colored rippling surface of the lake, became distinctly visible.
All was silent, all untouched by the hand of man yet harmonized to one great and glorious whole, subject to all the laws of the universe, pervaded and filled by the Divinity.
He would fain have raised his hand in thanksgiving to Apheru, “the Guide on the way;” but he dared not; and how infinitely small did the Gods now seem to him, the Gods he had so often glorified to the multitude in inspired words, the Gods that had no meaning, no dwelling-place, no dominion but by the Nile.
“To ye,” he murmured, “I cannot pray! Here where my eye can pierce the distance, as if I myself were a god-here I feel the presence of the One, here He is near me and with me—I will call upon Him and praise him!”
And throwing up his arms he cried aloud: “Thou only One! Thou only One! Thou only One!” He said no more; but a tide of song welled up in his breast as he spoke—a flood of thankfulness and praise.
When he rose from his knees, a man was standing by him; his eyes were piercing and his tall figure had the dignity of a king, in spite of his herdsman’s dress.
“It is well for you!” said the stranger in deep slow accents. “You seek the true God.”
Pentaur looked steadily into the face of the bearded man before him.
“I know you now,” he said. “You are Mesu.—[Moses]—I was but a boy when you left the temple of Seti, but your features are stamped on my soul. Ameni initiated me, as well as you, into the knowledge of the One God.”
“He knows Him not,” answered the other, looking thoughtfully to the eastern horizon, which every moment grew brighter.
The heavens glowed with purple, and the granite peaks, each sheathed in a film of ice, sparkled and shone like dark diamonds that had been dipped in light.
The day-star rose, and Pentaur turned to it, and prostrated himself as his custom was. When he rose, Mesu also was kneeling on the earth, but his back was turned to the sun.
When he had ended his prayer, Pentaur said, “Why do you turn your back on the manifestation of the Sun-god? We were taught to look towards him when he approaches.”
“Because I,” said his grave companion, “pray to another God than yours. The sun and stars are but as toys in his hand, the earth is his foot-stool, the storm is his breath, and the sea is in his sight as the drops on the grass.”
“Teach me to know the Mighty One whom you worship!” exclaimed Pentaur.
“Seek him,” said Mesu, “and you will find him; for you have passed through misery and suffering, and on this spot on such a morning as this was He revealed to me.”
The stranger turned away, and disappeared behind a rock from the enquiring gaze of Pentaur, who fixed his eyes on the distance.
Then he thoughtfully descended the valley, and went towards the hut of the hunter. He stayed his steps when he heard men’s voices, but the rocks hid the speakers from his sight.
Presently he saw the party approaching; the son of his host, a man in Egyptian dress, a lady of tall stature, near whom a girl tripped lightly, and another carried in a litter by slaves.
Pentaur’s heart beat wildly, for he recognized Bent-Anat and her companions. They disappeared by the hunter’s cottage, but he stood still, breathing painfully, spell-bound to the cliff by which he stood—a long, long time—and did not stir.
He did not hear a light step, that came near to him, and died away again, he did not feel that the sun began to cast fierce beams on him, and on the porphyry cliff behind him, he did not see a woman now coming quickly towards him; but, like a deaf man who has suddenly acquired the sense of hearing, he started when he heard his name spoken—by whose lips?
“Pentaur!” she said again; the poet opened his arms, and Bent-Anat fell upon his breast; and he held her to him, clasped, as though he must hold her there and never part from her all his life long.
Meanwhile the princess’s companions were resting by the hunter’s little house.
“She flew into his arms—I saw it,” said Uarda. “Never shall I forget it. It was as if the bright lake there had risen up to embrace the mountain.”
“Where do you find such fancies, child?” cried Nefert.
“In my heart, deep in my heart!” cried Uarda. “I am so unspeakably happy.”
“You saved him and rewarded him for his goodness; you may well be happy.”
“It is not only that,” said Uarda. “I was in despair, and now I see that the Gods are righteous and loving.”
Mena’s wife nodded to her, and said with a sigh:
“They are both happy!”
“And they deserve to be!” exclaimed Uarda. “I fancy the Goddess of Truth is like Bent-Anat, and there is not another man in Egypt like Pentaur.”
Nefert was silent for awhile; then she asked softly: “Did you ever see Mena?”
“How should I?” replied the girl. “Wait a little while, and your turn will come. I believe that to-day I can read the future like a prophetess. But let us see if Nebsecht lies there, and is still asleep. The draught I put into the wine must have been strong.”
“It was,” answered Nefert, following her into the hut.
The physician was still lying on the bed, and sleeping with his mouth wide open. Uarda knelt down by his side, looked in his face, and said:
“He is clever and knows everything, but how silly he looks now! I will wake him.”
She pulled a blade of grass out of the heap on which he was lying, and saucily tickled his nose.
Nebsecht raised himself, sneezed, but fell back asleep again; Uarda laughed out with her clear silvery tones. Then she blushed—“That is not right,” she said, “for he is good and generous.”
She took the sleeper’s hand, pressed it to her lips, and wiped the drops from his brow. Then he awoke, opened his eyes, and muttered half in a dream still:
“Uarda—sweet Uarda.”
The girl started up and fled, and Nefert followed her.
When Nebsecht at last got upon his feet and looked round him, he found himself alone in a strange house. He went out of doors, where he found Bent-Anat’s little train anxiously discussing things past and to come.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The inhabitants of the oasis had for centuries been subject to the Pharaohs, and paid them tribute; and among the rights granted to them in return, no Egyptian soldier might cross their border and territory without their permission.
The Ethiopians had therefore pitched Bent-Anat’s tents and their own camp outside these limits; but various transactions soon took place between the idle warriors and the Amalekites, which now and then led to quarrels, and which one evening threatened serious consequences, when some drunken soldiers had annoyed the Amalekite women while they were drawing water.
This morning early one of the drivers on awaking had missed Pentaur and Nebsecht, and he roused his comrades, who had been rejoined by Uarda’s father. The enraged guard of the gang of prisoners hastened to the commandant of the Ethiopians, and informed him that two of his prisoners had escaped, and were no doubt being kept in concealment by the Amalekites.
The Amalekites met the requisition to surrender the fugitives, of whom 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