Two ragged lines of huts, built of sun-dried brick, formed a single straggling street.  A low shed, the first building Kenkenes came upon, showed a flickering red light.  A spare figure darted into it, just ahead of the young man.

From the threshold, the whole of the small interior was visible.

The light came from a small annealing oven.  At a table, overlaid with a thin slab of stone, a man was modeling a cat in clay.  On the opposite side of the room was a younger man, painting an image, preparatory to burning it in the oven.  The walls were black with smoke, the floor strewn with broken images and dried crumbs of clay.

In the center of the room was the spare figure, in white robes.  Kenkenes had opened his lips to speak when the conversation among the trio stopped him.

“Cowards!  Dastards!” the spare man vociferated.  “Is there not a patriot in Egypt?  The Pharaoh in danger and not a man in the hamlet who will raise a heel to save him!”

“Holy Father,” the short man protested, “the way is long, the horses have been required at our hands by the Pharaoh and were taken from us, and if there be evil omens, the king’s sorcerers will discover them.”

“King’s sorcerers!” the spare man repeated indignantly.  “There is not one of them who can tell a star from a fire-fly or read the events of yesterday!  Horses!  Must ye go mounted, in litters, in chariots, afraid of the harsh earth and a rough mile?  In my youth, the young men went barefoot and traveled the desert for the joy of effort.  Oh, for one of mine own best days!  Horses!”

“Is the son of Hofa away?” the younger man asked.  “He is a runner as well as a soldier.”

The spare man broke out afresh.

“A runner!  Aye, of a truth he is a runner.  When the tidings came that the Pharaoh was to pursue the Israelites he ran his best—­for the hay-fields—­and is hidden safe under a swath somewhere—­the craven!”

Kenkenes stepped into the shed.

“What is this concerning the Israelites?” he demanded.

The spare man turned and the two artisans gazed at the young sculptor with open mouths.

“The news is not to be cried abroad,” the spare man replied shortly.

“Thou hast become cautious too late,” Kenkenes retorted.  “The most of thy talk have I heard.  I would know the rest of it.”

“By Bast, thou art imperious!  In my great days the nobles groveled to me.  Now, am I commanded by them.  How thou art fallen, Jambres!

“The Israelites, my Lord,” he continued mockingly, “departed out of the land of Goshen, in the early morning hours of this day, but the Pharaoh hath repented, and will pursue them—­to turn them back, or to destroy them.”  The old man’s voice lost its sarcasm and became anxious.

“But the signs are ominous, the portents are evil.  I know, I know, for I am no less a mystic because I have fallen from state.  His seers are liars, they can not guide the king.  He must not pursue them, for death shadows him the hour he leaves the gates of Tanis.  He must not go!  I love him yet, and I can not see him overthrown.”