She looked at him speechless.

“I have said.  To-morrow he will tell me that thou hast promised to wed me—­whether thou sayest it or not.  Spare him the falsehood, Masanath, and me a heartache.”

“Wilt thou slander my father to me?” she demanded.  “Art thou a knave as well as a tyrant?”

“Nay, I have spoken truly.  Sad indeed were thy fate, my Masanath, did the gods mate thee with a knave, having fathered thee with a villain.  So I am come to know of a truth what is thy will.”

“And I can tell thee most truly.  Sooner would I sit upon the peak of a pyramid all my life than upon a throne with thee; sooner would I be crowned with fire than wear the asp of a queen to thee.  My father may wed me to thee, but I will never love thee, nor say it, nor pretend it.  Thou wilt not win a wife if thou dost take a queen by violence.  Release me!”

“Thou dost rivet mine arms about thee.”

She stiffened herself and savagely submitted to her imprisonment.

Rameses laughed and, bending her head back, kissed her repeatedly and with much tenderness.  She struggled madly, but he held her fast.

“This is but the beginning,” he said in a low voice, “and I have won.  The end shall be the same.  I am a lovable lover, am I not, Masanath?  Am I not good to look upon?  Dost thou know a more princely prince, and is my father more of a king than I shall be?  Where do I fail thee in thy little ideals?  Am I harsh?  Aye, but I am a king.  Am I rough-spoken?  Aye, because most of the world deserve it.  Thou hast never felt the sting of my tongue, and never shalt thou unless thou breakest my heart.  I have much to give thee; not any other monarch hath so much as I to give his queen.  And yet I ask only thy love in return.”

This was earnest wooing, which contained nothing that she might flout.  So she strained away from him and sulked.  Again he laughed.

“Khem and Athor and Besa have combed my heart and created a being of the desires they found therein!  O, thou art mine, for the gods ordained it so.”  Again he kissed her, holding her in spite of her efforts to get away.

“There! carry thy hate of me only to the edge of sleep and dream sweetly of me.”

He released her and continued down the hall.

As he turned out of the smaller passage into the larger corridor, Ta-user stepped forth from the shadow of a pillar.  The huge column dwarfed her into tininess.  The hall was but dimly lighted by a single lamp and that flared above her head.

Rameses paused, for she stood in his path.

“Not yet gone to thy rest?” he asked.

“Rest!” she said scornfully.  “Gone to a night-long frenzy of relentless consciousness—­weary tossing, wasted prayers.  I have not rested since I left the Hak-heb.”

Her voice sounded hollow in the great empty hall.

“So?  Thou art ready for the care of the physicians by this, then, O my Sister.”