The hand that lit my cigarette, I saw, was trembling. A desire to do
something violent woke in me suddenly--to move energetically, to push
or drive something away.
‘What was it?’ I asked abruptly, in a louder, half-challenging
voice, intended for the man at the piano. ‘Such a performance--upon
others--without first asking their permission--seems to me
unpermissible--it’s----’
And it was Moleson who replied. He ignored the end of my sentence as
though he had not heard it. He strolled over to our side, taking a
cigarette and pressing it carefully into shape between his long thin
fingers.
‘You may well ask,’ he answered quietly; ‘but it’s not so easy to
tell. We discovered it’--he nodded towards Isley--‘two years ago in
the “Valley.” It lay beside a Priest, a very important personage,
apparently, and was part of the Ritual he used in the worship of the
sun. In the Museum now--you can see it any day at the Boulak--it is
simply labelled “Hymn to Ra.” The period was Aknahton’s.’
‘The words, yes,’ put in Isley, who was listening closely.
‘The words?’ repeated Moleson in a curious tone. ‘There _are_ no words.
It’s all really a manipulation of the vowel sounds. And the rhythm, or
chanting, or whatever you like to call it, I--I invented myself. The
Egyptians did not write their music, you see.’ He suddenly searched my
face a moment with questioning eyes. ‘Any words you heard,’ he said,
‘or thought you heard, were merely your own interpretation.’