Kenkenes bent reverently before him and was greeted kindly by the pontiff.

“Hast thou guessed why I sent for thee?” he asked at once.

“I have guessed,” Kenkenes replied, “but it may be wildly.”

“Let us see.  I would have thee carry a message for the brotherhood.”

Kenkenes inclined his head.

“Good.  Be thy journey as quick as thy perception.  I ask thy pardon for laying the work of a temple courier upon thy shoulders, but the message is of such import that I would carry it myself were I as young and unburdened with duty as thou.”

“I am thy servant, holy Father, and well pleased with the opportunity that permits me to serve the gods.”

“I know, and therefore have I chosen thee.  My trusted courier is dead; the others are light-minded, and Tape is in the height of festivity.  They might delay—­they might be lured into forgetting duty, and,” the pontiff lowered his voice and drew nearer to Kenkenes, “and there are those that may be watching for this letter.  A nobleman would not be thought a messenger.  Thou dost incur less danger than the clout-wearing runner for the temple.”

A light broke over Kenkenes.

“I understand,” he said.

“Go, then, by private boat at sunset, and Ptah be with thee.  Make all speed.”  He put a doubly wrapped scroll into Kenkenes’ hands.  “This is to be delivered to our holy Superior, Loi, priest of Amen.  Farewell, and fail not.”

Kenkenes bowed and withdrew.

It was long before sunset, and he had an unfulfilled promise in mind.  He crossed the square thoughtfully and paused by the pool in its center.  The surface, dark and smooth as oil, reflected his figure and face faithfully and to his evident satisfaction.  He passed around the pool and walked briskly in the direction of another narrow passage lined by rich residences.

He knocked at a portal framed by a pair of huge pilasters, which towered upward, and, as pillars, formed two of the colonnade on the roof.  A portress admitted him with a smile and led him through the sumptuously appointed chamber of guests into the intramural park.  There she indicated a nook in an arbor of vines and left him.

With a silent foot he crossed the flowery court and entered the bower.  The beautiful dweller sat in a deep chair, her little feet on a carved footstool, a silver-stringed lyre tumbled beside it.  She was alone and appeared desolate.  When the tall figure of the sculptor cast a shadow upon her she looked up with a little cry of delight.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “a god led thee hither to save me from the solitude.  It is a moody monster not catalogued in the list of terrors.”  She thrust the lyre aside with her sandal and pushed the footstool, only a little, away from her.

“Sit there,” she commanded.  Kenkenes obeyed willingly.  He drew off his coif and tossed it aside.

“Thou seest I am come in the garb of labor,” he confessed.