“O Royal One,” she cried, “wisely did thy mother prophecy.  Surely the Holy Spirit, the Knepth, was in her, O thou conceived by a God!  See the omen.  The lion there—­he growls within the Capitol at Rome—­and the dead man, he is the Ptolemy—­the Macedonian spawn that, like a foreign weed, hath overgrown the land of Nile; with the Macedonian Lagidae thou shalt go to smite the lion of Rome.  But the Macedonian cur shall fly, and the Roman lion shall strike him down, and thou shalt strike down the lion, and the land of Khem shall once more be free! free!  Keep thyself but pure, according to the commandment of the Gods, O son of the Royal House; O hope of Khemi! be but ware of Woman the Destroyer, and as I have said, so shall it be.  I am poor and wretched; yea, stricken with sorrow.  I have sinned in speaking of what should be hid, and for my sin I have paid in the coin of that which was born of my womb; willingly have I paid for thee.  But I have still of the wisdom of our people, nor do the Gods, in whose eyes all are equal, turn their countenance from the poor; the Divine Mother Isis hath spoken to me—­but last night she spake—­bidding me come hither to gather herbs, and read to thee the signs that I should see.  And as I have said, so it shall come to pass, if thou canst but endure the weight of the great temptation.  Come hither, Royal One!” and she led me to the edge of the canal, where the water was deep, and still and blue.  “Now gaze upon that face as the water throws it back.  Is not that brow fitted to bear the double crown?  Do not those gentle eyes mirror the majesty of kings?  Hath not the Ptah, the Creator, fashioned that form to fit the Imperial garb, and awe the glance of multitudes looking through thee to God?

“Nay, nay!” she went on in another voice—­a shrill old wife’s voice—­“I will—­be not so foolish, boy—­the scratch of a lion is a venomous thing, a terrible thing; yea, as bad as the bite of an asp—­it must be treated, else it will fester, and all thy days thou shalt dream of lions; ay, and snakes; and, also, it will break out in sores.  But I know of it—­I know.  I am not crazed for nothing.  For mark! everything has its balance—­in madness is much wisdom, and in wisdom much madness. La! la! la! Pharaoh himself can’t say where the one begins and the other ends.  Now, don’t stand gazing there, looking as silly as a cat in a crocus-coloured robe, as they say in Alexandria; but just let me stick these green things on the place, and in six days you’ll heal up as white as a three-year-child.  Never mind the smart of it, lad.  By Him who sleeps at Philae, or at Abouthis, or at Abydus—­as our divine masters have it now—­or wherever He does sleep, which is a thing we shall all find out before we want to—­by Osiris, I say, you’ll live to be as clean from scars as a sacrifice to Isis at the new moon, if you’ll but let me put it on.