The Mohar was not, in fact, a welcome boon-companion.  “The wine turns sour when that churl looks at it,” said the general.

The eyes of all the guests turned on Paaker, who looked round for a seat, and when no one beckoned him to one he felt his blood begin to boil.  He would have liked to leave the banqueting hall at once with a swingeing curse.  He had indeed turned towards the door, when the Regent, who had exchanged a few whispered words with Ameni, called to him, requested him to take the place that had been reserved for him, and pointed to the seat by his side, which had in fact been intended for the high-priest of the temple of Amon.

Paaker bowed low, and took the place of honor, hardly daring to look round the table, lest he should encounter looks of surprise or of mockery.  And yet he had pictured to himself his grandfather Assa, and his father, as somewhere near this place of honor, which had actually often enough been given up to them.  And was he not their descendant and heir?  Was not his mother Setchem of royal race?  Was not the temple of Seti more indebted to him than to any one?

A servant laid a garland of flowers round his shoulders, and another handed him wine and food.  Then he raised his eyes, and met the bright and sparkling glance of Gagabu; he looked quickly down again at the table.

Then the Regent spoke to him, and turning to the other guests mentioned that Paaker was on the point of starting next day for Syria, and resuming his arduous labors as Mohar.  It seemed to Paaker that the Regent was excusing himself for having given him so high a place of honor.

Presently Ani raised his wine-cup, and drank to the happy issue of his reconnoitring-expedition, and a victorious conclusion to every struggle in which the Mohar might engage.  The high-priest then pledged him, and thanked him emphatically in the name of the brethren of the temple, for the noble tract of arable land which he had that morning given them as a votive offering.  A murmur of approbation ran round the tables, and Paaker’s timidity began to diminish.

He had kept the wrappings that his mother had applied round his still aching hand.

“Are you wounded?” asked the Regent.

“Nothing of importance,” answered the pioneer.  “I was helping my mother into the boat, and it happened—­”

“It happened,” interrupted an old school-fellow of the Mohar’s, who himself held a high appointment as officer of the city-watch of Thebes—­“It happened that an oar or a stake fell on his fingers.”

“Is it possible!” cried the Regent.

“And quite a youngster laid hands on him,” continued the officer.  “My people told me every detail.  First the boy killed his dog—­”

“That noble Descher?” asked the master of the hunt in a tone of regret.  “Your father was often by my side with that dog at a boar-hunt.”

Paaker bowed his head; but the officer of the watch, secure in his position and dignity, and taking no notice of the glow of anger which flushed Paaker’s face, began again: