While the banquet was going forward at the temple, and Ameni’s
messengers were on their way to the valley of the kings’ tombs, to waken
up old Hekt, a furious storm of hot wind came up from the southwest,
sweeping black clouds across the sky, and brown clouds of dust across
the earth. It bowed the slender palm-trees as an archer bends his bow,
tore the tentpegs up on the scene of the festival, whirled the light
tent-cloths up in the air, drove them like white witches through the
dark night, and thrashed the still surface of the Nile till its yellow
waters swirled and tossed in waves like a restless sea.
Paaker had compelled his trembling slaves to row him across the stream;
several times the boat was near being swamped, but he had seized the
helm himself with his uninjured hand, and guided it firmly and surely,
though the rocking of the boat kept his broken hand in great and
constant pain. After a few ineffectual attempts he succeeded in landing.
The storm had blown out the lanterns at the masts--the signal lights for
which his people looked--and he found neither servants nor torch-bearers
on the bank, so he struggled through the scorching wind as far as the
gate of his house. His big dog had always been wont to announce his
return home to the door-keeper with joyful barking; but to-night the
boatmen long knocked in vain at the heavy doer. When at last he entered
the court-yard, he found all dark, for the wind had extinguished the
lanterns and torches, and there were no lights but in the windows of his
mother’s rooms.
The dogs in their open kennels now began to make themselves heard, but
their tones were plaintive and whining, for the storm had frightened the
beasts; their howling cut the pioneer to the heart, for it reminded him
of the poor slain Descher, whose deep voice he sadly missed; and when he
went into his own room he was met by a wild cry of lamentation from the
Ethiopian slave, for the dog which he had trained for Paaker’s father,
and which he had loved.
The pioneer threw himself on a seat, and ordered some water to be
brought, that he might cool his aching hand in it, according to the
prescription of Nebsecht.
As soon as the old man saw the broken fingers, he gave another yell of
woe, and when Paaker ordered him to cease he asked:
“And is the man still alive who did that, and who killed Descher?”
Paaker nodded, and while he held his hand in the cooling water he looked
sullenly at the ground. He felt miserable, and he asked himself why
the storm had not swamped the boat, and the Nile had not swallowed him.
Bitterness and rage filled his breast, and he wished he were a child,
and might cry. But his mood soon changed, his breath came quickly,
his breast heaved, and an ominous light glowed in his eyes. He was not
thinking of his love, but of the revenge that was even dearer to him.
“That brood of Rameses!” he muttered. “I will sweep them all away
together--the king, and Mena, and those haughty princes, and many
more--I know how. Only wait, only wait!” and he flung up his right fist
with a threatening gesture.
The door opened at this instant, and his mother entered the room; the
raging of the storm had drowned the sound of her steps, and as she
approached her revengeful son, she called his name in horror at the mad
wrath which was depicted in his countenance. Paaker started, and then
said with apparent composure:
“Is it you, mother? It is near morning, and it is better to be asleep
than awake in such an hour.”
“I could not rest in my rooms,” answered Setchem. “The storm howled so
wildly, and I am so anxious, so frightfully unhappy--as I was before
your father died.”
“Then stay with me,” said Paaker affectionately, “and lie down on my
couch.”
“I did not come here to sleep,” replied Setchem. “I am too unhappy at
all that happened to you on the larding-steps, it is frightful! No, no,
my son, it is not about your smashed hand, though it grieves me to see
you in pain; it is about the king, and his anger when he hears of the
quarrel. He favors you less than he did your lost father, I know it
well. But how wildly you smile, how wild you looked when I came in! It
went through my bones and marrow.”
Both were silent for a time, and listened to the furious raging of
the storm. At last Setchem spoke. “There is something else,” she said,
“which disturbs my mind. I cannot forget the poet who spoke at the
festival to-day, young Pentaur. His figure, his face, his movements, nay
his very voice, are exactly like those of your father at the time when
he was young, and courted me. It is as if the Gods were fain to see the
best man that they ever took to themselves, walk before them a second
time upon earth.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the black slave; “no mortal eye ever saw such a
likeness. I saw him fighting in front of the paraschites’ cottage, and
he was more like my dead master than ever. He swung the tent-post over
his head, as my lord used to swing his battle-axe.”
“Be silent,” cried Paaker, “and get out-idiot! The priest is like my
father; I grant it, mother; but he is an insolent fellow, who offended
me grossly, and with whom I have to reckon--as with many others.”
“How violent you are!” interrupted his mother, “and how full of
bitterness and hatred. Your father was so sweet-tempered, and kind to
everybody.”
“Perhaps they are kind to me?” retorted Paaker with a short laugh. “Even
the Immortals spite me, and throw thorns in my path. But I will push
them aside with my own hand, and will attain what I desire without the
help of the Gods and overthrow all that oppose me.”
“We cannot blow away a feather without the help of the Immortals,”
answered Setchem. “So your father used to say, who was a very different
man both in body and mind from you! I tremble before you this evening,
and at the curses you have uttered against the children of your lord and
sovereign, your father’s best friend.”
“But my enemy,” shouted Paaker. “You will get nothing from me but
curses. And the brood of Rameses shall learn whether your husband’s son
will let himself be ill-used and scorned without revenging him self. I
will fling them into an abyss, and I will laugh when I see them writhing
in the sand at my feet!”
“Fool!” cried Setchem, beside herself. “I am but a woman, and have often
blamed myself for being soft and weak; but as sure as I am faithful
to your dead father--who you are no more like than a bramble is like
a palm-tree--so surely will I tear my love for you out of my heart if
you--if you--Now I see! now I know! Answer me-murderer! Where are the
seven arrows with the wicked words which used to hang here? Where are
the arrows on which you had scrawled ‘Death to Mena?’”
With these words Setchem breathlessly started forward, but the pioneer
drew back as she confronted him, as in his youthful days when she
threatened to punish him for some misdemeanor. She followed him up,
caught him by the girdle, and in a hoarse voice repeated her question.
He stood still, snatched her hand angrily from his belt, and said
defiantly:
“I have put them in my quiver--and not for mere play. Now you know.”
Incapable of words, the maddened woman once more raised her hand against
her degenerate son, but he put back her arm.
“I am no longer a child,” he said, “and I am master of this house. I
will do what I will, if a hundred women hindered me!” and with these
words he pointed to the door. Setchem broke into loud sobs, and turned
her back upon him; but at the door once more she turned to look at him.
He had seated himself, and was resting his forehead on the table on
which the bowl of cold water stood.
Setchem fought a hard battle. At last once more through her choking
tears she called his name, opened her arms wide and exclaimed:
“Here I am--here I am! Come to my heart, only give up these hideous
thoughts of revenge.”
But Paaker did not move, he did not look up at her, he did not speak,
he only shook his head in negation. Setchem’s hands fell, and she said
softly:
“What did your father teach you out of the scriptures? ‘Your highest
praise consists in this, to reward your mother for what she has done for
you, in bringing you up, so that she may not raise her hands to God, nor
He hear her lamentation.’”
At these words, Paaker sobbed aloud, but he did not look at his mother.
She called him tenderly by his name; then her eyes fell on his quiver,
which lay on a bench with other arms. Her heart shrunk within her, and
with a trembling voice she exclaimed:
“I forbid this mad vengeance--do you hear? Will you give it up? You do
not move? No! you will not! Ye Gods, what can I do?”
She wrung her hands in despair; then she hastily crossed the room,
snatched out one of the arrows, and strove to break it. Paaker sprang
from his seat, and wrenched the weapon from her hand; the sharp point
slightly scratched the skin, and dark drops of blood flowed from it, and
dropped upon the floor.
The Mohar would have taken the wounded hand, for Setchem, who had the
weakness of never being able to see blood flow--neither her own nor
anybody’s else--had turned as pale as death; but she pushed him from
her, and as she spoke her gentle voice had a dull estranged tone.
“This hand,” she said--“a mother’s hand wounded by her son--shall never
again grasp yours till you have sworn a solemn oath to put away from you
all thoughts of revenge and murder, and not to disgrace your father’s
name. I have said it, and may his glorified spirit be my witness, and
give me strength to keep my word!”
Paaker had fallen on his knees, and was engaged in a terrible mental
struggle, while his mother slowly went towards the door. There again she
stood still for a moment; she did not speak, but her eyes appealed to
him once more.
In vain. At last she left the room, and the wind slammed the door
violently behind her. Paaker groaned, and pressed his hand over his
eyes.
“Mother, mother!” he cried. “I cannot go back--I cannot.”
A fearful gust of wind howled round the house, and drowned his voice,
and then he heard two tremendous claps, as if rocks had been hurled from
heaven. He started up and went to the window, where the melancholy grey
dawn was showing, in order to call the slaves. Soon they came trooping
out, and the steward called out as soon as he saw him:
“The storm has blown down the masts at the great gate!”
“Impossible!” cried Paaker.
“Yes, indeed!” answered the servant. “They have been sawn through close
to the ground. The matmaker no doubt did it, whose collar-bone was
broken. He has escaped in this fearful night.”
“Let out the dogs,” cried the Mohar. “All who have legs run after the
blackguard! Freedom, and five handfuls of gold for the man who brings
him back.”
The guests at the House of Seti had already gone to rest, when Ameni was
informed of the arrival of the sorceress, and he at once went into the
hall, where Ani was waiting to see her; the Regent roused himself from a
deep reverie when he heard the high-priest’s steps.
“Is she come?” he asked hastily; when Ameni answered in the affirmative
Ani went on meanwhile carefully disentangling the disordered curls of
his wig, and arranging his broad, collar-shaped necklace:
“The witch may exercise some influence over me; will you not give me
your blessing to preserve me from her spells? It is true, I have on me
this Houss’-eye, and this Isis-charm, but one never knows.”
“My presence will be your safe-guard,” said Ameni. “But-no, of course
you wish to speak with her alone. You shall be conducted to a room,
which is protected against all witchcraft by sacred texts. My brother,”
he continued to one of the serving-priests, “let the witch be taken
into one of the consecrated rooms, and then, when you have sprinkled the
threshold, lead my lord Ani thither.”
The high-priest went away, and into a small room which adjoined the hall
where the interview between the Regent and the old woman was about to
take place, and where the softest whisper spoken in the larger room
could be heard by means of an ingeniously contrived and invisible tube.
When Ani saw the old woman, he started back is horror; her appearance at
this moment was, in fact, frightful. The storm had tossed and torn her
garment and tumbled all her thick, white hair, so that locks of it fell
over her face. She leaned on a staff, and bending far forward looked
steadily at the Regent; and her eyes, red and smarting from the sand
which the wind had flung in her face, seemed to glow as she fixed them
on his. She looked as a hyaena might when creeping to seize its prey,
and Ani felt a cold shiver and he heard her hoarse voice addressing
him to greet him and to represent that he had chosen a strange hour for
requiring her to speak with him.
When she had thanked him for his promise of renewing her letter
of freedom, and had confirmed the statement that Paaker had had a
love-philter from her, she parted her hair from off her face--it
occurred to her that she was a woman.
The Regent sat in an arm-chair, she stood before him; but the struggle
with the storm had tired her old limbs, and she begged Ani to permit her
to be seated, as she had a long story to tell, which would put Paaker
into his power, so that he would find him as yielding as wax. The
Regent signed her to a corner of the room, and she squatted down on the
pavement.
When he desired her to proceed with her story, she looked at the floor
for some time in silence, and then began, as if half to herself:
“I will tell thee, that I may find peace--I do not want, when I die, to
be buried unembalmed. Who knows but perhaps strange things may happen
in the other world, and I would not wish to miss them. I want to see him
again down there, even if it were in the seventh limbo of the damned.
Listen to me! But, before I speak, promise me that whatever I tell thee,
thou wilt leave me in peace, and will see that I am embalmed when I am
dead. Else I will not speak.”
Ani bowed consent.
“No-no,” she said. “I will tell thee what to swear ‘If I do not keep my
word to Hekt--who gives the Mohar into my power--may the Spirits whom
she rules, annihilate me before I mount the throne.’ Do not be vexed,
my lord--and say only ‘Yes.’ What I can tell, is worth more than a mere
word.”
“Well then--yes!” cried the Regent, eager for the mighty revelation.
The old woman muttered a few unintelligible words; then she collected
herself, stretched out her lean neck, and asked, as she fixed her
sparkling eyes on the man before her:
“Did’st thou ever, when thou wert young, hear of the singer Beki? Well,
look at me, I am she.”
She laughed loud and hoarsely, and drew her tattered robe across her
bosom, as if half ashamed of her unpleasing person.
“Ay!” she continued. “Men find pleasure in grapes by treading them
down, and when the must is drunk the skins are thrown on the dung-hill.
Grape-skins, that is what I am--but you need not look at me so
pitifully; I was grapes once, and poor and despised as I am now, no one
can take from me what I have had and have been. Mine has been a life
out of a thousand, a complete life, full to overflowing of joy and
suffering, of love and hate, of delight, despair, and revenge. Only to
talk of it raises me to a seat by thy throne there. No, let me be, I am
used now to squatting on the ground; but I knew thou wouldst hear me to
the end, for once I too was one of you. Extremes meet in all things--I
know it by experience. The greatest men will hold out a hand to a
beautiful woman, and time was when I could lead you all as with a rope.
Shall I begin at the beginning? Well--I seldom am in the mood for it
now-a-days. Fifty years ago I sang a song with this voice of mine; an
old crow like me? sing! But so it was. My father was a man of rank, the
governor of Abydos; when the first Rameses took possession of the throne
my father was faithful to the house of thy fathers, so the new king sent
us all to the gold mines, and there they all died--my parents, brothers,
and sisters. I only survived by some miracle. As I was handsome and sang
well, a music master took me into his band, brought me to Thebes,
and wherever there was a feast given in any great house, Beki was
in request. Of flowers and money and tender looks I had a plentiful
harvest; but I was proud and cold, and the misery of my people had made
me bitter at an age when usually even bad liquor tastes of honey. Not
one of all the gay young fellows, princes’ sons, and nobles, dared to
touch my hand. But my hour was to come; the handsomest and noblest man
of them all, and grave and dignified too--was Assa, the old Mohar’s
father, and grandfather of Pentaur--no, I should say of Paaker, the
pioneer; thou hast known him. Well, wherever I sang, he sat opposite me,
and gazed at me, and I could not take my eyes off him, and--thou canst
tell the rest! no! Well, no woman before or after me can ever love a man
as I loved Assa. Why dost thou not laugh? It must seem odd, too, to hear
such a thing from the toothless mouth of an old witch. He is dead, long
since dead. I hate him! and yet--wild as it sounds--I believe I love him
yet. And he loved me--for two years; then he went to the war with Seti,
and remained a long time away, and when I saw him again he had courted
the daughter of some rich and noble house. I was handsome enough still,
but he never looked at me at the banquets. I came across him at least
twenty times, but he avoided me as if I were tainted with leprosy, and I
began to fret, and fell ill of a fever. The doctors said it was all over
with me, so I sent him a letter in which there was nothing but these
words: ‘Beki is dying, and would like to see Assa once more,’ and in the
papyrus I put his first present--a plain ring. And what was the answer?
a handful of gold! Gold--gold! Thou may’st believe me, when I say that
the sight of it was more torturing to my eyes than the iron with which
they put out the eyes of criminals. Even now, when I think of it--But
what do you men, you lords of rank and wealth, know of a breaking heart?
When two or three of you happen to meet, and if thou should’st tell the
story, the most respectable will say in a pompous voice: ‘The man acted
nobly indeed; he was married, and his wife would have complained with
justice if he had gone to see the singer.’ Am I right or wrong? I know;
not one will remember that the other was a woman, a feeling human being;
it will occur to no one that his deed on the one hand saved an hour of
discomfort, and on the other wrought half a century of despair. Assa
escaped his wife’s scolding, but a thousand curses have fallen on him
and on his house. How virtuous he felt himself when he had crushed and
poisoned a passionate heart that had never ceased to love him! Ay, and
he would have come if he had not still felt some love for me, if he had
not misdoubted himself, and feared that the dying woman might once more
light up the fire he had so carefully smothered and crushed out. I would
have grieved for him--but that he should send me money, money!--that I
have never forgiven; that he shall atone for in his grandchild.” The
old woman spoke the last words as if in a dream, and without seeming to
remember her hearer. Ani shuddered, as if he were in the presence of a
mad woman, and he involuntarily drew his chair back a little way.
The witch observed this; she took breath and went on: “You lords, who
walk in high places, do not know how things go on in the depths beneath
you; you do not choose to know.
“But I will shorten my story. I got well, but I got out of my bed
thin and voiceless. I had plenty of money, and I spent it in buying of
everyone who professed magic in Thebes, potions to recover Assa’s love
for me, or in paying for spells to be cast on him, or for magic drinks
to destroy him. I tried too to recover my voice, but the medicines I
took for it made it rougher not sweeter. Then an excommunicated priest,
who was famous among the magicians, took me into his house, and there I
learned many things; his old companions afterwards turned upon him, he
came over here into the Necropolis, and I came with him. When at last
he was taken and hanged, I remained in his cave, and myself took to
witchcraft. Children point their fingers at me, honest men and women
avoid me, I am an abomination to all men, nay to myself. And one only
is guilty of all this ruin--the noblest gentleman in Thebes--the pious
Assa.
“I had practised magic for several years, and had become learned in many
arts, when one day the gardener Sent, from whom I was accustomed to buy
plants for my mixtures--he rents a plot of ground from the temple of
Seti--Sent brought me a new-born child that had been born with six toes;
I was to remove the supernumerary toe by my art. The pious mother of the
child was lying ill of fever, or she never would have allowed it; I took
the screaming little wretch--for such things are sometimes curable. The
next morning, a few hours after sunrise, there was a bustle in front of
my cave; a maid, evidently belonging to a noble house, was calling
me. Her mistress, she said, had come with her to visit the tomb of her
fathers, and there had been taken ill, and had given birth to a child.
Her mistress was lying senseless--I must go at once, and help her. I
took the little six-toed brat in my cloak, told my slavegirl to follow
me with water, and soon found myself--as thou canst guess--at the tomb
of Assa’s ancestors. The poor woman, who lay there in convulsions, was
his daughter-in-law Setchem. The baby, a boy, was as sound as a nut,
but she was evidently in great danger. I sent the maid with the litter,
which was waiting outside, to the temple here for help; the girl said
that her master, the father of the child, was at the war, but that the
grandfather, the noble Assa, had promised to meet the lady Setchem at
the tomb, and would shortly be coming; then she disappeared with the
litter. I washed the child, and kissed it as if it were my own. Then I
heard distant steps in the valley, and the recollection of the moment
when I, lying at the point of death, had received that gift of money
from Assa came over me, and then I do not know myself how it happened--I
gave the new-born grandchild of Assa to my slave-girl, and told her to
carry it quickly to the cave, and I wrapped the little six-toed baby
in my rags and held it in my lap. There I sat--and the minutes seemed
hours, till Assa came up; and when he stood before me, grown grey, it
is true, but still handsome and upright--I put the gardener’s boy, the
six-toed brat, into his very arms, and a thousand demons seemed to laugh
hoarsely within me. He thanked me, he did not know me, and once more he
offered me a handful of gold. I took it, and I listened as the priest,
who had come from the temple, prophesied all sorts of fine things for
the little one, who was born in so fortunate an hour; and then I went
back into my cave, and there I laughed till I cried, though I do not
know that the tears sprang from the laughter.
“A few days after I gave Assa’s grandchild to the gardener, and told
him the sixth toe had come off; I had made a little wound on his foot to
take in the bumpkin. So Assa’s grandchild, the son of the Mohar, grew
up as the gardener’s child, and received the name of Pentaur, and he
was brought up in the temple here, and is wonderfully like Assa; but
the gardener’s monstrous brat is the pioneer Paaker. That is the whole
secret.”
Ani had listened in silence to the terrible old woman.
We are involuntarily committed to any one who can inform us of some
absorbing fact, and who knows how to make the information valuable.
It did not occur to the Regent to punish the witch for her crimes; he
thought rather of his older friends’ rapture when they talked of the
singer Beki’s songs and beauty. He looked at the woman, and a cold
shiver ran through all his limbs.
“You may live in peace,” he said at last; “and when you die I will see
to your being embalmed; but give up your black arts. You must be rich,
and, if you are not, say what you need. Indeed, I scarcely dare offer
you gold--it excites your hatred, as I understand.”
“I could take thine--but now let me go!”
She got up, and went towards the door, but the Regent called to her to
stop, and asked:
“Is Assa the father of your son, the little Nemu, the dwarf of the lady
Katuti?”
The witch laughed loudly. “Is the little wretch like Assa or like Beki?
I picked him up like many other children.”
“But he is clever!” said Ani.
“Ay-that he is. He has planned many a shrewd stroke, and is devoted to
his mistress. He will help thee to thy purpose, for he himself has one
too.”
“And that is--?”
“Katuti will rise to greatness with thee, and to riches through Paaker,
who sets out to-morrow to make the woman he loves a widow.”
“You know a great deal,” said Ani meditatively, “and I would ask you
one thing more; though indeed your story has supplied the answer--but
perhaps you know more now than you did in your youth. Is there in truth
any effectual love-philter?”
“I will not deceive thee, for I desire that thou should’st keep thy word
to me,” replied Hekt. “A love potion rarely has any effect, and never
but on women who have never before loved. If it is given to a woman
whose heart is filled with the image of another man her passion for him
only will grow the stronger.”
“Yet another,” said Ani. “Is there any way of destroying an enemy at a
distance?”
“Certainly,” said the witch. “Little people may do mean things, and
great people can let others do things that they cannot do themselves. My
story has stirred thy gall, and it seems to me that thou dost not love
the poet Pentaur. A smile! Well then--I have not lost sight of him,
and I know he is grown up as proud and as handsome as Assa. He is
wonderfully like him, and I could have loved him--have loved as this
foolish heart had better never have loved. It is strange! In many women,
who come to me, I see how their hearts cling to the children of men who
have abandoned them, and we women are all alike, in most things. But I
will not let myself love Assa’s grandchild--I must not. I will injure
him, and help everyone that persecutes him; for though Assa is dead, the
wrongs he did me live in me so long as I live myself. Pentaur’s destiny
must go on its course. If thou wilt have his life, consult with Nemu,
for he hates him too, and he will serve thee more effectually than I can
with my vain spells and silly harmless brews. Now let me go home!”
A few hours later Ameni sent to invite the Regent to breakfast.
“Do you know who the witch Hekt is?” asked Ani.
“Certainly--how should I not know? She is the singer Beki--the former
enchantress of Thebes. May I ask what her communications were?”
Ani thought it best not to confide the secret of Pentaur’s birth to the
high-priest, and answered evasively. Then Ameni begged to be allowed
to give him some information about the old woman, and how she had had a
hand in the game; and he related to his hearer, with some omissions and
variations--as if it were a fact he had long known--the very story which
a few hours since he had overheard, and learned for the first time. Ani
feigned great astonishment, and agreed with the high-priest that Paaker
should not for the present be informed of his true origin.
“He is a strangely constituted man,” said Ameni, “and he is not
incapable of playing us some unforeseen trick before he has done his
part, if he is told who he is.”
The storm had exhausted itself, and the sky, though covered still with
torn and flying clouds, cleared by degrees, as the morning went on; a
sharp coolness succeeded the hot blast, but the sun as it mounted higher
and higher soon heated the air. On the roads and in the gardens lay
uprooted trees and many slightly-built houses which had been blown
down, while the tents in the strangers’ quarter, and hundreds of light
palm-thatched roofs, had been swept away.
The Regent was returning to Thebes, and with him went Ameni, who desired
to ascertain by his own eyes what mischief the whirlwind had done to his
garden in the city. On the Nile they met Paaker’s boat, and Ani caused
it and his own to be stopped, while he requested Paaker to visit him
shortly at the palace.
The high-priest’s garden was in no respect inferior in beauty and extent
to that of the Mohar. The ground had belonged to his family from the
remotest generations, and his house was large and magnificent. He seated
himself in a shady arbor, to take a repast with his still handsome wife
and his young and pretty daughters.
He consoled his wife for the various damage done by the hurricane,
promised the girls to build a new and handsomer clove-cot in the place
of the one which had been blown down, and laughed and joked with them
all; for here the severe head of the House of Seti, the grave Superior
of the Necropolis, became a simple man, an affectionate husband, a
tender father, a judicious friend, among his children, his flowers, and
his birds. His youngest daughter clung to his right arm, and an
older one to his left, when he rose from table to go with them to the
poultry-yard.
On the way thither a servant announced to him that the Lady Setchem
wished to see him.
“Take her to your mistress,” he said.
But the slave--who held in his hand a handsome gift in money--explained
that the widow wished to speak with him alone.
“Can I never enjoy an hour’s peace like other men?” exclaimed Ameni
annoyed. “Your mistress can receive her, and she can wait with her till
I come. It is true, girls--is it not?--that I belong to you just now,
and to the fowls, and ducks, and pigeons?”
His youngest daughter kissed him, the second patted him affectionately,
and they all three went gaily forward. An hour later he requested the
Lady Setchem to accompany him into the garden.
The poor, anxious, and frightened woman had resolved on this step with
much difficulty; tears filled her kind eyes, as she communicated her
troubles to the high-priest.
“Thou art a wise counsellor,” she said, “and thou knowest well how my
son honors the Gods of the temple of Seti with gifts and offerings.
He will not listen to his mother, but thou hast influence with him. He
meditates frightful things, and if he cannot be terrified by threats of
punishment from the Immortals, he will raise his hand against Mena, and
perhaps--”
“Against the king,” interrupted Ameni gravely. “I know it, and I will
speak to him.”
“Thanks, oh a thousand thanks!” cried the widow, and she seized the
high-priests robe to kiss it. “It was thou who soon after his birth
didst tell my husband that he was born under a lucky star, and would
grow to be an honor and an ornament to his house and to his country. And
now--now he will ruin himself in this world, and the next.”
“What I foretold of your son,” said Ameni, “shall assuredly be
fulfilled, for the ways of the Gods are not as the ways of men.”
“Thy words do me good!” cried Setchem. “None can tell what fearful
terror weighed upon my heart, when I made up my mind to come here. But
thou dost not yet know all. The great masts of cedar, which Paaker sent
from Lebanon to Thebes to bear our banners, and ornament our gateway,
were thrown to the ground at sunrise by the frightful wind.”
“Thus shall your son’s defiant spirit be broken,” said Ameni; “But for
you, if you have patience, new joys shall arise.”
“I thank thee again,” said Setchem. “But something yet remains to be
said. I know that I am wasting the time that thou dost devote to thy
family, and I remember thy saying once that here in Thebes thou wert
like a pack-Horse with his load taken off, and free to wander over a
green meadow. I will not disturb thee much longer--but the Gods sent me
such a wonderful vision. Paaker would not listen to me, and I went back
into my room full of sorrow; and when at last, after the sun had risen,
I fell asleep for a few minutes, I dreamed I saw before me the poet
Pentaur, who is wonderfully like my dead husband in appearance and in
voice. Paaker went up to him, and abused him violently, and threatened
him with his fist; the priest raised his arms in prayer, just as I saw
him yesterday at the festival--but not in devotion, but to seize Paaker,
and wrestle with him. The struggle did not last long, for Paaker seemed
to shrink up, and lost his human form, and fell at the poet’s feet--not
my son, but a shapeless lump of clay such as the potter uses to make
jars of.”
“A strange dream!” exclaimed Ameni, not without agitation. “A very
strange dream, but it bodes you good. Clay, Setchem, is yielding, and
clearly indicates that which the Gods prepare for you. The Immortals
will give you a new and a better son instead of the old one, but it is
not revealed to me by what means. Go now, and sacrifice to the Gods, and
trust to the wisdom of those who guide the life of the universe, and of
all mortal creatures. Yet--I would give you one more word of advice. If
Paaker comes to you repentant, receive him kindly, and let me know; but
if he will not yield, close your rooms against him, and let him depart
without taking leave of you.”
When Setchem, much encouraged, was gone away, Ameni said to himself:
“She will find splendid compensation for this coarse scoundrel, and
she shall not spoil the tool we need to strike our blow. I have often
doubted how far dreams do, indeed, foretell the future, but to-day my
faith in them is increased. Certainly a mother’s heart sees farther than
that of any other human being.”
At the door of her house Setchem came up with her son’s chariot.
They saw each other, but both looked away, for they could not meet
affectionately, and would not meet coldly. As the horses outran the
litter-bearers, the mother and son looked round at each other, their
eyes met, and each felt a stab in the heart.
In the evening the pioneer, after he had had an interview with the
Regent, went to the temple of Seti to receive Ameni’s blessing on all
his undertakings. Then, after sacrificing in the tomb of his ancestors,
he set out for Syria.
Just as he was getting into his chariot, news was brought him that the
mat-maker, who had sawn through the masts at the gate, had been caught.
“Put out his eyes!” he cried; and these were the last words he spoke as
he quitted his home.
Setchem looked after him for a long time; she had refused to bid him
farewell, and now she implored the Gods to turn his heart, and to
preserve him from malice and crime.