Rameri to leave her that she might dress in festal garments; she could
entrust Uarda to the care of Nefert during her absence.

"She is kind and gentle, and she knows Uarda so well," said the princess,
"and the necessity of caring for this dear little creature will do her
good.  Her heart is torn between sorrow for her lost relations, and joy
at being united again to her love.  My father has given Mena leave of
absence from his office for several days, and I have excused her from her
attendance on me, for the time during which we were so necessary to each
other really came to an end yesterday.  I feel, Rameri, as if we, after
our escape, were like the sacred phoenix which comes to Heliopolis and
burns itself to death only to soar again from its ashes young and radiant
--blessed and blessing!"

When her brother had left her, she threw herself before the image of her
mother and prayed long and earnestly; she poured an offering of sweet
perfume on the little altar of the Goddess Hathor, which always
accompanied her, had herself dressed in happy preparation for meeting her
father, and--she did not conceal it from herself--Pentaur, then she went
for a moment to Nefert's tent to beg her to take good care of Uarda, and
finally obeyed the summons of the king, who, as we know, fulfilled her
utmost hopes.

As Rameri quitted his sister's tent he saw the watch seize and lead away
a little boy; the child cried bitterly, and the prince in a moment
recognized the little sculptor Scherau, who had betrayed the Regent's
plot to him and to Uarda, and whom he had already fancied he had seen
about the place.  The guards had driven him away several times from the
princess's tent, but he had persisted in returning, and this obstinate
waiting in the neighborhood had aroused the suspicions of an officer; for
since the fire a thousand rumors of conspiracies and plots against the
king had been flying about the camp.  Rameri at once freed the little
prisoner, and heard from him that it was old Hekt who, before her death,
had sent Kaschta and his daughter to the rescue of the king, that he
himself had helped to rouse the troops, that now he had no home and
wished to go to Uarda.

The prince himself led the child to Nefert, and begged her to allow him
to see Uarda, and to let him stay with her servants till he himself
returned from his father's tent.

The leeches had treated Uarda with judgment, for under the influence of
the bath she recovered her senses; when she had been dressed again in
fresh garments and refreshed by the essences and medicines which they
gave her to inhale and to drink, she was led back into Nefert's tent,
where Mena, who had never before seen her, was astonished at her peculiar
and touching beauty.

"She  is very like my Danaid princess," he said to his wife; "only she is
younger and much prettier than she."

Little Scherau came in to pay his respects to her, and she was delighted
to see the boy; still she was sad, and however kindly Nefert spoke to her
she remained in silent reverie, while from time to time a large tear
rolled down her cheek.

"You have lost your father!"  said Nefert, trying to comfort her.  "And
I, my mother and brother both in one day."

"Kaschta was rough but, oh! so kind," replied Uarda.  "He was always so
fond of me; he was like the fruit of the doom palm; its husk is hard and
rough, but he who knows how to open it finds the sweet pulp within.  Now
he is dead, and my grandfather and grandmother are gone before him, and I
am like the green leaf that I saw floating on the waters when we were
crossing the sea; anything so forlorn I never saw, abandoned by all it
belonged to or had ever loved, the sport of a strange element in which
nothing resembling itself ever grew or ever can grow."

Nefert kissed her forehead.  "You have friends," she said, "who will
never abandon you."

"I know, I know!"  said Uarda thoughtfully, "and yet I am alone--for the
first time really alone.  In Thebes I have often looked after the wild
swans as they passed across the sky; one flies in front, then comes the
body of the wandering party, and very often, far behind, a solitary
straggler; and even this last one I do not call lonely, for he can still
see his brethren in front of him.  But when the hunters have shot down
all the low-flying loiterers, and the last one has lost sight of the
flock, and knows that he never again can find them or follow them he is
indeed to be pitied.  I am as unhappy as the abandoned bird, for I have
lost sight to-day of all that I belong to, and I am alone, and can never
find them again."

"You will be welcomed into some more noble house than that to which you
belong by birth," said Nefert, to comfort her.

Uarda's eyes flashed, and she said proudly, almost defiantly:

"My race is that of my mother, who was a daughter of no mean house; the
reason I turned back this morning and went into the smoke and fire again
after I had escaped once into the open air--what I went back for, because
I felt it was worth dying for, was my mother's legacy, which I had put
away with my holiday dress when I followed the wretched Nemu to his tent.
I threw myself into the jaws of death to save the jewel, but certainly
not because it is made of gold and precious stones--for I do not care to
be rich, and I want no better fare than a bit of bread and a few dates
and a cup of water--but because it has a name on it in strange
characters, and because I believe it will serve to discover the people
from whom my mother was carried off; and now I have lost the jewel, and
with it my identity and my hopes and happiness."

Uarda wept aloud; Nefert put her arm around her affectionately.

"Poor child!"  she said, "was your treasure destroyed in the flames?"

"No, no," cried Uarda eagerly.  "I  snatched it out of my chest and held
it in my hand when Nebsecht took me in his arms, and I still had it in my
hand when I was lying safe on the ground outside the burning house, and
Bent-Anat was close to me, and Rameri came up.  I remember seeing him as
if I were in a dream, and I revived a little, and I felt the jewel in my
fingers then."

"Then it was dropped on the way to the tent?"  said Nefert.

Uarda nodded; little Scherau, who had been crouching on the floor beside
her, gave Uarda a loving glance, dimmed with tears, and quietly slipped
out of the tent.

Time went by in silence; Uarda sat looking at the ground, Nefert and Mena
held each other's hands, but the thoughts of all three were with the
dead.  A perfect stillness reigned, and the happiness of the reunited
couple was darkly overshadowed by their sorrow.  From time to time the
silence was broken by a trumpet-blast from the royal tent; first when the
Asiatic princes were introduced into the Council-tent, then when the
Danaid king departed, and lastly when the Pharaoh preceded the conquered
princes to the banquet.

The charioteer remembered how his master had restored him to dignity and
honor, for the sake of his faithful wife; and gratefully pressed her
hand.

Suddenly there was a noise in front of the tent, and an officer entered
to announce to Mena that the Danaid king and his daughter, accompanied by
body-guard, requested to see and speak with him and Nefert.

The entrance to the tent was thrown wide open.  Uarda retired modestly
into the back-ground, and Mena and Nefert went forward hand in hand to
meet their unexpected guests.

The Greek prince was an old man, his beard and thick hair were grey, but
his movements were youthful and light, though dignified and deliberate.
His even, well-formed features were deeply furrowed, he had large,
bright, clear blue eyes, but round his fine lips were lines of care.
Close to him walked his daughter; her long white robe striped with purple
was held round her hips by a golden girdle, and her sunny yellow hair
fell in waving locks over her neck and shoulders, while it was confined
by a diadem which encircled her head; she was of middle height, and her
motions were measured and calm like her father's.  Her brow was narrow,
and in one line with her straight nose, her rosy mouth was sweet and
kind, and beyond everything beautiful were the lines of her oval face and
the turn of her snow-white throat.  By their side stood the interpreter
who translated every word of the conversation on both sides.  Behind them
came two men and two women, who carried gifts for Mena and his wife.

The prince praised Mena's magnanimity in the warmest terms.

"You have proved to me," he said, "that the virtues of gratitude, of
constancy, and of faith are practised by the Egyptians; although your
merit certainly appears less to me now that I see your wife, for he who
owns the fairest may easily forego any taste for the fair."

Nefert blushed.

"Your generosity," she answered, "does me more than justice at your
daughter's expense, and love moved my husband to the same injustice, but
your beautiful daughter must forgive you and me also."

Praxilla went towards her and expressed her thanks; then she offered her
the costly coronet, the golden clasps and strings of rare pearls which
her women carried; her father begged Mena to accept a coat of mail and a
shield of fine silver work.  The strangers were then led into the tent,
and were there welcomed and entertained with all honor, and offered bread
and wine.  While Mena pledged her father, Praxilla related to Nefert,
with the help of the interpreter, what hours of terror she had lived
through after she had been taken prisoner by the Egyptians, and was
brought into the camp with the other spoils of war; how an older
commander had asserted his claim to her, how Mena had given her his hand,
had led her to his tent, and had treated her like his own daughter.  Her
voice shook with emotion, and even the interpreter was moved as she
concluded her story with these words: "How grateful I am to him, you will
fully understand when I tell you that the man who was to have been my
husband fell wounded before my eyes while defending our camp; but he has
recovered, and now only awaits my return for our wedding."

"May the Gods only grant it!"  cried the king, "for Praxilla is the last
child of my house.  The murderous war robbed me of my four fair sons
before they had taken wives, my son-in-law was slain by the Egyptians at
the taking of our camp, and his wife and new-born son fell into their
hands, and Praxilla is my youngest child, the only one left to me by the
envious Gods."

While he was still speaking, they heard the guards call out and a child's
loud cry, and at the same instant little Scherau rushed into the tent
holding up his hand exclaiming.

"I have it!  I have found it!"

Uarda, who had remained behind the curtain which screened the sleeping
room of the tent--but who had listened with breathless attention to every
word of the foreigners, and who had never taken her eyes off the fair
Praxilla--now came forward, emboldened by her agitation, into the midst
of the tent, and took the jewel from the child's hand to show it to the
Greek king; for while she stood gazing at Praxilla it seemed to her that
she was looking at herself in a mirror, and the idea had rapidly grown to
conviction that her mother had been a daughter of the Danaids.  Her heart
beat violently as she went up to the king with a modest demeanor, her
head bent down, but holding her jewel up for him to see.

The bystanders all gazed in astonishment at the veteran chief, for he
staggered as she came up to him, stretched out his hands as if in terror
towards the girl, and drew back crying out:

"Xanthe, Xanthe!  Is your spirit freed from Hades?  Are you come to
summon me?"

Praxilla looked at her father in alarm, but suddenly she, too, gave a
piercing cry, snatched a chain from her neck, hurried towards Uarda, and
seizing the jewel she held, exclaimed:

"Here is the other half of the ornament, it belonged to my poor sister
Xanthe!"

The old Greek was a pathetic sight, he struggled hard to collect himself,
looking with tender delight at Uarda, his sinewy hands trembled as he
compared the two pieces of the necklet; they matched precisely--each
represented the wing of an eagle which was attached to half an oval
covered with an inscription; when they were laid together they formed the
complete figure of a bird with out-spread wings, on whose breast the
lines exactly matched of the following oracular verse:

"Alone each is a trifling thing, a woman's useless toy
But with its counterpart behold! the favorite bird of Zeus."

A glance at the inscription convinced the king that he held in his hand
the very jewel which he had put with his own hands round the neck of his
daughter Xanthe on her marriage-day, and of which the other half had been
preserved by her mother, from whom it had descended to Praxilla.  It had
originally been made for his wife and her twin sister who had died young.
Before he made any enquiries, or asked for any explanations, he took
Uarda's head between his hands, and turning her face close to his he
gazed at her features, as if he were reading a book in which he expected
to find a memorial of all the blissful hours of his youth, and the girl
felt no fear; nor did she shrink when he pressed his lips to her
forehead, for she felt that this man's blood ran in her own veins.  At
last the king signed to the interpreter; Uarda was asked to tell all she
knew of her mother, and when she said that she had come a captive to
Thebes with an infant that had soon after died, that her father had
bought her and had loved her in spite of her being dumb, the prince's
conviction became certainty; he acknowledged Uarda as his grandchild,
and Praxilla clasped her in her arms.

Then he told Mena that it was now twenty years since his son-in-law had
been killed, and his daughter Xanthe, whom Uarda exactly resembled, had
been carried into captivity.  Praxilla was then only just born, and his
wife died of the shock of such terrible news.  All his enquiries for
Xanthe and her child had been fruitless, but he now remembered that once,
when he had offered a large ransom for his daughter if she could be
found, the Egyptians had enquired whether she were dumb, and that he had
answered "no."  No doubt Xanthe had lost the power of speech through
grief, terror, and suffering.

The joy of the king was unspeakable, and Uarda was never tired of gazing
at his daughter and holding her hand.

Then she turned to the interpreter.

"Tell me," she said.  "How do I say 'I am so very happy?'"

He told her, and she smilingly repeated his words.  "Now 'Uarda will love
you with all her heart?'" and she said it after him in broken accents
that sounded so sweet and so heart-felt, that the old man clasped her to
his breast.

Tears of emotion stood in Nefert's eyes, and when Uarda flung herself
into her arms she said:

"The forlorn swan has found its kindred, the floating leaf has reached
the shore, and must be happy now!"  Thus passed an hour of the purest
happiness; at last the Greek king prepared to leave, and the wished to
take Uarda with him; but Mena begged his permission to communicate all
that had occurred to the Pharaoh and Bent-Anat, for Uarda was attached to
the princess's train, and had been left in his charge, and he dared not
trust her in any other hands without Bent-Anat's permission.  Without
waiting for the king's reply he left the tent, hastened to the banqueting
tent, and, as we know, Rameses and the princess had at once attended to
his summons.

On the way Mena gave them a vivid description of the exciting events that
had taken place, and Rameses, with a side glance at Bent-Anat, asked
Rameri:

"Would you be prepared to repair your errors, and to win the friendship
of the Greek king by being betrothed to his granddaughter?"

The prince could not answer a word, but he clasped his father's hand, and
kissed it so warmly that Rameses, as he drew it away, said:

"I really believe that you have stolen a march on me, and have been
studying diplomacy behind my back!"

Rameses met his noble opponent outside Mena's tent, and was about to
offer him his hand, but the Danaid chief had sunk on his knees before him
as the other princes had done.

"Regard me not as a king and a warrior," he exclaimed, "only as a
suppliant father; let us conclude a peace, and permit me to take this
maiden, my grandchild, home with me to my own country."

Rameses raised the old man from the ground, gave him his hand, and said
kindly:

"I can only grant the half of what you ask.  I, as king of Egypt, am most
willing to grant you a faithful compact for a sound and lasting peace; as
regards this maiden, you must treat with my children, first with my
daughter Bent-Anat, one of whose ladies she is, and then with your
released prisoner there, who wishes to make Uarda his wife."

"I will resign my share in the matter to my brother," said Bent-Anat,
"and I only ask you, maiden, whether you are inclined to acknowledge him
as your lord and master?"

Uarda bowed assent, and looked at her grandfather with an expression
which he understood without any interpreter.

"I know you well," he said, turning to Rameri.  "We stood face to face in
the fight, and I took you prisoner as you fell stunned by a blow from my
sword.  You are still too rash, but that is a fault which time will amend
in a youth of your heroic temper.  Listen to me now, and you too, noble
Pharaoh, permit me these few words; let us betroth these two, and may
their union be the bond of ours, but first grant me for a year to take my
long-lost child home with me that she may rejoice my old heart, and that
I may hear from her lips the accents of her mother, whom you took from
me.  They are both young; according to the usages of our country, where
both men and women ripen later than in your country, they are almost too
young for the solemn tie of marriage.  But one thing above all will
determine you to favor my wishes; this daughter of a royal house has
grown up amid the humblest surroundings; here she has no home, no family-
ties.  The prince has wooed her, so to speak, on the highway, but if she
now comes with me he can enter the palace of kings as suitor to a
princess, and the marriage feast I will provide shall be a right royal
one."

"What you demand is just and wise," replied Rameses.  "Take your grand-
child with you as my son's betrothed bride--my future daughter.  Give me
your hands, my children.  The delay will teach you patience, for Rameri
must remain a full year from to-day in Egypt, and it will be to your
profit, sweet child, for the obedience which he will learn through his
training in the army will temper the nature of your future husband.  You,
Rameri, shall in a year from to-day--and I think you will not forget the
date--find at your service a ship in the harbor of Pelusium, fitted and
manned with Phoenicians, to convey you to your wedding."

"So be it!"  exclaimed the old man.   "And by Zeus who hears me swear--I
will not withhold Xanthe's daughter from your son when he comes to claim
her!"

When Rameri returned to the princes' tent he threw himself on their necks
in turn, and when he found himself alone with their surly old house-
steward, he snatched his wig from his head, flung it in the air, and then
coaxingly stroked the worthy officer's cheeks as he set it on his head
again.




CHAPTER XLVI.

Uarda accompanied her grandfather and Praxilla to their tent on the
farther side of the Nile, but she was to return next morning to the
Egyptian camp to take leave of all her friends, and to provide for her
father's internment.  Nor did she delay attending to the last wishes of
old Hekt, and Bent-Anat easily persuaded her father, when he learnt how
greatly he had been indebted to her, to have her embalmed like a lady of
rank.

Before Uarda left the Egyptian camp, Pentaur came to entreat her to
afford her dying preserver Nebsecht the last happiness of seeing her once
more; Uarda acceded with a blush, and the poet, who had watched all night
by his friend, went forward to prepare him for her visit.

Nebsecht's burns and a severe wound on his head caused him great
suffering; his cheeks glowed with fever, and the physicians told Pentaur
that he probably could not live more than a few hours.

The poet laid his cool hand on his friend's brow, and spoke to him
encouragingly; but Nebsecht smiled at his words with the peculiar
expression of a man who knows that his end is near, and said in a low
voice and with a visible effort:

"A few breaths more and here, and here, will be peace."  He laid his hand
on his head and on his heart.

"We all attain to peace," said Pentaur.  "But perhaps only to labor more
earnestly and unweariedly in the land beyond the grave.  If the Gods
reward any thing it is the honest struggle, the earnest seeking after
truth; if any spirit can be made one with the great Soul of the world it
will be yours, and if any eye may see the Godhead through the veil which
here shrouds the mystery of His existence yours will have earned the
privilege."

"I have pushed and pulled," sighed Nebsecht, "with all my might, and now
when I thought I had caught a glimpse of the truth the heavy fist of
death comes down upon me and shuts my eyes.  What good will it do me to
see with the eye of the Divinity or to share in his omniscience?  It is
not seeing, it is seeking that is delightful--so delightful that I would
willingly set my life there against another life here for the sake of
it."  He was silent, for his strength failed, and Pentaur begged him to
keep quiet, and to occupy his mind in recalling all the hours of joy
which life had given him.

"They have been few," said the leech.  "When my mother kissed me and gave
me dates, when I could work and observe in peace, when you opened my eyes
to the beautiful world of poetry--that was good!"

And you have soothed the sufferings of many men, added Pentaur, "and
never caused pain to any one."

Nebsecht shook his head.

"I drove the old paraschites," he muttered, "to madness and to death."

He was silent for a long time, then he looked up eagerly and said: "But
not intentionally--and not in vain!  In Syria, at Megiddo I could work
undisturbed; now I know what the organ is that thinks.  The heart!  What
is the heart?  A ram's heart or a man's heart, they serve the same end;
they turn the wheel of animal life, they both beat quicker in terror or
in joy, for we feel fear or pleasure just as animals do.  But Thought,
the divine power that flies to the infinite, and enables us to form and
prove our opinions, has its seat here--Here in the brain, behind the
brow."

He paused exhausted and overcome with pain.  Pentaur thought he was
wandering in his fever, and offered him a cooling drink while two
physicians walked round his bed singing litanies; then, as Nebsecht
raised himself in bed with renewed energy, the poet said to him:

"The fairest memory of your life must surely be that of the sweet child
whose face, as you once confessed to me, first opened your soul to the
sense of beauty, and whom with your own hands you snatched from death at
the cost of your own life.  You know Uarda has found her own relatives
and is happy, and she is very grateful to her preserver, and would like
to see him once more before she goes far away with her grandfather."

The sick man hesitated before he answered softly:

"Let her come--but I will look at her from a distance."

Pentaur went out and soon returned with Uarda, who remained standing with
glowing cheeks and tears in her eyes at the door of the tent.  The leech
looked at her a long time with an imploring and tender expression, then
he said:

"Accept my thanks--and be happy."

The girl would have gone up to him to take his hand, but he waved her off
with his right hand enveloped in wrappings.

"Come no nearer," he said, "but stay a moment longer.  You have tears in
your eyes; are they for me or only for my pain?"

"For you, good noble man! my friend and my preserver!"  said Uarda.  "For
you dear, poor Nebsecht!"  The leech closed his eyes as she spoke these
words with earnest feeling, but he looked up once more as she ceased
speaking, and gazed at her with tender admiration; then he said softly:

"It is enough--now I can die."

Uarda left the tent, Pentaur remained with him listening to his hoarse
and difficult breathing; suddenly:

Nebsecht raised himself, and said: "Farewell, my friend,--my journey is
beginning, who knows whither?"

"Only not into vacancy, not to end in nothingness!" cried Pentaur warmly.

The leech shook his head.  "I have been something," he said, "and being
something I cannot become nothing.  Nature is a good economist, and
utilizes the smallest trifle; she will use me too according to her need.
She brings everything to its end and purpose in obedience to some rule
and measure, and will so deal with me after I am dead; there is no waste.
Each thing results in being that which it is its function to become; our
wish or will is not asked--my head! when the pain is in my head I cannot
think--if only I could prove--could prove----"

The last words were less and less audible, his breath was choked, and in
a few seconds Pentaur with deep regret closed his eyes.


Pentaur, as he quitted the tent where the dead man lay, met the high-
priest Ameni, who had gone to seek him by his friend's bed-side, and they
returned together to gaze on the dead.  Ameni, with much emotion, put up
a few earnest prayers for the salvation of his soul, and then requested
Pentaur to follow him without delay to his tent.  On the way he prepared
the poet, with the polite delicacy which was peculiar to him, for a
meeting which might be more painful than joyful to him, and must in any
case bring him many hours of anxiety and agitation.

The judges in Thebes, who had been compelled to sentence the lady
Setchem, as the mother of a traitor, to banishment to the mines had,
without any demand on her part, granted leave to the noble and most
respectable matron to go under an escort of guards to meet the king on
his return into Egypt, in order to petition for mercy for herself, but
not, as it was expressly added--for Paaker; and she had set out, but with
the secret resolution to obtain the king's grace not for herself but for
her son.

[Agatharchides, in Diodorus III. 12, says that in many cases not
only the criminal but his relations also were condemned to labor in
the mines.  In the convention signed between Rameses and the Cheta
king it is expressly provided that the deserter restored to Egypt
shall go unpunished, that no injury shall be done "to his house, his
wife or his children, nor shall his mother be put to death."]

Ameni had already left Thebes for the north when this sentence was
pronounced, or he would have reversed it by declaring the true origin of
Paaker; for after he had given up his participation in the Regent's
conspiracy, he no longer had any motive for keeping old Hekt's secret.

Setchem's journey was lengthened by a storm which wrecked the ship in
which she was descending the Nile, and she did not reach Pelusium till
after the king.  The canal which formed the mouth of the Nile close to
this fortress and joined the river to the Mediterranean, was so over-
crowded with the boats of the Regent and his followers, of the
ambassadors, nobles, citizens, and troops which had met from all parts of
the country, that the lady's boat could find anchorage only at a great
distance from the city, and accompanied by her faithful steward she had
succeeded only a few hours before in speaking to the high-priest.

Setchem was terribly changed; her eyes, which only a few months since had
kept an efficient watch over the wealthy Theban household, were now dim
and weary, and although her figure had not grown thin it had lost its
dignity and energy, and seemed inert and feeble.  Her lips, so ready for
a wise or sprightly saying, were closely shut, and moved only in silent
prayer or when some friend spoke to her of her unhappy son.  His deed she
well knew was that of a reprobate, and she sought no excuse or defence;
her mother's heart forgave it without any.  Whenever she thought of him--
and she thought of him incessantly all through the day and through her
sleepless nights-her eyes overflowed with tears.

Her boat had reached Pelusium just as the flames were breaking out in the
palace; the broad flare of light and the cries from the various vessels
in the harbor brought her on deck.  She heard that the burning house was
the pavilion erected by Ani for the king's residence; Rameses she was
told was in the utmost danger, and the fire had beyond a doubt been laid
by traitors.

As day broke and further news reached her, the names of her son and of
her sister came to her ear; she asked no questions--she would not hear
the truth--but she knew it all the same; as often as the word "traitor"
caught her ear in her cabin, to which she had retreated, she felt as if
some keen pain shot through her bewildered brain, and shuddered as if
from a cold chill.

All through that day she could neither eat nor drink, but lay with closed
eyes on her couch, while her steward--who had soon learnt what a terrible
share his former master had taken in the incendiarism, and who now gave
up his lady's cause for lost--sought every where for the high-priest
Ameni; but as he was among the persons nearest to the king it was
impossible to see him that day, and it was not till the next morning that
he was able to speak with him.  Ameni inspired the anxious and sorrowful
old retainer with, fresh courage, returned with him in his own chariot to
the harbor, and accompanied him to Setchem's boat to prepare her for the
happiness which awaited her after her terrible troubles.  But he came too
late, the spirit of the poor lady was quite clouded, and she listened to
him without any interest while he strove to restore her to courage and to
recall her wandering mind.  She only interrupted him over and over again
with the questions: "Did he do it?" or "Is he alive?"

At last Ameni succeeded in persuading her to accompany him in her litter
to his tent, where she would find her son.  Pentaur was wonderfully like
her lost husband, and the priest, experienced in humanity, thought that
the sight of him would rouse the dormant powers of her mind.  When she
had arrived at his tent, he told her with kind precaution the whole
history of the exchange of Paaker for Pentaur, and she followed the story
with attention but with indifference, as if she were hearing of the
adventures of others who did not concern her.  When Ameni enlarged on the
genius of the poet and on his perfect resemblance to his dead father she
muttered:

"I know--I know.  You mean the speaker at the Feast of the Valley," and
then although she had been told several times that Paaker had been
killed, she asked again if her son was alive.

Ameni decided at last to fetch Pentaur himself,

When he came back with him, fully prepared to meet his heavily-stricken
mother, the tent was empty.  The high-priest's servants told him that
Setchem had persuaded the easily-moved old prophet Gagabu to conduct her
to the place where the body of Paaker lay.  Ameni was very much vexed,
for he feared that Setchem was now lost indeed, and he desired the poet
to follow him at once.

The mortal remains of the pioneer had been laid in a tent not far from
the scene of the fire; his body was covered with a cloth, but his pale
face, which had not been injured in his fall, remained uncovered; by his
side knelt the unhappy mother.

She paid no heed to Ameni when he spoke to her, and he laid his hand on
her shoulder and said as he pointed to the body:

"This was the son of a gardener.  You brought him up faithfully as if he
were your own; but your noble husband's true heir, the son you bore him,
is Pentaur, to whom the Gods have given not only the form and features
but the noble qualities of his father.  The dead man may be forgiven--for
the sake of your virtues; but your love is due to this nobler soul--the
real son of your husband, the poet of Egypt, the preserver of the king's
life."

Setchem rose and went up to Pentaur, she smiled at him and stroked his
face and breast.

"It is he," she said.  "May the Immortals bless him!"

Pentaur would have clasped her in his arms, but she pushed him away as if
she feared to commit some breach of faith, and turning hastily to the
bier she said softly:

Poor Paaker--poor, poor Paaker!"

"Mother, mother, do you not know your son?"  cried Pentaur deeply moved.

She turned to him again: "It is his voice," she said.  "It is he."

She went up to Pentaur, clung to him, clasped her arm around his neck as
he bent over her, then kissing him fondly:

"The Gods will bless you!" she said once more.  She tore herself from him
and threw herself down by the body of Paaker, as if she had done him some
injustice and robbed him of his rights.

Thus she remained, speechless and motionless, till they carried her back
to her boat, there she lay down, and refused to take any nourishment;
from time to time she whispered "Poor Paaker!"  She no longer repelled
Pentaur, for she did not again recognize him, and before he left her she
had followed the rough-natured son of her adoption to the other world.




CHAPTER XLVII.

The king had left the camp, and had settled in the neighboring city of
Rameses' Tanis, with the greater part of his army.  The Hebrews, who were
settled in immense numbers in the province of Goshen, and whom Ani had
attached to his cause by remitting their task-work, were now driven to
labor at the palaces and fortifications which Rameses had begun to build.

At Tanis, too, the treaty of peace was signed and was presented to
Rameses inscribed on a silver tablet by Tarthisebu, the representative of
the Cheta king, in the name of his lord and master.

Pentaur followed the king as soon as he had closed his mother's eyes,
and accompanied her body to Heliopolis, there to have it embalmed; from
thence the mummy was to be sent to Thebes, and solemnly placed in the
grave of her ancestors.  This duty of children towards their parents, and
indeed all care for the dead, was regarded as so sacred by the Egyptians,
that neither Pentaur nor Bent-Anat would have thought of being united
before it was accomplished.

On the 21st day of the month Tybi, of the 21st year of the reign of
Rameses, the day on which the peace was signed, the poet returned to
Tanis, sad at heart, for the old gardener, whom he had regarded and loved
as his father, had died before his return home; the good old man had not
long survived the false intelligence of the death of the poet, whom he
had not only loved but reverenced as a superior being bestowed upon his
house as a special grace from the Gods.

It was not till seven months after the fire at Pelusium that Pentaur's
marriage with Bent-Anat was solemnized in the palace of the Pharaohs at
Thebes; but time and the sorrows he had suffered had only united their
hearts more closely.  She felt that though he was the stronger she was
the giver and the helper, and realized with delight that like the sun,
which when it rises invites a thousand flowers to open and unfold, the