“Would that the work were as probable as thou art hopeful,” the young man said with a sigh.

“Out upon thee, idler!” was the warm reply.  “Art thou come to vex me with thy doubts and scout thy sovereign’s pious intentions?” The young man smiled.

“Hath the sun shone on architecture or sculpture since Meneptah succeeded to the throne?” he asked.

Mentu’s eyes brightened wrathfully but the young man laid a soothing palm over the hand that gripped the reed.

“I do not mock thee, father.  Rather am I full of sympathy for thee.  Thou mindest me of a war-horse, stabled, with his battle-love unsatisfied, hearing in every whimper of the wind a trumpet call.  Nay, I would to Osiris that the Pharaoh’s intents were permanent.”

Somewhat mollified, Mentu put away the detaining hand and went on with his work.  Presently the young man spoke again.

“I came to speak further of the signet,” he said.

“Aye, but what signet, Kenkenes?”

“The signet of the Incomparable Pharaoh.”

“What! after three years?”

“The sanctuary of the tomb is never entered and it is more than worth the Journey to Tape[2] to search for the scarab again.”

“But you would search in vain,” the sculptor declared.  “Rameses has reclaimed his own.”

Kenkenes shifted his position and protested.

“But we made no great search for it.  How may we know of a surety if it be gone?”

“Because of thy sacrilege,” was the prompt and forcible reply.  “Osiris with chin in hand and a look of mystification on his brow, pondering over the misdeeds of a soul!  Mystification on Osiris!  And with that, thou didst affront the sacred walls of the royal tomb and call it the Judgment of the Dead.  Not one law of the sculptor’s ritual but thou hadst broken, in the sacrilegious fresco.  Gods!  I marvel that the rock did not crumble under the first bite of thy chisel!”

Mentu fell to his work again.  While he talked a small ape entered the room and, discovering the paint-pots, proceeded to decorate his person with a liberal hand.  At this moment Kenkenes became aware of him and, by an accurately aimed lump of clay, drove the meddler out with a show of more asperity than the offense would ordinarily excite.  Meanwhile the sculptor wetted his pen and, poising it over the plans, regarded his drawings with half-closed eyes.  Then, as if he read his words on the papyrus he proceeded: 

“Thou wast not ignorant.  All thy life hast thou had the decorous laws of the ritual before thee.  And there, in the holy precincts of the Incomparable Pharaoh’s tomb, with the opportunity of a lifetime at hand, the skill of thy fathers in thy fingers, thou didst execute an impious whim,—­an unheard-of apostasy.”  He broke off suddenly, changing his tone.  “What if the priesthood had learned of the deed?  The Hathors be praised that they did not and that no heavier punishment than the loss of the signet is ours.”