The pair had spoken of all Memphis and its gossip; had given account of themselves and had caught up with the present time in the succession of events.

“Hotep, at thy lofty notch of favor, one must have the wisdom of Toth,” Kenkenes observed, adding with a laugh, “mark thou, I have compared thee with no mortal.”

Hotep shook his head.

“Nay, any man may fill my position so he but knows when to hold his tongue and what to say when he wags it.”

“O, aye,” the sculptor admitted in good-natured irony.  “Those be simple qualifications and easy to combine.”

The scribe smiled.

“Mine is no arduous labor now.  During my years of apprenticeship I was sorely put to it, but now I have only to wait upon the king and look to it that mine underlings are not idle.  If another war should come—­if any manner of difficulty should arise in matters of state, I doubt not mine would be a heavy lot.”

The young man spoke of war and fellowship with a monarch as if he had been a lady’s page and gossiped of fans and new perfumes.

Kenkenes looked at him with a full realization of the incongruity of the youth of the man and the weight of the office that was his.

But at close range the scribe’s face was young only in feature and tint.  He was born of an Egyptian and a Danaid, and the blond alien mother had impressed her own characteristics very strongly on her son.

He had a plump figure with handsome curves, waving, chestnut hair and a fair complexion.  Nose and forehead were in line.  The eyes were of that type of gray that varies in shade with the mental state.  His temper displayed itself only in their sudden hardening into the hue of steel; content and happiness made them blue.  They were always steady and comprehending, so that whoever entered his presence for the first time said to himself:  “Here is a man that discovers my very soul.”

Whatever other blunder Meneptah might have made, he had redeemed himself in the wisdom he displayed in choosing his scribe.  Kenkenes had been led to ask how Hotep had come to his place.

“My superior, Pinem, died without a son,” the scribe had explained; “and as my record was clean, and the princes had ever been my patrons, the Pharaoh exalted me to the scribeship.”

Kenkenes had then set down a mark in favor of the princes.

“I doubt not,” the scribe observed at last, “that my time of ease is short-lived.”

The sculptor looked at him with inquiry in his eyes.

“When sedition arises and defies the Pharaoh in his audience chamber,” Hotep went on, “it has reached the stage of a single alternative—­success or death.  Dost know the Lady Miriam?”

“The Israelite?”

“Even so.”

“I saw her this day.”

“Good.  Now, look upon the scene.  Thou knowest she is the sister of Prince Mesu, and the favorite waiting-woman of the good Queen Thermuthis.  She has lived in obscurity for forty years, but this morning she swept into the audience chamber, did majestic obeisance and besought a word ‘with him who was an infant in her maturity,’ she said.  The council chamber was filled with those gathered to welcome Har-hat.  Meneptah bade her speak.  Hast thou ever heard an Israelitish harangue?” he broke off suddenly.