they knew nothing, with words of mockery, which so enraged the officer
that he determined to search the oasis throughout by force, and when he
found his emissaries treated with scorn he advanced with the larger part
of his troops on to the free territory of the Amalekites.

The sons of the desert flew to arms; they retired before the close order
of the Egyptian troops, who followed them, confident of victory, to a
point where the valley widens and divides on each side of a rocky hill.
Behind this the larger part of the Amalekite forces were lying in ambush,
and as soon as the unsuspicious Ethiopians had marched past the hill,
they threw themselves on the rear of the astonished invaders, while those
in front turned upon them, and flung lances and arrows at the soldiers,
of whom very few escaped.

Among them, however, was the commanding officer, who, foaming with rage
and only slightly wounded, put himself at the head of the remainder of
Bent-Anat's body-guard, ordered the escort of the prisoners also to
follow him, and once more advanced into the oasis.

That the princess might escape him had never for an instant occurred to
him, but as soon as the last of her keepers had disappeared, Bent-Anat
explained to her chamberlain and her companions that now or never was the
moment to fly.

All her people were devoted to her; they loaded themselves with the most
necessary things for daily use, took the litters and beasts of burden
with them, and while the battle was raging in the valley, Salich guided
them up the heights of Sinai to his father's house.

It was on the way thither that Uarda had prepared the princess for the
meeting she might expect at the hunter's cottage, and we have seen how
and where the princess found the poet.

Hand in hand they wandered together along the mountain path till they
came to a spot shaded by a projection of the rock, Pentaur pulled some
moss to make a seat, they reclined on it side by side, and there opened
their hearts, and told each other of their love and of their sufferings,
their wanderings and escapes.

At noonday the hunter's daughter came to offer them a pitcher full of
goat's milk, and Bent-Anat filled the gourd again and again for the man
she loved; and waiting upon him thus, her heart overflowed with pride,
and his with the humble desire to be permitted to sacrifice his blood and
life for her.

Hitherto they had been so absorbed in the present and the past, that they
had not given a thought to the future, and while they repeated a hundred
times what each had long since known, and yet could never tire of
hearing, they forgot the immediate changes which was hanging over them.

After their humble meal, the surging flood of feeling which, ever since
his morning devotions, had overwhelmed the poet's soul, grew calmer; he
had felt as if borne through the air, but now he set foot, so to speak,
on the earth again, and seriously considered with Bent-Anat what steps
they must take in the immediate future.

The light of joy, which beamed in their eyes, was little in accordance
with the grave consultation they held, as, hand in hand, they descended
to the hut of their humble host.

The hunter, guided by his daughter, met them half way, and with him a
tall and dignified man in the full armor of a chief of the Amalekites.

Both bowed and kissed the earth before Bent-Anat and Pentaur. They had
heard that the princess was detained in the oasis by force by the
Ethiopian troops, and the desert-prince, Abocharabos, now informed them,
not without pride, that the Ethiopian soldiers, all but a few who were
his prisoners, had been exterminated by his people; at the same time he
assured Pentaur, whom he supposed to be a son of the king, and Bent-Anat,
that he and his were entirely devoted to the Pharaoh Rameses, who had
always respected their rights.

"They are accustomed," he added, "to fight against the cowardly dogs of
Kush; but we are men, and we can fight like the lions of our wilds. If we
are outnumbered we hide like the goats in clefts of the rocks."

Bent-Anat, who was pleased with the daring man, his flashing eyes, his
aquiline nose, and his brown face which bore the mark of a bloody
sword-cut, promised him to commend him and his people to her father's
favor, and told him of her desire to proceed as soon as possible to the
king's camp under the protection of Pentaur, her future husband.

The mountain chief had gazed attentively at Pentaur and at Bent-Anat
while she spoke; then he said: "Thou, princess, art like the moon, and
thy companion is like the Sun-god Dusare. Besides Abocharabos," and he
struck his breast, "and his wife, I know no pair that are like you two. I
myself will conduct you to Hebron with some of my best men of war. But
haste will be necessary, for I must be back before the traitor who now
rules over Mizraim,--[The Semitic name of Egypt]--and who persecutes you,
can send fresh forces against us. Now you can go down again to the tents,
not a hen is missing. To-morrow before daybreak we will be off."

At the door of the hut Pentaur was greeted by the princess's companions.

The chamberlain looked at him not without anxious misgiving.

The king, when he departed, had, it is true, given him orders to obey
Bent-Anat in every particular, as if she were the queen herself; but her
choice of such a husband was a thing unheard of, and how would the king
take it?

Nefert rejoiced in the splendid person of the poet, and frequently
repeated that he was as like her dead uncle--the father of Paaker, the
chief-pioneer--as if he were his younger brother.

Uarda never wearied of contemplating him and her beloved princess. She no
longer looked upon him as a being of a higher order; but the happiness of
the noble pair seemed to her an embodied omen of happiness for Nefert's
love--perhaps too for her own.

Nebsecht kept modestly in the background. The headache, from which he had
long been suffering, had disappeared in the fresh mountain air. When
Pentaur offered him his hand he exclaimed:

"Here is an end to all my jokes and abuse! A strange thing is this fate
of men. Henceforth I shall always have the worst of it in any dispute
with you, for all the discords of your life have been very prettily
resolved by the great master of harmony, to whom you pray."

"You speak almost as if you were sorry; but every thing will turn out
happily for you too."

"Hardly!" replied the surgeon, "for now I see it clearly. Every man is a
separate instrument, formed even before his birth, in an occult workshop,
of good or bad wood, skilfully or unskilfully made, of this shape or the
other; every thing in his life, no matter what we call it, plays upon
him, and the instrument sounds for good or evil, as it is well or ill
made. You are an AEolian harp--the sound is delightful, whatever breath
of fate may touch it; I am a weather-cock--I turn whichever way the wind
blows, and try to point right, but at the same time I creak, so that it
hurts my own ears and those of other people. I am content if now and then
a steersman may set his sails rightly by my indication; though after all,
it is all the same to me. I will turn round and round, whether others
look at me or no--What does it signify?"

When Pentaur and the princess took leave of the hunter with many gifts,
the sun was sinking, and the toothed peaks of Sinai glowed like rubies,
through which shone the glow of half a world on fire.

The journey to the royal camp was begun the next morning. Abocharabos,
the Amalekite chief, accompanied the caravan, to which Uarda's father
also attached himself; he had been taken prisoner in the struggle with
the natives, but at Bent-Anat's request was set at liberty.

At their first halting place he was commanded to explain how he had
succeeded in having Pentaur taken to the mines, instead of to the
quarries of Chennu.

"I knew," said the soldier in his homely way, "from Uarda where this man,
who had risked his life for us poor folks, was to be taken, and I said to
myself--I must save him. But thinking is not my trade, and I never can
lay a plot. It would very likely have come to some violent act, that
would have ended badly, if I had not had a hint from another person, even
before Uarda told me of what threatened Pentaur. This is how it was.

"I was to convoy the prisoners, who were condemned to work in the Mafkat
mines, across the river to the place they start from. In the harbor of
Thebes, on the other side, the poor wretches were to take leave of their
friends; I have seen it a hundred times, and I never can get used to it,
and yet one can get hardened to most things! Their loud cries, and wild
howls are not the worst--those that scream the most I have always found
are the first to get used to their fate; but the pale ones, whose lips
turn white, and whose teeth chatter as if they were freezing, and whose
eyes stare out into vacancy without any tears--those go to my heart.
There was all the usual misery, both noisy and silent. But the man I was
most sorry for was one I had known for a long time; his name was Huni,
and he belonged to the temple of Amon, where he held the place of
overseer of the attendants on the sacred goat. I had often met him when I
was on duty to watch the laborers who were completing the great pillared
hall, and he was respected by every one, and never failed in his duty.
Once, however, he had neglected it; it was that very night which you all
will remember when the wolves broke into the temple, and tore the rams,
and the sacred heart was laid in the breast of the prophet Rui. Some one,
of course, must be punished, and it fell on poor Huni, who for his
carelessness was condemned to forced labor in the mines of Mafkat. His
successor will keep a sharp look out! No one came to see him off, though
I know he had a wife and several children. He was as pale as this cloth,
and was one of the sort whose grief eats into their heart. I went up to
him, and asked him why no one came with him. He had taken leave of them
at home, he answered, that his children might not see him mixed up with
forgers and murderers. Eight poor little brats were left unprovided for
with their mother, and a little while before a fire had destroyed
everything they possessed. There was not a crumb to stop their little
squalling mouths. He did not tell me all this straight out; a word fell
from him now and then, like dates from a torn sack. I picked it up bit by
bit, and when he saw I felt for him he grew fierce and said: 'They may
send me to the gold mines or cut me to pieces, as far as I am concerned,
but that the little ones should starve that--that,' and he struck his
forehead. Then I left him to say good bye to Uarda, and on the way I kept
repeating to myself 'that-that,' and saw before me the man and his eight
brats. If I were rich, thought I, there is a man I would help. When I got
to the little one there, she told me how much money the leech Nebsecht
had given her, and offered to give it me to save Pentaur; then it passed
through my mind--that may go to Hum's children, and in return he will let
himself be shipped off to Ethiopia. I ran to the harbor, spoke to the
man, found him ready and willing, gave the money to his wife, and at
night when the prisoners were shipped I contrived the exchange Pentaur
came with me on my boat under the name of the other, and Huni went to the
south, and was called Pentaur. I had not deceived the man into thinking
he would stop at Chennu. I told him he would be taken on to Ethiopia, for
it is always impossible to play a man false when you know it is quite
easy to do it. It is very strange! It is a real pleasure to cheat a
cunning fellow or a sturdy man, but who would take in a child or a sick
person? Huni certainly would have gone into the fire-pots of hell without
complaining, and he left me quite cheerfully. The rest, and how we got
here, you yourselves know. In Syria at this time of year you will suffer
a good deal from rain. I know the country, for I have escorted many
prisoners of war into Egypt, and I was there five years with the troops
of the great Mohar, father of the chief pioneer Paaker."

Bent-Anat thanked the brave fellow, and Pentaur and Nebsecht continued
the narrative.

"During the voyage," said Nebsecht, "I was uneasy about Pentaur, for I
saw how he was pining, but in the desert he seemed to rouse himself, and
often whispered sweet little songs that he had composed while we
marched."

"That is strange," said Bent-Anat, "for I also got better in the desert."

"Repeat the verses on the Beytharan plant," said Nebsecht.

"Do you know the plant?" asked the poet. "It grows here in many places;
here it is. Only smell how sweet it is if you bruise the fleshy stem and
leaves. My little verse is simple enough; it occurred to me like many
other songs of which you know all the best."

"They all praise the same Goddess," said Nebsecht laughing.

"But let us have the verses," said Bent-Anat. The poet repeated in a low
voice:

"How often in the desert I have seen
The small herb, Beytharan, in modest green!
In every tiny leaf and gland and hair
Sweet perfume is distilled, and scents the air.
How is it that in barren sandy ground
This little plant so sweet a gift has found?
And that in me, in this vast desert plain,
The sleeping gift of song awakes again?"

"Do you not ascribe to the desert what is due to love?" said Nefert.

"I owe it to both; but I must acknowledge that the desert is a wonderful
physician for a sick soul. We take refuge from the monotony that
surrounds us in our own reflections; the senses are at rest; and here,
undisturbed and uninfluenced from without, it is given to the mind to
think out every train of thought to the end, to examine and exhaust every
feeling to its finest shades. In the city, one is always a mere particle
in a great whole, on which one is dependent, to which one must
contribute, and from which one must accept something. The solitary
wanderer in the desert stands quite alone; he is in a manner freed from
the ties which bind him to any great human community; he must fill up the
void by his own identity, and seek in it that which may give his
existence significance and consistency. Here, where the present retires
into the background, the thoughtful spirit finds no limits however
remote."

"Yes; one can think well in the desert," said Nebsecht. "Much has become
clear to me here that in Egypt I only guessed at."

"What may that be?" asked Pentaur.

"In the first place," replied Nebsecht, "that we none of us really know
anything rightly; secondly that the ass may love the rose, but the rose
will not love the ass; and the third thing I will keep to myself, because
it is my secret, and though it concerns all the world no one would
trouble himself about it. My lord chamberlain, how is this? You know
exactly how low people must bow before the princess in proportion to
their rank, and have no idea how a back-bone is made."

"Why should I?" asked the chamberlain. "I have to attend to outward
things, while you are contemplating inward things; else your hair might
be smoother, and your dress less stained."

The travellers reached the old Cheta city of Hebron without accident;
there they took leave of Abocharabos, and under the safe escort of
Egyptian troops started again for the north. At Hebron Pentaur parted
from the princess, and Bent-Anat bid him farewell without complaining.

Uarda's father, who had learned every path and bridge in Syria,
accompanied the poet, while the physician Nebsecht remained with the
ladies, whose good star seemed to have deserted them with Pentaur's
departure, for the violent winter rains which fell in the mountains of
Samaria destroyed the roads, soaked through the tents, and condemned them
frequently to undesirable delays. At Megiddo they were received with high
honors by the commandant of the Egyptian garrison, and they were
compelled to linger here some days, for Nefert, who had been particularly
eager to hurry forward, was taken ill, and Nebsecht was obliged to forbid
her proceeding at this season.

Uarda grew pale and thoughtful, and Bent-Anat saw with anxiety that the
tender roses were fading from the cheeks of her pretty favorite; but when
she questioned her as to what ailed her she gave an evasive answer. She
had never either mentioned Rameri's name before the princess, nor shown
her her mother's jewel, for she felt as if all that had passed between
her and the prince was a secret which did not belong to her alone. Yet
another reason sealed her lips. She was passionately devoted to
Bent-Anat, and she told herself that if the princess heard it all, she
would either blame her brother or laugh at his affection as at a child's
play, and she felt as if in that case she could not love Rameri's sister
any more.

A messenger had been sent on from the first frontier station to the
king's camp to enquire by which road the princess, and her party should
leave Megiddo. But the emissary returned with a short and decided though
affectionate letter written by the king's own hand, to his daughter,
desiring her not to quit Megiddo, which was a safe magazine and arsenal
for the army, strongly fortified and garrisoned, as it commanded the
roads from the sea into North and Central Palestine. Decisive encounters,
he said, were impending, and she knew that the Egyptians always excluded
their wives and daughters from their war train, and regarded them as the
best reward of victory when peace was obtained.

While the ladies were waiting in Megiddo, Pentaur and his red-bearded
guide proceeded northwards with a small mounted escort, with which they
were supplied by the commandant of Hebron.

He himself rode with dignity, though this journey was the first occasion
on which he had sat on horseback. He seemed to have come into the world
with the art of riding born with him. As soon as he had learned from his
companions how to grasp the bridle, and had made himself familiar with
the nature of the horse, it gave him the greatest delight to tame and
subdue a fiery steed.

He had left his priest's robes in Egypt. Here he wore a coat of mail, a
sword, and battle-axe like a warrior, and his long beard, which had grown
during his captivity, now flowed down over his breast. Uarda's father
often looked at him with admiration, and said:

"One might think the Mohar, with whom I often travelled these roads, had
risen from the dead. He looked like you, he spoke like you, he called the
men as you do, nay he sat as you do when the road was too bad for his
chariot,

[The Mohars used chariots in their journeys. This is positively
known from the papyrus Anastasi I. which vividly describes the
hardships experienced by a Mohar while travelling through Syria.]

and he got on horseback, and held the reins."

None of Pentaur's men, except his red-bearded friend, was more to him
than a mere hired servant, and he usually preferred to ride alone, apart
from the little troop, musing on the past--seldom on the future--and
generally observing all that lay on his way with a keen eye. They soon
reached Lebanon; between it and and Lebanon a road led through the great
Syrian valley. It rejoiced him to see with his own eyes the distant
shimmer of the white snow-capped peaks, of which he had often heard
warriors talk.

The country between the two mountain ranges was rich and fruitful, and
from the heights waterfalls and torrents rushed into the valley. Many
villages and towns lay on his road, but most of them had been damaged in
the war. The peasants had been robbed of their teams of cattle, the
flocks had been driven off from the shepherds, and when a vine-dresser,
who was training his vine saw the little troop approaching, he fled to
the ravines and forests.

The traces of the plough and the spade were everywhere visible, but the
fields were for the most part not sown; the young peasants were under
arms, the gardens and meadows were trodden down by soldiers, the houses
and cottages plundered and destroyed, or burnt. Everything bore the trace
of the devastation of the war, only the oak and cedar forests lorded it
proudly over the mountain-slopes, planes and locust-trees grew in groves,
and the gorges and rifts of the thinly-wooded limestone hills, which
bordered the fertile low-land, were filled with evergreen brushwood.

At this time of year everything was moist and well-watered, and Pentaur
compared the country with Egypt, and observed how the same results were
attained here as there, but by different agencies. He remembered that
morning on Sinai, and said to himself again: "Another God than ours rules
here, and the old masters were not wrong who reviled godless strangers,
and warned the uninitiated, to whom the secret of the One must remain
unrevealed, to quit their home."

The nearer he approached the king's camp, the more vividly he thought of
Bent-Anat, and the faster his heart beat from time to time when he
thought of his meeting with the king. On the whole he was full of
cheerful confidence, which he felt to be folly, and which nevertheless he
could not repress.

Ameni had often blamed him for his too great diffidence and his want of
ambition, when he had willingly let others pass him by. He remembered
this now, and smiled and understood himself less than ever, for though he
resolutely repeated to himself a hundred times that he was a low-born,
poor, and excommunicated priest, the feeling would not be smothered that
he had a right to claim Bent-Anat for his own.

And if the king refused him his daughter--if he made him pay for his
audacity with his life?

Not an eyelash, he well knew, would tremble under the blow of the axe,
and he would die content; for that which she had granted him was his, and
no God could take it from him!



ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

An admirer of the lovely color of his blue bruises
Called his daughter to wash his feet
Desert is a wonderful physician for a sick soul
He is clever and knows everything, but how silly he looks now
If it were right we should not want to hide ourselves
None of us really know anything rightly
One falsehood usually entails another
Refreshed by the whip of one of the horsemen




UARDA

Volume 9.

By Georg Ebers




CHAPTER XXXVII.

Once or twice Pentaur and his companions had had to defend themselves
against hostile mountaineers, who rushed suddenly upon them out of the
woods. When they were about two days' journey still from the end of their
march, they had a bloody skirmish with a roving band of men that seemed
to belong to a larger detachment of troops.

The nearer they got to Kadesh, the more familiar Kaschta showed himself
with every stock and stone, and he went forward to obtain information; he
returned somewhat anxious, for he had perceived the main body of the
Cheta army on the road which they must cross. How came the enemy here in
the rear of the Egyptian army? Could Rameses have sustained a defeat?

Only the day before they had met some Egyptian soldiers, who had told
them that the king was staying in the camp, and a great battle was
impending. This however could not have by this time been decided, and
they had met no flying Egyptians.

"If we can only get two miles farther without having to fight," said
Uarda's father. "I know what to do. Down below, there is a ravine, and
from it a path leads over hill and vale to the plain of Kadesh. No one
ever knew it but the Mohar and his most confidential servants. About
half-way there is a hidden cave, in which we have often stayed the whole
day long. The Cheta used to believe that the Mohar possessed magic
powers, and could make himself invisible, for when they lay in wait for
us on the way we used suddenly to vanish; but certainly not into the
clouds, only into the cave, which the Mohar used to call his Tuat. If you
are not afraid of a climb, and will lead your horse behind you for a mile
or two, I can show you the way, and to-morrow evening we will be at the
camp."

Pentaur let his guide lead the way; they came, without having occasion to
fight, as far as the gorge between the hills, through which a full and
foaming mountain torrent rushed to the valley. Kaschta dropped from his
horse, and the others did the same. After the horses had passed through
the water, he carefully effaced their tracks as far as the road, then for
about half a mile he ascended the valley against the stream. At last he
stopped in front of a thick oleander-bush, looked carefully about, and
lightly pushed it aside; when he had found an entrance, his companions
and their weary scrambling beasts followed him without difficulty, and
they presently found themselves in a grove of lofty cedars. Now they had
to squeeze themselves between masses of rock, now they labored up and
down over smooth pebbles, which offered scarcely any footing to the
horses' hoofs; now they had to push their way through thick brushwood,
and now to cross little brooks swelled by the winter-rains.

The road became more difficult at every step, then it began to grow dark,
and heavy drops of rain fell from the clouded sky.

"Make haste, and keep close to me," cried Kaschta. "Half an hour more,
and we shall be under shelter, if I do not lose my way."

Then a horse broke down, and with great difficulty was got up again; the
rain fell with increased violence, the night grew darker, and the soldier
often found himself brought to a stand-still, feeling for the path with
his hands; twice he thought he had lost it, but he would not give in till
he had recovered the track. At last he stood still, and called Pentaur to
come to him.

"Hereabouts," said he, "the cave must be; keep close to me--it is
possible that we may come upon some of the pioneer's people. Provisions
and fuel were always kept here in his father's time. Can you see me? Hold
on to my girdle, and bend your head low till I tell you you may stand
upright again. Keep your axe ready, we may find some of the Cheta or
bandits roosting there. You people must wait, we will soon call you to
come under shelter."

Pentaur closely followed his guide, pushing his way through the dripping
brushwood, crawling through a low passage in the rock, and at last
emerging on a small rocky plateau.

"Take care where you are going!" cried Kaschta. "Keep to the left, to the
right there is a deep abyss. I smell smoke! Keep your hand on your axe,
there must be some one in the cave. Wait! I will fetch the men as far as
this."

The soldier went back, and Pentaur listened for any sounds that might
come from the same direction as the smoke. He fancied he could perceive a
small gleam of light, and he certainly heard quite plainly, first a tone
of complaint, then an angry voice; he went towards the light, feeling his
way by the wall on his left; the light shone broader and brighter, and
seemed to issue from a crack in a door.

By this time the soldier had rejoined Pentaur, and both listened for a
few minutes; then the poet whispered to his guide:

"They are speaking Egyptian, I caught a few words."

"All the better," said Kaschta. "Paaker or some of his people are in
there; the door is there still, and shut. If we give four hard and three
gentle knocks, it will be opened. Can you understand what they are
saying?"

"Some one is begging to be set free," replied Pentaur, "and speaks of
some traitor. The other has a rough voice, and says he must follow his
master's orders. Now the one who spoke before is crying; do you hear? He
is entreating him by the soul of his father to take his fetters off. How
despairing his voice is! Knock, Kaschta--it strikes me we are come at the
right moment--knock, I say."

The soldier knocked first four times, then three times. A shriek rang
through the cave, and they could hear a heavy, rusty bolt drawn back, the
roughly hewn door was opened, and a hoarse voice asked:

"Is that Paaker?"

"No," answered the soldier, "I am Kaschta. Do not you know me again,
Nubi?"

The man thus addressed, who was Paaker's Ethiopian slave, drew back in
surprise.

"Are you still alive?" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"My lord here will tell you," answered Kaschta as he made way for Pentaur
to enter the cave. The poet went up to the black man, and the light of
the fire which burned in the cave fell full on his face.

The old slave stared at him, and drew back in astonishment and terror. He
threw himself on the earth, howled like a dog that fawns at the feet of
his angry master, and cried out:

"He ordered it--Spirit of my master! he ordered it." Pentaur stood still,
astounded and incapable of speech, till he perceived a young man, who
crept up to him on his hands and feet, which were bound with thongs, and
who cried to him in a tone, in which terror was mingled with a tenderness
which touched Pentaur's very soul.

"Save me--Spirit of the Mohar! save me, father!" Then the poet spoke.

"I am no spirit of the dead," said he. "I am the priest Pentaur; and I
know you, boy; you are Horus, Paaker's brother, who was brought up with
me in the temple of Seti."

The prisoner approached him trembling, looked at him enquiringly and
exclaimed:

"Be you who you may, you are exactly like my father in person and in
voice. Loosen my bonds, and listen to me, for the most hideous,
atrocious, and accursed treachery threatens us the king and all."

Pentaur drew his sword, and cut the leather thongs which bound the young
man's hands and feet. He stretched his released limbs, uttering thanks to
the Gods, then he cried:

"If you love Egypt and the king follow me; perhaps there is yet time to
hinder the hideous deed, and to frustrate this treachery."

"The night is dark," said Kaschita, "and the road to the valley is
dangerous."

"You must follow me if it is to your death!" cried the youth, and,
seizing Pentaur's hand, he dragged him with him out of the cave.

As soon as the black slave had satisfied himself that Pentaur was the
priest whom he had seen fighting in front of the paraschites' hovel, and
not the ghost of his dead master, he endeavored to slip past Paaker's
brother, but Horus observed the manoeuvre, and seized him by his woolly
hair. The slave cried out loudly, and whimpered out:

"If thou dost escape, Paaker will kill me; he swore he would."

"Wait!" said the youth. He dragged the slave back, flung him into the
cave, and blocked up the door with a huge log which lay near it for that
purpose.

When the three men had crept back through the low passage in the rocks,
and found themselves once more in the open air, they found a high wind
was blowing.

"The storm will soon be over," said Horus. "See how the clouds are
driving! Let us have horses, Pentaur, for there is not a minute to be
lost."

The poet ordered Kaschta to summon the people to start but the soldier
advised differently.

"Men and horses are exhausted," he said, "and we shall get on very slowly
in the dark. Let the beasts feed for an hour, and the men get rested and
warm; by that time the moon will be up, and we shall make up for the
delay by having fresh horses, and light enough to see the road."

"The man is right," said Horus; and he led Kaschta to a cave in the
rocks, where barley and dates for the horses, and a few jars of wine, had
been preserved. They soon had lighted a fire, and while some of the men
took care of the horses, and others cooked a warm mess of victuals, Horus
and Pentaur walked up and down impatiently.

"Had you been long bound in those thongs when we came?" asked Pentaur.

"Yesterday my brother fell upon me," replied Horus. "He is by this time a
long way ahead of us, and if he joins the Cheta, and we do not reach the
Egyptian camp before daybreak, all is lost."

"Paaker, then, is plotting treason?"

"Treason, the foulest, blackest treason!" exclaimed the young man. "Oh,
my lost father!--"

"Confide in me," said Pentaur going up to the unhappy youth who had
hidden his face in his hands. "What is Paaker plotting? How is it that
your brother is your enemy?"

"He is the elder of us two," said Horus with a trembling voice. "When my
father died I had only a short time before left the school of Seti, and
with his last words my father enjoined me to respect Paaker as the head
of our family. He is domineering and violent, and will allow no one's
will to cross his; but I bore everything, and always obeyed him, often
against my better judgment. I remained with him two years, then I went to
Thebes, and there I married, and my wife and child are now living there
with my mother. About sixteen months afterwards I came back to Syria, and
we travelled through the country together; but by this time I did not
choose to be the mere tool of my brother's will, for I had grown prouder,
and it seemed to me that the father of my child ought not to be
subservient, even to his own brother. We often quarrelled, and had a bad
time together, and life became quite unendurable, when--about eight weeks
since--Paaker came back from Thebes, and the king gave him to understand
that he approved more of my reports than of his. From my childhood I have
always been softhearted and patient; every one says I am like my mother;
but what Paaker made me suffer by words and deeds, that is--I could
not--" His voice broke, and Pentaur felt how cruelly he had suffered;
then he went on again:

"What happened to my brother in Egypt, I do not know, for he is very
reserved, and asks for no sympathy, either in joy or in sorrow; but from
words he has dropped now and then I gather that he not only bitterly
hates Mena, the charioteer--who certainly did him an injury--but has some
grudge against the king too. I spoke to him of it at once, but only once,
for his rage is unbounded when he is provoked, and after all he is my
elder brother.

"For some days they have been preparing in the camp for a decisive
battle, and it was our duty to ascertain the position and strength of the
enemy; the king gave me, and not Paaker, the commission to prepare the
report. Early yesterday morning I drew it out and wrote it; then my
brother said he would carry it to the camp, and I was to wait here. I
positively refused, as Rameses had required the report at my hands, and
not at his. Well, he raved like a madman, declared that I had taken
advantage of his absence to insinuate myself into the king's favor, and
commanded me to obey him as the head of the house, in the name of my
father.

"I was sitting irresolute, when he went out of the cavern to call his
horses; then my eyes fell on the things which the old black slave was
tying together to load on a pack-horse--among them was a roll of writing.
I fancied it was my own, and took it up to look at it, when--what should
I find? At the risk of my life I had gone among the Cheta, and had found
that the main body of their army is collected in a cross-valley of the
Orontes, quite hidden in the mountains to the north-east of Kadesh; and
in the roll it was stated, in Paaker's own hand-writing, that that valley
is clear, and the way through it open, and well suited for the passage of
the Egyptian war-chariots; various other false details were given, and
when I looked further among his things, I found between the arrows in his
quiver, on which he had written 'death to Mena,' another little roll of
writing. I tore it open, and my blood ran cold when I saw to whom it was