Her golden head drooped till her face was bowed upon her hands.  After a little silence she answered him, her voice low with shame.

“This man sought to take me before, at Pa-Ramesu, but Atsu learned of it in time and sent me to Masaarah.  This morning I met him again—­” She paused, and Kenkenes aided her.

“Aye, I can guess—­poor affronted child!”

“Atsu meant to escape with me again, but the servants of the nobleman came before we could get away.”

Kenkenes knew by her choice of words that she did not know the name of her persecutor, and he did not tell her what it was.  He could not bear the name of Har-hat on her lips.  She went on, after a little silence.

“I came—­” she began, coloring deeply, “to leave thy collar with the statue—­I did not expect to find thee there.”

How little it takes to dispirit a lover!  How could he know that any thought had led her to do that thing save an impulse actuated by indifference or real dislike?  His hope was immediately reduced to the lowest ebb.  The mention of the taskmaster’s name brought forward the probability of a rival.

“I can take thee back to Atsu,” he said slowly.  “These menials will not remain in the hills after sunset, and under cover of night I can slip thee, by strategy, past any sentries they may have set and get thee to Atsu.  I, by my sacrilege, and he by his insubordination, are both under ban of the law, but danger with him will be sweeter danger than peril with me, I doubt not.”

She looked at him, and the hurt that began to show on her face gave place to puzzlement.

“Is it not so?” he asked with a bitter smile.  “The companionship of ones beloved works wonders out of heavy straits!”

“But—.  Dost thou—?  Atsu is naught to me,” she cried, her grave face brightening.

The blood surged back to his cheeks and the life into his eyes.  He leaned toward her, ready to ask for more enlightenment concerning her conduct, when she went on dreamily:  “But he is wondrous kind and hath made the camp bright with his humanity.  Israel loveth Atsu.”

Kenkenes turned again to the perplexity in hand.

“I came this morning to ask thy permission to give thee thy freedom.  I doubt not Israel of Masaarah, hidden in a niche in the hills, does not dream that it is the plan of the Pharaoh—­nay, the heir to the crown of Egypt by the mouth of the Pharaoh—­to exterminate the Hebrews.”  Rachel recoiled from him.

“What sayest thou?” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with terror.

“Nay, forgive me!” he said penitently.  “So intent was I on thy rescue that I forgot to soften my words.  Let it be.  It is said; I would it were not true.”

Her affright was only momentary, for her faith restored her ere his last words were spoken.

“It will not come to pass,” she declared.  “Jehovah will not suffer it.  Thou shalt see—­and let the Pharaoh beware!” Her words were vehement and she offered no argument.  She saw no need of it, since her belief, merely expressed, had the force of fact with her.