He turned and pulled rapidly toward the eastern shore.  Away to the south, behind them, were the quarries of Masaarah.  But they were still a considerable distance above Toora, a second village of quarry-workers, now entirely deserted.  The pitted face of the mountain behind the town was without life, for, as has been seen, Meneptah was not a building monarch.  Directly opposite them the abrupt wall of the Arabian hills pushed down near to the Nile and the intervening space was a flat sandy stretch, ending in a reedy marsh at the water’s edge.  The line of cultivation ended far to the south and north of it, though the soil was as arable as any bordering the Nile.  A great number of marsh geese and a few stilted waders flew up or plunged into the water with discordant cries and flapping of wings as the presence of the young men disturbed the solitude.  The sedge was wind-mown, and there were numberless prints of bird claws, but no mark of boat-keel or human foot.  The place should have been a favorite haunt of fowlers, but it was lonely and overshadowed with a sense of absolute desertion.

“But,” Hotep began suddenly, “thou hast spoken of offense and pardon, and now thou boastest that Athor abetted thee.”

“Why is this called the Marsh of the Discontented Soul?”

The scribe smiled patiently.  “Of a truth, dost thou not know?”

“As the immortals hear me, I do not.  I have never asked and the chronicles do not speak of it.”

“Nay; the story is four hundred years old, and the chroniclers do not tell it because it is out of the scope of history, I doubt not.  But it has become tradition throughout Egypt to shun the spot, though few know why they must.  A curse is laid upon the place.  An unfaithful wife whom the priests denied repose with her ancestors is entombed yonder.”  He pointed toward an angle between an outstanding buttress and the limestone wall.  “Her soul haunts him who comes here with the plea that her mummy be removed to On, where she dwelt in life, and laid with the respected dead, in the necropolis.”

Kenkenes shrugged his shoulders.  “I trust the unhappy soul will not trouble us.  We came here by way of misadventure—­not to disturb her.  But how came it they did not entomb her nearer On?”

“She betrayed one great man and tempted another.  She offended against the lofty.  Therefore, her punishment was the more heavy—­her isolation in death like to banishment in life.”

“So; if she had slighted a paraschite and tempted a beer brewer, her fate would have been less harsh.  O, the justness of justice!”

The morning was well advanced when they reached the niche on the hillside—­Hotep, wondering; Kenkenes, silent and expectant.

The sculptor led the way into the presence of Athor, and stepped aside.  The scribe halted and gazed without sound or movement—­petrified with amazement.

Before him, in hue and quiescence was a statue in stone—­in all other respects, a human being.  The figure was of white magnesium limestone, and stood upon rock yet unhewn.