“The water which we had stored with us is also corrupted.  I fear we shall thirst, if we have but wine to wet our lips,” Rachel explained.

“Thou dost not tell me that ye abide in this place?” the fan-bearer’s daughter asked, taking the piece of fowl and hard bread which Rachel offered her.

“Even so,” Rachel responded after a little silence.

“Holy Isis! guests of a spirit!  What a ghastly hospice for women!  How came ye here?”

For a moment there was silence, so marked that Masanath ceased her dainty feeding and drew back a little.

“Are ye lepers?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“Nay, we are fugitives,” Rachel answered.

“Fugitives!  What strait brought you to seek such asylum as this?”

Again a speaking pause.

“Who art thou, Lady?” Rachel asked, at last.

“I am Masanath, daughter of Har-hat, fan-bearer to the Pharaoh.”

“And thou art a friend of the oppressed?” the Israelite continued.

“It is my boast before the gods,” the Egyptian answered with dignity.

“I am Rachel, of Israel, daughter of Maai, and I have fled from shame.  In all Egypt, this is the one and only refuge for such as I. If my hiding-place were published, no help could save me from the despoiler.  My one protector is she who lies within.  She is my foster-mother, old and ill from abuse at the hands of brutal servants.  Thou hast my story.”

As Rachel ceased, Deborah called from within.

“There is more,” she said.  “Come hither.  I am moved to tell thee.”

Masanath obeyed with hesitation and, pausing in the doorway of the inner chamber, heard the story of the Israelites.  Great was her perplexity and her sorrow when she heard the name of Kenkenes spoken calmly and without grief.  They did not know he was dead!  She held her peace till the story was done, How much more would her heart have been tortured could the old woman have given her the name of the offending noble!  Instead, all unsuspecting, she heard the story of Har-hat’s wrong-doing with now and then an exclamation of indignation, condemning him heartily in her soul.

“The time for the Egyptian’s return is long past, but he will come soon,” Deborah concluded.

Masanath slowly turned her head and looked at Rachel.  This, then, was the love of that dear, dead artist, for whom Memphis mourned and had ceased to wait.  How doubly grievous his loss, for Rachel was undone thereby!  How heart-breaking to see her wait for him who would come no more!  Masanath choked back her tears and said, when she was composed again: 

“Ye need not molder in this cave, I can hide you in Memphis.”

“Nay, we will await him here.”

“But the Nile will be upon your refuge in three weeks.  Ye would starve if ye drowned not,” the Egyptian protested earnestly.

“It may be we shall not wait so long,” Rachel put in.