“Who art thou?” he demanded.  “How may I know thou art not mine enemy?”

“Not so,” Kenkenes protested.  “Give me ear, I pray thee.  Would I have brought thee thy warning, knowing it such, were I thine enemy?  And further, did not Jambres, the mystic, who readeth men’s souls, trust me?”

“Aye, so it seems,” the king admitted, glad to be won by such physical magnificence.  “But who art thou?”

“Kenkenes, the son of Mentu, thy murket.”

“It can not be,” the king declared with suspicion in his eye.  “The murket had but one son and he must be dead with the first-born.”

“Nay; I was in the land of Goshen, the night of death, and the God of Israel spared me.”

Meneptah continued to gaze at him stubbornly.  Then a conclusive proof suggested itself to Kenkenes, which, under the stress of an austere purpose and a soul-trying suspense, he had no heart to use.  But the need pressed him; he choked back his unwillingness, and submitted.  Coming very close to Meneptah, he began to sing, with infinite softness, the song that the Pharaoh had heard at the Nile-side that sunrise, now as far away as his childhood seemed.  How strange his own voice sounded to him—­how out of place!

At first, the expression of surprise in the king’s face was mingled with perplexity.  But the dim records of memory spoke at the urging of association.  After a few bars, the Pharaoh’s countenance had become reassured.  Kenkenes ceased at once.

“Enough!” Meneptah declared.  “The gods have most melodiously distinguished thee from all others.  Thou art he whom I heard one dawn, and mine heir in Osiris, my Rameses, told me it was the son of Mentu.”

“Then, being of the house of Mentu, thou hast no fear of my steadfastness, O my Sovereign?”

“Nay; would that I might be as trustful of all my ministers.  Alas, that a single traitor should lay the stain of unfaith upon all the court!  Ah, who is mine enemy?”

The sentence, more exclamatory than questioning, seemed to the young man like a call upon him to voice his impeachments.  His inclination pressed hard upon him and the tokens of his knowledge wrote themselves upon his open face.  When a man is dodging death and expecting treachery, his perceptions become acute.  The king, with his eyes upon the young man’s countenance, caught the change of expression.

He sprang at Kenkenes and seized his arms.

“Speak!” he cried violently.  “Thou knowest; thou knowest!”

A sudden ebullition of rage and vengeance sent a tingling current through the young man’s veins.  The moment had come.  In the eye of a cautious man, he had been called upon for a dangerous declaration.  He had a mighty man to accuse, no proof and little evidence at his command, and a weakling was to decide between them.  But his cause equipped him with strength and a reckless courage.  He faced the king fairly and made no search after ceremonious words.  He spoke as he felt—­intensely.