He viewed the situation with enforced calm.  Har-hat was in full possession of the facts.  He had the signet and was absolute master of Meneptah.  The Hathors had surrendered Kenkenes wholly into the hands of his enemy.  Furthermore, the fate of the Israelite seemed to be sealed.  At the thought Hotep gnashed his teeth.

In his sympathy for his friend’s strait, the scribe gave over his objections to Rachel.  Kenkenes had suffered for her, and, if he would, he should have her.

Between the king and persuasion was Har-hat, vitally interested in the defeat of any movement toward the aid of Kenkenes.  The one hope for the sculptor was the winning over of the Pharaoh, and only one could do it.  And that was Rameses, who was betrothed to the love of Hotep, and against her will.

Nothing could have appeared more distasteful to the scribe than the necessity of prayer to the man for whom he cherished a hate that threatened to make a cinder of his vitals.  But the more he rebelled the more his conscience urged him.

He flung himself on his couch and writhed; he reviled the Hathors, abused Kenkenes for the folly of sacrilege which had brought on him such misfortune; he execrated Meneptah, anathematized Har-hat and called down the fiercest maledictions on the head of Rameses.  Having relieved himself, he arose and, summoning his servant, had his disordered hair dressed, fresh robes brought for him, and a glass of wine for refreshment.  On the way to the palace-top he met Ta-user, walking slowly away from the staircase.  Rameses, solitary and luxurious, was stretched upon a cushioned divan in the shadow of a canopy over the hypostyle.

“The gods keep thee, Son of the Sun,” Hotep said.

“So it is thou, Hotep.  Nay, but I am glad to see thee.  Methought Ta-user meant to visit me just now.  Is there a taboret near?”

“Aye, but I shall not sit, my Prince.”

“Go to!  It makes me weary to see thee stand.  Sit, I tell thee!”

Hotep drew up the taboret and sat.

“I come to thee with news and a petition,” he began.  “It is more fitting that I should kneel.”

“Perchance.  But exertion offends mine eyes in such delicious hours as these, and I will forego the homage for the sake of mine own sinews.  Out with thy tidings.”

“Thou dost remember thy friend and mine, that gentle genius, Kenkenes.”

“I am not like to forget him so long as a bird sings or the Nile ripples make music.  Osiris pillow him most softly.”

“He is not dead, my Prince.”

“Nay!” Rameses cried, sitting up.  “The knave should be bastinadoed for the tears he wrung from us!”

“Thou wouldst deny my petition.  I am come to implore thee to intercede for him.”

Rameses bade him proceed.

“Thou art acquainted with the nature of Kenkenes, O Prince.  He is a visionary—­an idealist, and so firmly rooted are his beliefs that they are to his life as natural as the color of his eyes.  He is a beauty-worshiper.  Athor possesses him utterly, and her loveliness blinds him to all other things, particularly to his own welfare and safety.