She had done obeisance before the crown prince of Egypt.  He stood in a sumptuous chariot drawn by white horses and driven by a handsome charioteer.  The princely person was barely visible for the pair of feather fans borne by attendants that walked beside him.  Through continuous cheering he passed on.  Seti, the younger, followed, driving alone.  His eyes wandered in pleased wonder over the multitude which howled itself hoarse for him.

Close behind him was a chariot of ebony drawn by two plunging, coal-black horses.  A robust Egyptian, who shifted from one foot to the other and talked to his horses continually, drove therein alone.  As he approached, the Hebrew woman raised herself so suddenly that one of the nervous animals side-stepped affrighted.  The swaggering Egyptian, with a muttered curse, struck at her with his whip.  The four bearers sprang forward, but she quieted them with a few words in Hebrew.  Reentering her litter she was borne away, while the Thebans were still lost in the delights of the procession.

In the few strange words of the woman of Israel, Kenkenes had caught the name of Har-hat.  This then was the bearer of the king’s fan—­this insulter of age and womanhood.  And the words of Mentu seemed very fitting,—­“I like him not.”

The Thebans were in raptures.  The splendors of the pageant had far surpassed their expectations.  Priests, soldiers and officials came in companies, rank upon rank, of exalted and ornate dignity.  Chariots and horses shone with gilding, polished metal and gay housings, while the marching legions clanked with pike and blade and shield.  Now that the chief luminaries of the procession had passed, the rich and lofty departed with a great show of indifference to the rest of the parade.  But the humbler folk, all unlearned in the art of assumption, had not reached that nice point of culture, and lingered to see the last foot-soldier pass.

Kenkenes, urged by his mission, was departing with the rich and lofty, when his attention was attracted by the chief leading the section of royal scribes now passing.  His was a compact, plump figure, amply robed in sheeny linen, and he balanced himself skilfully in his light shell of a chariot, which bumped over the uneven pavement.  He was not a brilliant mark in the long parade, but something other than his mere appearance made him conspicuous.  Behind him, walking at a respectful distance, was his corps of subordinates—­all mature, many of them aged, but the years of their chief were fewer than those of the youngest among them.  From the center of the crowd his face appeared boyish, and the multitude hailed him with delight.  But the crown prince himself was not more unmoved by their acclaim.  His silent dignity, misunderstood, brought forth howls of genuine pleasure, and groups of young noblemen, out of the great college of Seti I, saluted him by name, adding thereto exalted titles in good-natured derision.