdrop. Nay, it was but my one chance to vex thee."

Again she laughed and ran away to the queen's apartments.

"I am come to bid thee farewell," she said, kneeling before the pale little woman who loved the king. The princess put up her face to be kissed.

"Not my lips!" she cried warningly. "They yet tingle with the kiss of Meneptah, thy husband. I would not have the ecstasy spoiled by another's touch."

The queen flushed and kissed the cheek.

"Farewell, and peace go with thee," she said quietly.

The princess retained her composure until she reentered the hall. There she flung her arms above her head and laughed silently.

"Of a truth, I take peace with me, and I leave discord behind!"



[1] Shadoof—a pole with a bucket attached, like the old well-sweep, used by rustics to dip water from the Nile.



CHAPTER XXXII

RACHEL'S REFUGE

Rachel stood by the parapet on the top of the Memphian house of Har-hat. About her were no evidences of her former serfdom. She wore an ample robe of white linen, with blue selvages heavily fringed. About her neck was the collar of gold. The costume was distinctly Israelitish, elaborated somewhat at the suggestion of Masanath, to whom Rachel's golden beauty was a never-lessening wonder. Compared to the tiny gorgeous lady, Rachel was as a tall lily to a mimosa.

Masanath was comfortably pillowed on cushions, close to the Israelite. The rose-leaf flush on her little face was subdued and her dark eyes were larger than usual. The physical discomforts of the plagues had overtaken her; and Rachel, the only one of all the household who had passed unscathed through the troublous time, had been so tender a nurse that Masanath recovered with reluctance.

This was the Egyptian's first day on the housetop, and she was not happy. The great pots of glazed earthenware, each a small garden in size, were filled with baked earth. The locusts had taken her flowers. In the park below the grass was gone and the palm trees were shadowless. Her chariot horses had died in the stables; her pets had drooped and perished; her birds were missing one morning, and Rachel said they had flown to Goshen, where there were grain and grasses. Furthermore, the year of freedom had almost expired and she began to anticipate sorrowfully.

The period of the Israelite's residence with Masanath had been uneventful save for those grim, momentous days of plague and loss. Deborah had survived the removal to comfort in Memphis only a month. The brutal injuries inflicted by the servants of Har-hat had been too severe for her age-enfeebled frame to repair. So she died, blessing the two young girls who had attended her, and promising peace and happiness to come. Then they laid her in a new tomb cut in the rock face of the Libyan hills and wrote on her sarcophagus:

"She departed out of the land of Mizraim before her people."

And this was prophecy.

Thus was Rachel left, but for Masanath, entirely alone. None of the afflictions had overtaken her. A mysterious Providence shielded her. Anubis, which she formally claimed as hers, was the only one of the numerous dumb dwellers in the fan-bearer's house that had escaped. And of him there is something to be told.

Shortly after the arrival of the Israelites in Memphis, Anubis disappeared for days.

"He is gone to visit the murket," Masanath explained.

One noon Rachel, resting on the housetop with her hostess, saw him leisurely returning, by starts of interest and recollection. Behind him, walking cautiously, was a man.

"Anubis returneth," Rachel said, sitting up.

Masanath raised herself and looked.

"Imhotep[1] plagues mine eyes, or that is the murket following him," she exclaimed.

Immediately Rachel began to tremble and, sinking back on her cushions, hid her face. Masanath continued to watch the approaching man.

"If he comes shall I send for thee?" she asked in a half-whisper.

The Israelite shook her head. "Only if he asks for me," she answered.

"A pest on the creature!" Masanath exclaimed impatiently after a little silence. "He is torturing the man! Hath he forgot the place?"

She leaned over the parapet and called the ape. The murket looked up.

"Anubis is my guest, noble Mentu," she replied. "Wilt thou not come up with him?"

The murket looked at her a moment before he answered.

"Nay, I thank thee, my Lady. I left the noonday meal that I might be led at the creature's will. He is restless since my son is gone."

Every word of the murket's fell plainly on Rachel's ears. The tones were those of Kenkenes, grown older. The statement came to her as a call upon her knowledge of the young artist's whereabouts.

"Tell him—tell him—" she whispered desperately.

"What?" asked Masanath, turning about.

"Tell him where Kenkenes went!"

The Egyptian leaned over the parapet. "Fie! he is gone!" she said. "Nay, but I shall catch him;" and flying down through the house, out into the narrow passage, she overtook the murket.

This is what she told Rachel when she returned:

"I said to him: 'My Lord, I know where Kenkenes went.' And he said: 'Of a truth?' in the calmest way. 'Aye,' said I. 'It hath come to mine ears that he went to Tape,' 'That have I known for long,' he answered, after he had looked at me till I wished I were away. 'That have I known for long, and why he went and why he came not back,' and having said, he smoothed my hair and told me I was not much like my father, and departed without another word. To my mind he hath conducted himself most strangely. I doubt not he knows more than you or I, Rachel."

To Masanath's dismay the Israelite flung herself face down on the rugs and wept. "He is not dead; he is not dead," she cried.

The collapse of a composure so strong and bridled filled Masanath with consternation. Had Rachel's spirit been of weaker fiber the Egyptian's own forceful individuality would have longed to sustain it, but when it broke in its strength she knew that here was a stress of emotion too deep for her to soothe.

"Then if he is not dead," she said, searching for something to say, "why weepest thou?"

"Alas! seest thou not, Masanath? He hath not returned to me; his father knows his story, and if he be not dead how shall I explain his absence save that he hath forgotten or repented?"

"Not so!" Masanath declared. "He is the soul of honor, and there is a mystery in this that the gods may explain in time. Comfort thee, Rachel, for there stirreth a hope in me." Then with the utmost tact she told the story of the finding of Kenkenes' boat and the theory accepted in Memphis.

"I can offer thee hope," she concluded, "but I can not even guess what should keep him so long. Of this be assured, however, he did not desert thee, Rachel."

Enigmatical as it was, the incident was comforting to Rachel.

So the Nile rose and subsided, the winter came and went, and now it was near the middle of March, Masanath forgot Kenkenes and remembered her own sorrow now that its consummation was surely approaching. During the hours that darkened gradually Rachel was to her an ever-responsive comforter. Even in the dead of night, if the weight of her care burdened her dreams so that she stirred or murmured, she was instantly soothed till she slept again. Usually the day did not harass her with oppression, but if she grew suddenly afraid, Rachel was at her side to comfort her—never urging, either to rebellion or submission, but ever offering hope.

So the little Egyptian came to love the Israelite with the love that demands rather than gives—the love of a child for the mother, of the benefited for the benefactor. Gradually Rachel lost sight of her own trouble in her devotion to Masanath. She had no time for her own thoughts. Each passing day brought the Egyptian's martyrdom nearer, and Rachel's uses hourly increased.

This day Masanath, who had been ill, was unusually downcast.

"It may be," she said with more cheer in her tones than had been in her previous remarks, "that I shall die before they can wed me to Rameses."

"Nay, why not say that the Lord God will interfere before that time?"

"Evil and power have joined hands against me, and even the gods are helpless against such collusion," Masanath answered drearily.

"The sorrows of Egypt are not yet at an end; mayhap the hand of the God of Israel will overtake the prince."

"Thy God is afflicting, not helping; He will not spare me."

"The hand of the Lord is lifted against Egypt. Will He bless the land, then, with such a queen as thou wouldst be?"

"Nay, but thine is a strange God! Mark thou, I doubt Him not! But ai! I should face Him for ever in sackcloth and ashes lest He smite me for smiling and living my life without care."

"Hath an ill befallen Israel?"

"If thou art Israel, nay! Thou hast flourished in this dread time like a palm by a deep well."

"So he prospereth all his chosen."

Masanath shook her head and looked away. From the stairway Nan approached.

"Unas hath come from Tanis, my Lady," she said with suppressed excitement. Masanath sat up, trembling.

"Isis grant he hath not come to take thee to marriage," the waiting woman breathed. Rachel laid an inquiring hand on the little Egyptian's arm.

"My father's courier," she explained. "Let him come up," she continued to Nari. The waiting woman bowed and left her.

Rachel arose and took a place on the farther side of the hypostyle, with the screens of matting between her and Masanath. She was still in hiding.

The fat servitor came up presently.

"The gracious gods have had thee under their sheltering wings during these troublous times," he said, bowing. "It is worth the trip from Tanis to look upon thee."

"Thy words are fair, Unas. How is it with my father?" Masanath asked with stiff lips.

"The gods are good to the Pharaoh. They permit the wise Har-hat to continue in health to render service to his sovereign."

Masanath, dreading the news, asked after it at once. Men have killed themselves for fear of death.

"Thou hast come to conduct me to court?"

"That is the gracious will of my master."

Masanath half rose from her seat. "When?" she asked almost inaudibly.

"In twenty days; no more. I have a mission to perform and shall go hence immediately. But I shall return in twenty days, never fear, my Lady."

Masanath saw that he mocked her. Her wrath was an effective counter-irritant for her trouble. She was calm again.

"Then, if thy message is delivered, go!"

He backed out and descended the stairway.

When she was sure he was gone she flung herself, in a paroxysm of wild grief and despair, face down on her cushions. At that moment a cold hand caught her arm. She looked up and saw Rachel. All the blue had gone from the Israelite's eyes, leaving them black with dreadful conviction. The color had receded from her cheeks and her figure was rigid.

"Who was that man?" she demanded in a voice low with concentrated emotion.

"Unas, my father's man. What is amiss, Rachel?"

The Israelite stood for a moment as though she permitted the intelligence to assemble all the further facts that it entailed. Then she turned away and walked swiftly toward the well of the stair.

"Rachel! Thou—what—thou hast not answered me," Masanath called.

"There is naught to be said. I—it were best that I go to my people now, since thou goest to marriage," was the unready reply.

"Thou wilt return to thy people! Rachel! Nay, nay I Thou art all I have. Come back! Come back!" Masanath cried, running after her.

Rachel hesitated, trembling with a multitude of emotions.

"It were better I should go," she insisted, trying to escape Masanath's clasp. "If I go now I can reach my people and be hidden safely."

The little Egyptian flung herself upon the Israelite, weeping.

"Art thou, too, deserting me—thou, who art the last to befriend me? What have I done that thou shouldst desert me?"

"Naught! Naught! Thou dear unfortunate!" was the passionate reply. "But I must go! I must!"

"Thou must flee from sure safety to only possible security!" Masanath demanded through her tears. "If I must wed this terrible prince, I shall put my misery to some use. I shall ask thy liberty at his hands and thou shalt live with me for ever, my one comfort, my one support."

"But Israel departeth shortly—"

"Thou shalt not go," Masanath declared hysterically. "I will not suffer thee! The doors shall be barred against thy departure!"

Rachel turned her head away and pushed back her hair. Her plight was desperate. Meanwhile Masanath went on.

"It is not like thee, Rachel, to desert me! I had not dreamed thee so selfish—so cruel!"

"Sister!" Rachel cried, "thou torturest me!" On a sudden Masanath raised her head and gazed at the Israelite.

"What possessed thee to go?" she demanded. "Is it Rameses who hath beset thee?"

Rachel shook her head and avoided Masanath's eye.

"Tell me," the Egyptian insisted. "There is mystery in this. What had my father's man to do with thy hasty resolution to depart?"

There was no answer. Masanath put the Israelite back from her a little and repeated her question.

"I can not tell thee," Rachel responded slowly.

Silence fell, and Masanath spoke at last, in a decided voice.

"Thou art within my house, and so under my command. Thou shalt not leave me! I have said!" She turned to go back to her cushions. Rachel followed her.

"I pray thee, Masanath—"

"Hold thy peace. Let us have no more of this."

Rachel grew paler, and she clasped her hands as though praying for fortitude. At last she broke out:

"Masanath! Masanath! That man—that Unas—attended the noble who halted me on the road to the Nile, that morning; he was the one sent back to Memphis for the document of gift; he pursued me into the hills. He is the servant of the man who follows me!"

The Egyptian recoiled as though she had been struck.

"Nay, nay," she cried, throwing up her hands as though to ward off the conviction. "Not my father! Not he! Thou art wrong, Rachel!"

"Would to the Lord God that I were, my sister! But I am not mistaken in that face. He was the one that disputed with Kenkenes—was the one Kenkenes choked. Never was there another man with such a voice, such a face, such a figure! It is he!"

Masanath wrung her hands.

"Tell it over again. Describe the noble to me."

"He was third in the procession and drove black horses—"

"Holy Mother Isis! his horses were black. The first two would have been the princes of the realm, the next the fan-bearer. Nay, I dare not hope that it is not true. Since he would barter his own daughter for a high place, he would not hesitate to take by force the daughter of another. O Mother of Sorrows, hide me! my father! my father!" she wailed.

Under the combined weight of her griefs, she dropped on the carpeted pavement and wept without control. All of Rachel's fear and horror were swept away in a wave of compunction and pity. She lifted the little Egyptian back upon her cushions again and, kneeling beside her, took the bowed head against her heart. Her hair fell forward and framed the two sorrowing faces in a shower of gold.

"Lo! I have been a guest under thy roof and at thy board, a pensioner upon thy cheer, and now, even while my heart was full of gratitude, have I encroached upon thy happiness and broken thine overburdened heart. Forgive me, Masanath. Let me not come between thee and thy father, sister! Let me return to my people, for Israel shortly goeth forth. Doubt it not. Then shall I be out of his reach, and the Lord will not lay up the sin against him. Furthermore, dost thou not remember Deborah's words while the spirit of prophecy was upon her? Promised she not peace for us, and happiness and long tranquillity to follow these days of sorrow? Do thou have faith, Masanath. Cease not to hope, for the forces of evil have never yet triumphed wholly."

"Nay, but how shall that restore my pride in my father?" Masanath sobbed. "How shall I ever think of him without the bitterness of shame? What must the world think of him—of me? Now I know what the murket meant. He knew, and Kenkenes knew and all— Alas! alas!" she broke forth in fresh grief, "and Hotep knows!"

Rachel could say no more, for in this sorrow no comfort could avail.

She stroked the little Egyptian's hair and let the wounded heart soothe itself.

Presently Masanath's mind wandered from the new villainy of her father to the memory of the older offense and she wept afresh.

"If thou goest, Rachel, there is none left to comfort me," she mourned. "I am alone—desolate, and the powers of Egypt are arrayed against me!" Rachel was hearing her own plight given expression. She put aside any thought of herself and applied herself to Masanath's need.

"Nay, there is Hotep," she whispered. "He loves thee, and if there is aught in prophecy, he will comfort thee when I am gone."

"But thou shalt not go," Masanath cried. "Stay with me, Rachel."

"Thy father's servant returneth in twenty days. As I have said, if I go now, I can reach my people and be hidden safely."

The Egyptian held fast to the Israelite and wept.

"Nay, Rachel. Stay with me. Thou art all I have!"

Rachel turned her head and gazed toward the south. Across the housetops, the far-off sickle of the Nile curved into a crevice between the hills and disappeared. Somewhere beyond that blue and broken sky-line her last claim to Egypt had been lost. Why should she stay when Kenkenes was gone? Meanwhile Masanath went on pleading.

If she departed, the next day's sun might dawn upon him in Memphis, searching and sorrowing because he found her not. The hour of separation might be delayed for twenty days—in that time he might come.

"I will stay till my people go—if they depart within twenty days," Rachel made answer. "But I must be gone ere thy father's servant returns."

Masanath rebelled, sobbing.

"Nay, weep not. The hour is distant. In that time, since these are days of miracles, thy sorrows and mine may have faded like a mist. Come, no more. Let us bide the workings of the good God."



[1] Imhotep—The physician-god.



CHAPTER XXXIII

BACK TO MEMPHIS

The valley in which Thebes Diospolis was situated was wide and the overflow of the Nile did not reach the arable uplands near the Arabian hills. Three thousand years before, Menes had established a system of irrigation which had added hundreds of square miles to the agricultural area of Egypt, and every monarch after him had unfailingly preserved the institution. From Syene to Pelusium the country was ramified with canals, and vast sums and great labor were expended yearly upon their keeping.

Since the work was heavy and the demand for it constant, it became a punitive part of each nome's administration. Therefore, the convicts whose misdeeds were too serious to be punished adequately by the bastinado or the fine, and yet not grave enough to merit a sentence to the quarries or the mines, were sent to the canals.

So here in the canals of the eastern Thebaid, was Kenkenes, a prisoner known only by a number. His fellows were unjust public weighers, usurers, rioters, habitual tax-evaders, broken debtors, forgers and housebreakers.

The season of toil had been unusually severe. The native convicts had more to endure than the lash, the bitter fare, the terrible sun by day, and a bed of dust by night, for the afflictions that befell all Egypt were theirs also. The strange prisoner among them suffered these things and had further the drawback of his own physical strength to combat. The plagues overcame the weaker convicts and decimated the number of laborers, so Kenkenes was put, alone, to the work that two men had done before.

However, the accumulation of toil came upon him gradually and his supple frame toughened as the demand upon it increased. Nor was he sensible of pain or great weariness, for his mind was far away from the sun-heated desert of the eastern Thebaid. He spoke seldom, and held himself aloof from his fellow prisoners. He regarded his taskmasters as if they were written authority no more animate than watered scrolls of papyrus. No one doubted from the beginning that he was high-born, and this mark of a great fall might have exposed him to abuse; but his great strength and unusual deportment did not invite mistreatment. In short, he was looked upon as mildly mad.

When Kenkenes had rejected the gods, hope, sundered from faith, groped wildly and desperately. In his rare moments of cheer he could not anticipate freedom without trusting to something, and in his misanthropy his doubt had placed no limit on its scope, questioning the honor of king or slave. In these better moments he wanted to believe in something.

So constantly had his sorrows attended him that he had come to dread the night, when there was neither event nor labor to interrupt their dominance over his mind. He caught eagerly at any less troublous problem that might suggest itself, for he felt that he had been conquered by his plight.

As he lay by night, apart from the rest of the prisoners, he gazed at one glittering star that stood in the north. About it were scintillating clusters, single stars and faint streaks of never-dissipated mists. Night after night that one brilliant point had remained unmoved in its steady gaze from the uppermost, but the clusters rotated about it; the single stars were westward moving; the mists shifted. And a question began to trouble him: What hand had marshaled the stars? Seb,[1] whom Toth had supplanted? Osiris, whom Set destroyed? The young man put them aside. They were feeble. Nothing so weak had created the mighty hosts of heaven. So he began to weigh the question.

What hand had marshaled the stars? An accident? Since man must worship something supernal, what more tremendous than the cataclysm, if such it were, that evolved the stars. Had the same or a series of such events brought forth the earth and man? Was the accident continuously attendant? Did it spread the Nile over Egypt and call it again within its banks every year? Did it clothe the fields and bring them to harvest every revolution of the sun? Did it hang the moon like a sickle in the west or lift it over the Arabian hills like a bubble of silver every eight and twenty days?

If it were omnipotent, infinite and omnipresent, could it be an accident? If it were, why not worship it and call it God?

The reasoning led him again in the direction of the gods, but he saw no reason for a multiplicity of deities. Each member of the Egyptian Pantheon presided over some special field of human interest or human environment. To him, who had lived next to nature till her study had become a worship, there were no flaws in her chronology, no shortcomings or plethora. The earth responded to the skies; the waters were in harmony with the earth, the harvests with all. There was unity in the control over the universe and the hand that was powerful enough to swing the moon was mighty enough to flood the Nile, was tender enough to nourish the harvests, was wise enough to govern men. Where, then, was any need of a superfluity of powers?

But behold, something had thrust a dread hand between the tender ministrations of this other Thing and the benefits to men. By this time it had reached the remotenesses of Egypt that it was the God of the Hebrews. The young man arrived at this alternative in his reasoning: There was a minister of good and another of evil—two powers presiding over the earth,—or,—the sole minister was offended and had deserted its charge, or had loosed upon Egypt the evil at its command. Here Kenkenes paused. He could not arrive at any conclusion on the matter or convince himself that he had not reasoned well.

Night after night, he fell asleep upon his ponderings, but they returned to him with fresh food for thought after every sunset. The reconstruction of something worshipful was more fascinating than had been the demolition of the gods. It took many a night's meditation for the evolution of any fixed idea from the bewildering convection of thought. And at last he had concluded only that there was one thing—Power—Purpose, which was greater than man.

This was not a great achievement. He had simply permitted the universal, indefinable claim to piety, inherent in every reasoning thing, to assert itself.

Great and sincere and beyond expression was his amazement and his joy when a taskmaster called him from the canal-bed one day and informed him that he was free.

The order was shown him at his request, and the name of the Princess Ta-user as his champion filled him with puzzlement. State news filtered slowly down even to the level he had occupied for the past eight months. He had heard that it was Masanath whom the Hathors had destined to wear the crown of queen to Rameses; the convicts had known of the supremacy of Har-hat. He could not understand how it came that Ta-user, lately discarded, could prevail upon the crown prince to persuade Meneptah, or could herself persuade the king to the overthrow of the fan-bearer's wishes in the matter. Furthermore, why should the princess have taken up his cause? But he did not tarry while he pondered.

His raiment and his money, conscientiously preserved for him by the authorities, had been sent to him, and a little way outside the camp he stepped from the lowest to his rightful rank, swifter than he had descended from it. Covering his sun-burnt shoulders with his robes, assuming the circlet once again, he went toward the distant city of Thebes, once more in spirit and dress the son of the royal murket.

At the heavy-walled prison across the Nile he asked after the signet. It had not been returned with the writing. Neither was there any word to him concerning his prayer to Pharaoh for the liberty of Rachel. It began to dawn on him that he had been released only after he had been sufficiently punished; that he had failed in the most vital aims of his mission; that the signet, having been found, seemed now to be lost irretrievably. For a space his relief at his freedom was overshadowed by chagrin, but after a little he recovered himself. "At least I am free to care for her, now," he reflected.

Just as he emerged from the imposing doorway of the house of the governor of police, he was jostled by a half-grown boy. To Kenkenes, it seemed that the youth had been on the point of entering, but instead he apologized inaudibly and walked away.

A great rush of impatience, suspense, eagerness and heart-hunger fell on the young artist the instant he knew his footsteps were turned toward Memphis and Rachel. The six days that must intervene between the present time and the moment he entered the old capital seemed insufferable. Never did a lover so fume against the inexorable deliberation of time and the obstinate length of distance. The preliminaries to departure seemed to accumulate and lengthen—and lessen in importance. Haste consumed him. Under a momentary impulse, with all seriousness he began to consider his own fleetness of foot as more expedient than travel by boat. But he put the thought aside, and summoning as much patience as was possible, set about with all speed preparing to depart.

Thebes had not awakened from the coma of horror into which it had lapsed during the great plagues. It was Kenkenes' first visit to the city since he had left it for the desert, eight months before. Now, the change in the great capital of the south impressed itself upon him, in spite of his haste and his all-absorbing thought of Memphis. The activities of life seemed to be suspended. The call to prayers could be heard hourly from the great gongs of the temple at Karnak, when in happier days the sound had been lost in the city's noises within the very shadow of the pylons. He could hear strains of music in religious processions, when the wind was fair, but he missed the acclaim of the populace. Besides these sounds, silence had settled over Thebes. Booths were closed in many instances; the streets, which ordinarily were quiet, were now deserted; there were no carpets swinging from balconies and housetops, and the citizens he saw were sober of countenance and of garb. So few, indeed, he met, that he noted each passer-by as an event. Once, some distance away from him, he saw again the youth whom he had met in the doorway of the prison.

At a caterer's he purchased supplies for a day's journey and looked about him for a carrier. Catching the boy's eye, he beckoned him, but the youth turned on his heel and disappeared. The son of the merchant offering himself, Kenkenes continued rapidly toward the river where he engaged a vessel to take him to Memphis.

He roused the boatmen into immediate activity by promises of reward for every mile gained over the average day's journey. Their passenger and cargo shipped, the men fell to their oars and the craft shot out of the still waters by the landings into midstream and turned toward the north.

As they cleared, the private passage boat belonging to a nobleman swept up near to them and crossing their track took the same direction several hundred yards nearer the Libyan shore. Kenkenes noted that it was a bari of elegant pattern, deep draft and more numerously manned than his. He noted further that one of the boat's crew was the youth he had met thrice in a short space at Thebes.

"Small wonder that he was not willing to serve me," he commented to himself.

If he observed the companion boat during the next five days it was to remark that since his own vessel kept sturdily alongside one of superior rowing force his men were of a surety earning the promised reward. When they entered the long straight stretches of the Middle country the elegant stranger dropped behind and attended Kenkenes and his crew more distantly thereafter.

Except for these few occasions, Kenkenes had no thought of his surroundings. He stood in the prow and looked down the shimmering width of river, in the direction his heart had taken long before him. And when the white cliffs that proved him close to Memphis came shouldering up from the northern horizon, he had forgotten the stranger in the eager, trembling anticipations that possessed him.



[1] Seb—The Egyptian Chronos.



CHAPTER XXXIV

NIGHT

On the morning of the eighteenth day, immediately after sunrise, Rachel came to the curtains over Masanath's door, and put them aside.

Within, she saw her hostess yet in her bed-gown, her hair disordered and her tiny feet bare. She stood before a shrine of silver, the statue of Isis in turquoise displayed therein, and an offering of pressed dates before it. But there was no sign of devotion or humility in the attitude of the Egyptian. One plump arm was stretched toward the image and the hand was tightly clenched. Neither was there any reverence in her voice.

Rachel dropped the curtain and waited. The words came distinctly through the linen hangings.

"Thou false one![1] thou ingrate! Is it for this that every day I have sent two fat ducks to the altar in thy name? Is it that I must be separated from my beloved and wedded to the man I hate, that I have prayed to thee day and night? Who hath been more faithful to thee and whom hast thou served more cruelly? Mark thou! If thou darest to cause this thing to come to pass, night nor day shall I rest until I have found the bones of Osiris and scattered them to the four winds of heaven! So carefully shall I hide them, so widely shall I scatter them, that no help of Nepthys, Toth or Anubis shall let thee gather them up again! Aye, I will do it, though I die in the doing and remain unburied, I swear by Set! Remember thou!"

Rachel went softly away.

After a time she returned. She had covered her white dress with a mantle of brown linen and over her head she wore a wimple of the same material. Her hair had been coiled and secured with a bodkin. When she put her hand under the wimple and drew it across her mouth, only her fair skin and blue eyes distinguished her from any other Egyptian lady dressed for a long journey.

She lifted the curtains and entered, and it was long before she came forth again. Then her eyes were hidden and her head bowed, for she had bidden farewell to Masanath. She was returning to Goshen.

In the street before the house she entered her litter and with Pepi walking beside her went to the Nile. And there they were joined by Anubis. He had been absent for days, so his greeting was extravagant, his loyalty inalienable. He entered the bari Pepi had loaded with Rachel's belongings, and would not be coaxed or menaced into disembarking.

"Nay, let him come," Rachel said at last. "Thou canst set him on the shore opposite the tomb. He will leave us willingly there."

So they pushed away.

Rachel wrapped her wimple about her face and removed it once only to gaze at the quarries of Masaarah. They were deserted. Months before, directly after the affliction of the Nile, the Israelites had been returned to Goshen.

After the bari had passed below the stone wharf, Rachel covered herself and neither spoke nor moved. Her heart was heavy beyond words.

Pepi broke the silence once.

"Shall we drop the ape first, my Lady?"

Rachel shook her head. Anubis was her last hold on Kenkenes.

At the Marsh of the Discontented Soul, the bari nosed among the reeds and grounded gently. Rachel stood for a moment gazing sadly across the stretch of sand toward the abrupt wall against which it terminated inland. Pepi, already on shore, reached a patient hand toward her and awaited her awakening. Anubis landed with a bound and made in a series of wide circles for the cliff. His escape aroused Rachel and she stepped out of the boat. After a moment's thought, she bade Pepi pull away from the shore and await her at a safe distance.

"I shall stay no longer than to write my whereabouts on the tomb, but thy boat here may attract the attention of others on the river, and hereafter they might ask what thou didst in this place. And I am not afraid."

The slow Egyptian obeyed reluctantly, shaking his head as he stood away from shore.

With a sigh that was almost a sob, Rachel walked back over the sand toward the cave that had been her only shelter once.

She did not fear it. Kenkenes had crossed this gray level of sand in the night and its wet border at the river had borne the print of his sandal. He had made the tomb a home for her, he had knelt on its rock pavement and kissed her hands in its dusk and had passed its threshold, like a shadow, to return no more. And here, too, was the other faithful suggestion of her lost love—the pet ape. How his fitful fidelities had directed themselves to her! She caught him up as he passed her. He struggled, turned in her arms, and then became passive, breathing loudly.

She climbed the rough steps and sat down on the topmost one to think.

She was surrounded with old evidences of her sorrow. Nor was there any cheer before her. Escape was in prospect, but it was liberty without light or peace—a gray freedom without hope, purpose or fruit. Her retrospect gradually brightened, never to brilliance but to a soft luminance, brightest at the farthermost point and sad like the dying daylight. She summarized her griefs—danger, death, suspense, shame and long hopelessness. The lonely girl's stock of unhappiness took her breath away and she pushed back the wimple as if to clear away the oppression.

Anubis realized his moment of freedom was short and with an instant bound he was out and gone.

In no little dismay Rachel started in pursuit, but she had not moved ten paces from the bottom of the steps before she paused, transfixed.

An Egyptian, not Pepi, was hauling a boat into the reeds. The craft secure, he turned up the slant, walking rapidly.

There was no mistaking that commanding stature.

Anubis descended on him like an arrow. The man saw the ape, halted a fraction of an instant, caught sight of Rachel, and with a cry, his arms flung wide, broke into a run toward her.

The ape bounded for his shoulder, but missed and alighted at one side, chattering raucously. The running man did not pause.

The world revolved slowly about Rachel, and the sustaining structure of her frame seemed to lose its rigidity. She put out her hands, blindly, and they were caught and clasped about Kenkenes' neck. And there in the strong support of his tightening arms, her face hidden against the leaping heart, all time and matters of the world drifted away. In their place was only a vast content, featureless and full of soft dusk and warmth.

Gone were all the demure resolutions, the memory of faith or unfaith. Nothing was patent to her except that this was the man she loved and he had returned from the dead.

Presently she became vaguely aware that he was speaking. Though a little unsteady and subdued, it was the same melody of voice that she seemed to have known from the cradle.

"Rachel! Rachel!" he was saying, "why didst thou not go to my father as I bade thee? Nay, I do not chide thee. The joy of finding thee hath healed me of the wrench when I found thee not, at my father's house, at dawn to-day. But tell me. Why didst thou not go?"

"I—I feared—" she faltered after a silence.

"My father? Nay, now, dost thou fear me? Not so; and my father is but myself, grown old. He was only a little less mad with fear than I, when he discovered that thou shouldst have come to him so long ago, and camest not. It damped his joy in having me again, and I left him pale with concern. Did I not tell thee how good he is?"

"Aye, it was not that I feared him, but that I feared that thou—" And she paused and again he helped her.

"That I was dead? That I had played thee false? Rachel! But how couldst thou know? Forgive me. Since the tenth night I left thee I have been in prison."

"In prison!" she exclaimed, lifting her face. "Alas, that I did not think of it. It is mine to beg thy forgiveness, Kenkenes, and on my very knees!"

"So thou didst think it, in truth!" She hid her face again and craved his pardon.

But he pressed her to him and soothed her.

"Nay, I do not chide thee. Had I been in thy place, I might have thought the same. But it is past—gone with the horrors of this horrible season—Osiris be thanked!"

"Thanks be to the God of Israel," she demanded from her shelter.

"And the God of Israel," he said obediently.

"Nay, to the God of Israel alone," she insisted, raising her head.

He laughed a little and patted her hands softly together.

"It was but the habit in me that made me name Osiris. There is no god for me, but Love."

"So long, so long, Kenkenes, and not any change in thee?" she sighed. "How hath Egypt been helped of her gods, these grievous days?"

"The gods and the gods, and ever the gods!" he said. "What have we to do with them? Deborah bade me turn from them and this I have done with all sincerity. Much have I pondered on the question and this have I concluded. Egypt's holy temples have been vainly built; her worship has been wasted on the air. There was and is a Creator, but, Rachel, that Power whose mind is troubled with the great things is too great to behold the petty concerns of men. My fortunes and thine we must direct, for though we implored that Power till we died from the fervor of our supplications, It could not hear, whose ears are filled with the murmurings of the traveling stars. Why we were created and forgotten, we may not know. How may we guess the motives of anything too great for us to conceive? Whatsoever befalls us results from our use at the hands of men, or from the nature of our abiding-place. We must defend ourselves, prosper ourselves and live for what we make of life. After that we shall not know the troubles and the joys of the world, for the tombs are restful and soundless. Is it not so, my Rachel?"