Pentaur shortly narrated the affair to the captain, and named himself to him.

The soldier offered him his hand.

“If there were many men in Rameses’ army,” said he, who could strike such a blow as you, the war with the Cheta would soon be at an end.  But you have struck down, not Asiatics, but citizens of Thebes, and, much as I regret it, I must take you as a prisoner to Ameni.”

“You only do your duty,” replied Pentaur, bowing to the captain, who ordered his men to take up the body of the paraschites, and to bear it to the temple of Seti.

“I ought to take the girl in charge too,” he added, turning to Pentaur.

“She is ill,” replied the poet.

And if she does not get some rest,” added Nebsecht, “she will be dead.  Leave her alone; she is under the particular protection of the princess Bent-Anat, who ran over her not long ago.”

“I will take her into my house,” said Hekt, “and will take care of her.  Her grandmother is lying there; she was half choked by the flames, but she will soon come to herself—­and I have room for both.”

“Till to-morrow,” replied the surgeon.  “Then I will provide another shelter for her.”

The old woman laughed and muttered:  “There are plenty of folks to take care of her, it seems.”

The soldiers obeyed the command of their leader, took up the wounded, and went away with Pentaur, and the body of Pinem.

Meanwhile, Bent-Anat and her party had with much difficulty reached the river-bank.  One of the bearers was sent to find the boat which was waiting for them, and he was enjoined to make haste, for already they could see the approach of the procession, which escorted the God on his return journey.  If they could not succeed in finding their boat without delay, they must wait at least an hour, for, at night, not a boat that did not belong to the train of Amon—­not even the barge of a noble—­might venture from shore till the whole procession was safe across.

They awaited the messenger’s signal in the greatest anxiety, for Nefert was perfectly exhausted, and Bent-Anat, on whom she leaned, felt her trembling in every limb.

At last the bearer gave the signal; the swift, almost invisible bark, which was generally used for wild fowl shooting, shot by—­Rameri seized one end of an oar that the rower held out to him, and drew the little boat up to the landing-place.

The captain of the watch passed at the same moment, and shouting out, “This is the last boat that can put off before the passage of the God!”

Bent-Anat descended the steps as quickly as Nefert’s exhausted state permitted.  The landing-place was now only dimly lighted by dull lanterns, though, when the God embarked, it would be as light as day with cressets and torches.  Before she could reach the bottom step, with Nefert still clinging heavily to her arm, a hard hand was laid on her shoulder, and the rough voice of Paaker exclaimed: