Her father had also sided with him, and for the first time ceased to reproach him with his origin.

But, on the third day after Hosea’s return, Hornecht had gone to talk with him and since then everything had changed for the worse.  He must be best aware what had caused the man of whom she, his daughter, must think no evil, to be changed from a friend to a mortal foe.

She had looked enquiringly at him as she spoke, and he did not refuse to answer—­Hornecht had told him that he would be a welcome son-in-law.

“And you?” asked Kasana, gazing anxiously into his face.

“I,” replied the prisoner, “was forced to say that though you had been dear and precious to me from your childhood, many causes forbade me to unite a woman’s fate to mine.”

Kasana’s eyes flashed, and she exclaimed: 

“Because you love another, a woman of your own people, the one who sent Ephraim to you!”

But Joshua shook his head and answered pleasantly: 

“You are wrong, Kasana!  She of whom you speak is the wife of another.”

“Then,” cried the young widow with fresh animation, gazing at him with loving entreaty, “why were you compelled to rebuff my father so harshly?”

“That was far from my intention, dear child,” he replied warmly, laying his hand on her head.  “I thought of you with all the tenderness of which my nature is capable.  If I could not fulfil his wish, it was because grave necessity forbids me to yearn for the peaceful happiness by my own hearth-stone for which others strive.  Had they given me my liberty, my life would have been one of restlessness and conflict.”

“Yet how many bear sword and shield,” replied Kasana, “and still, on their return, rejoice in the love of their wives and the dear ones sheltered beneath their roof.”

“True, true,” he answered gravely; “but special duties, unknown to the Egyptians, summon me.  I am a son of my people.”

“And you intend to serve them?” asked Kasana.  “Oh, I understand you.  Yet. . . . why then did you return to Tanis?  Why did you put yourself into Pharaoh’s power?”

“Because a sacred oath compelled me, poor child,” he answered kindly.

“An oath,” she cried, “which places death and imprisonment between you and those whom you love and still desire to serve.  Oh, would that you had never returned to this abode of injustice, treachery, and ingratitude!  To how many hearts this vow will bring grief and tears!  But what do you men care for the suffering you inflict on others?  You have spoiled all the pleasure of life for my hapless self, and among your own people dwells a noble father whose only son you are.  How often I have seen the dear old man, the stately figure with sparkling eyes and snow-white hair.  So would you look when you, too, had reached a ripe old age, as I said to myself, when I met him at the harbor, or in the fore-court of the palace, directing the shepherds who were driving the cattle and fleecy sheep to the tax-receiver’s table.  And now his son’s obstinacy must embitter every day of his old age.”