“For himself, even so.  But the very making of one’s selfish content may work havoc with the peace of another.  That I have seen.”

“Aye,” Nechutes responded uncomfortably, wondering if the princess meant to confess her disappointment to them.

“It makes me quarrel at the Hathors.  The most of us deserve the ills that overtake us.  But he—­alas—­none but the good could sing as he sang!”

The cup-bearer dropped his indifference immediately.

“Ha!  Whom dost thou mean?” he demanded.

“Oh!” the princess exclaimed.  “Perchance I give thee news.”

“If thou meanest Kenkenes, indeed thou dost give us news.  What of him?  We know that he is dead.  Is there anything further?”

“Of a truth, dost thou not know?  Nay, then, far be it from me to tell thee—­anything.”  She passed round them and started to go on.  In a few paces, Nechutes overtook her.

“Give us thy meaning, Ta-user,” he said earnestly.  “Kenkenes was near to me—­to Ta-meri.  What knowest thou?”

“The court buzzes with it.  Strange indeed that ye heard it not.  It is said, and of a truth well-nigh proved, that the heart of the singer broke when Ta-meri chose thee, Nechutes, and that—­that the disaster which befell him may have been sought.”

Nechutes seized her arm, and Ta-meri cried out,

“He sent Ta-meri to me,” the cup-bearer said wrathfully.  “Thy news is—­”

“Alas!  Nechutes,” the princess said sorrowfully, “it was sacrifice.  He knew that Ta-meri loved thee and he nobly surrendered, but was the hurt any less because he submitted?”

Nechutes released her and turned away.  Ta-meri covered her face with her hands and followed him.  He did not pause for her, and she had to hasten her steps to keep up with him.  The princess looked after them for a space and went on.

Straight through the corridors toward the royal apartments she went.  Her copper eyes had taken on a luminousness that was visible in the dark.  There was an elasticity in her step that spoke of exultation.

The Hathors were indulging her beyond reason.

A soldier of the royal guard paced outside the doorway of the king’s apartments.  Ta-user flung him a smile and, passing him without a word of leave-asking, smiled again and disappeared through the door.

Meneptah, who sat alone, raised his head from the scroll he was laboriously spelling.  If he had meant to resent the intrusion, the impulse died within him at the charming obeisance the princess made.

As she rose at his sign, Har-hat entered.  Ta-user came near to the king, smiling triumphantly at the fan-bearer.

“The gods sped my feet,” she said, “and I am here first.  Hold thy peace, noble Har-hat.  Mine is the first audience.”

Having reached the king’s side, she dropped on her knees and folded her hands on the arm of his chair.