Paaker himself returned to the House of Seti, where, in the night which
closed the feast day, there was always a grand banquet for the superior
priests of the Necropolis and of the temples of eastern Thebes, for the
representatives of other foundations, and for select dignitaries of the
state.
His father had never failed to attend this entertainment when he was
in Thebes, but he himself had to-day for the first time received the
much-coveted honor of an invitation, which--Ameni told him when he gave
it--he entirely owed to the Regent.
His mother had tied up his hand, which Rameri had severely hurt; it was
extremely painful, but he would not have missed the banquet at any cost,
although he felt some alarm of the solemn ceremony. His family was as
old as any in Egypt, his blood purer than the king's, and nevertheless
he never felt thoroughly at home in the company of superior people. He
was no priest, although a scribe; he was a warrior, and yet he did not
rank with royal heroes.
He had been brought up to a strict fulfilment of his duty, and he
devoted himself zealously to his calling; but his habits of life were
widely different from those of the society in which he had been brought
up--a society of which his handsome, brave, and magnanimous father had
been a chief ornament. He did not cling covetously to his inherited
wealth, and the noble attribute of liberality was not strange to him,
but the coarseness of his nature showed itself most when he was most
lavish, for he was never tired of exacting gratitude from those whom he
had attached to him by his gifts, and he thought he had earned the right
by his liberality to meet the recipient with roughness or arrogance,
according to his humor. Thus it happened that his best actions procured
him not friends but enemies.
Paaker's was, in fact, an ignoble, that is to say, a selfish nature; to
shorten his road he trod down flowers as readily as he marched over the
sand of the desert. This characteristic marked him in all things,
even in his outward demeanor; in the sound of his voice, in his broad
features, in the swaggering gait of his stumpy figure.
In camp he could conduct himself as he pleased; but this was not
permissible in the society of his equals in rank; for this reason,
and because those faculties of quick remark and repartee, which
distinguished them, had been denied to him, he felt uneasy and out of
his element when he mixed with them, and he would hardly have accepted
Ameni's invitation, if it had not so greatly flattered his vanity.
It was already late; but the banquet did not begin till midnight, for
the guests, before it began, assisted at the play which was performed by
lamp and torch-light on the sacred lake in the south of the Necropolis,
and which represented the history of Isis and Osiris.
When he entered the decorated hall in which the tables were prepared, he
found all the guests assembled. The Regent Ani was present, and sat
on Ameni's right at the top of the centre high-table at which several
places were unoccupied; for the prophets and the initiated of the temple
of Amon had excused themselves from being present. They were faithful to
Rameses and his house; their grey-haired Superior disapproved of Ameni's
severity towards the prince and princess, and they regarded the miracle
of the sacred heart as a malicious trick of the chiefs of the Necropolis
against the great temple of the capital for which Rameses had always
shown a preference.
The pioneer went up to the table, where sat the general of the troops
that had just returned victorious from Ethiopia, and several other
officers of high rank, There was a place vacant next to the general.
Paaker fixed his eyes upon this, but when he observed that the officer
signed to the one next to him to come a little nearer, the pioneer
imagined that each would endeavor to avoid having him for his neighbor,
and with an angry glance he turned his back on the table where the
warriors sat.
The Mohar was not, in fact, a welcome boon-companion. "The wine turns
sour when that churl looks at it," said the general.
The eyes of all the guests turned on Paaker, who looked round for a
seat, and when no one beckoned him to one he felt his blood begin to
boil. He would have liked to leave the banqueting hall at once with a
swingeing curse. He had indeed turned towards the door, when the Regent,
who had exchanged a few whispered words with Ameni, called to him,
requested him to take the place that had been reserved for him, and
pointed to the seat by his side, which had in fact been intended for the
high-priest of the temple of Amon.
Paaker bowed low, and took the place of honor, hardly daring to look
round the table, lest he should encounter looks of surprise or of
mockery. And yet he had pictured to himself his grandfather Assa, and
his father, as somewhere near this place of honor, which had actually
often enough been given up to them. And was he not their descendant and
heir? Was not his mother Setchem of royal race? Was not the temple of
Seti more indebted to him than to any one?
A servant laid a garland of flowers round his shoulders, and another
handed him wine and food. Then he raised his eyes, and met the bright
and sparkling glance of Gagabu; he looked quickly down again at the
table.
Then the Regent spoke to him, and turning to the other guests mentioned
that Paaker was on the point of starting next day for Syria, and
resuming his arduous labors as Mohar. It seemed to Paaker that the
Regent was excusing himself for having given him so high a place of
honor.
Presently Ani raised his wine-cup, and drank to the happy issue of his
reconnoitring-expedition, and a victorious conclusion to every struggle
in which the Mohar might engage. The high-priest then pledged him, and
thanked him emphatically in the name of the brethren of the temple, for
the noble tract of arable land which he had that morning given them as
a votive offering. A murmur of approbation ran round the tables, and
Paaker's timidity began to diminish.
He had kept the wrappings that his mother had applied round his still
aching hand.
"Are you wounded?" asked the Regent.
"Nothing of importance," answered the pioneer. "I was helping my mother
into the boat, and it happened--"
"It happened," interrupted an old school-fellow of the Mohar's,
who himself held a high appointment as officer of the city-watch of
Thebes--"It happened that an oar or a stake fell on his fingers."
"Is it possible!" cried the Regent.
"And quite a youngster laid hands on him," continued the officer. "My
people told me every detail. First the boy killed his dog--"
"That noble Descher?" asked the master of the hunt in a tone of regret.
"Your father was often by my side with that dog at a boar-hunt."
Paaker bowed his head; but the officer of the watch, secure in his
position and dignity, and taking no notice of the glow of anger which
flushed Paaker's face, began again:
"When the hound lay on the ground, the foolhardy boy struck your dagger
out of your hand."
"And did this squabble lead to any disturbance?" asked Ameni earnestly.
"No," replied the officer. "The feast has passed off to-day with unusual
quiet. If the unlucky interruption to the procession by that crazy
paraschites had not occurred, we should have nothing but praise for the
populace. Besides the fighting priest, whom we have handed over to you,
only a few thieves have been apprehended, and they belong exclusively to
the caste,
[According to Diodorous (I. 80) there was a cast of thieves in
Thebes. All citizens were obliged to enter their names in a
register, and state where they lived, and the thieves did the same.
The names were enrolled by the "chief of the thieves," and all
stolen goods had to be given up to him. The person robbed had to
give a written description of the object he had lost, and a
declaration as to when and where he had lost it. The stolen
property was then easily recovered, and restored to the owner on
the payment of one fourth of its value, which was given to the
thief. A similar state of things existed at Cairo within a
comparatively short time.]
so we simply take their booty from them, and let them go. But say,
Paaker, what devil of amiability took possession of you down by the
river, that you let the rascal escape unpunished."
"Did you do that?" exclaimed Gagabu. "Revenge is usually your--"
Ameni threw so warning a glance at the old man, that he suddenly broke
off, and then asked the pioneer: "How did the struggle begin, and who
was the fellow?"
"Some insolent people," said Paaker, "wanted to push in front of the
boat that was waiting for my mother, and I asserted my rights. The
rascal fell upon me, and killed my dog and--by my Osirian father!--the
crocodiles would long since have eaten him if a woman had not come
between us, and made herself known to me as Bent-Anat, the daughter of
Rameses. It was she herself, and the rascal was the young prince Rameri,
who was yesterday forbidden this temple."
"Oho!" cried the old master of the hunt. "Oho! my lord! Is this the way
to speak of the children of the king?"
Others of the company who were attached to Pharaoh's family expressed
their indignation; but Ameni whispered to Paaker--"Say no more!" then he
continued aloud:
"You never were careful in weighing your words, my friend, and now,
as it seems to me, you are speaking in the heat of fever. Come here,
Gagabu, and examine Paaker's wound, which is no disgrace to him--for it
was inflicted by a prince."
The old man loosened the bandage from the pioneer's swollen hand.
"That was a bad blow," he exclaimed; "three fingers are broken, and--do
you see?--the emerald too in your signet ring."
Paaker looked down at his aching fingers, and uttered a sigh of rehef,
for it was not the oracular ring with the name of Thotmes III., but
the valuable one given to his father by the reigning king that had been
crushed. Only a few solitary fragments of the splintered stone remained
in the setting; the king's name had fallen to pieces, and disappeared.
Paaker's bloodless lips moved silently, and an inner voice cried out to
him: "The Gods point out the way! The name is gone, the bearer of the
name must follow."
"It is a pity about the ring," said Gagabu. "And if the hand is not
to follow it--luckily it is your left hand--leave off drinking, let
yourself be taken to Nebsecht the surgeon, and get him to set the joints
neatly, and bind them up."
Paaker rose, and went away after Ameni had appointed to meet him on the
following day at the Temple of Seti, and the Regent at the palace.
When the door had closed behind him, the treasurer of the temple said:
"This has been a bad day for the Mohar, and perhaps it will teach him
that here in Thebes he cannot swagger as he does in the field. Another
adventure occurred to him to-day; would you like to hear it?"
"Yes; tell it!" cried the guests.
"You all knew old Seni," began the treasurer. "He was a rich man, but he
gave away all his goods to the poor, after his seven blooming sons, one
after another, had died in the war, or of illness. He only kept a small
house with a little garden, and said that as the Gods had taken his
children to themselves in the other world he would take pity on the
forlorn in this. 'Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the
naked' says the law; and now that Seni has nothing more to give away,
he goes through the city, as you know, hungry and thirsty himself, and
scarcely clothed, and begging for his adopted children, the poor. We
have all given to him, for we all know for whom he humbles himself,
and holds out his hand. To-day he went round with his little bag, and
begged, with his kind good eyes, for alms. Paaker has given us a good
piece of arable land, and thinks, perhaps with reason, that he has done
his part. When Seni addressed him, he told him to go; but the old man
did not give up asking him, he followed him persistently to the grave
of his father, and a great many people with him. Then the pioneer pushed
him angrily back, and when at last the beggar clutched his garment,
he raised his whip, and struck him two or three times, crying out:
'There-that is your portion!' The good old man bore it quite patiently,
while he untied the bag, and said with tears in his eyes: 'My
portion--yes--but not the portion of the poor!'
"I was standing near, and I saw how Paaker hastily withdrew into the
tomb, and how his mother Setchem threw her full purse to Seni. Others
followed her example, and the old man never had a richer harvest. The
poor may thank the Mohar! A crowd of people collected in front of the
tomb, and he would have fared badly if it had not been for the police
guard who drove them away."
During this narrative, which was heard with much approval--for no one is
more secure of his result than he who can tell of the downfall of a man
who is disliked for his arrogance--the Regent and the high-priest had
been eagerly whispering to each other.
"There can be no doubt," said Ameni, "that Bent-Anat did actually come
to the festival."
"And had also dealings with the priest whom you so warmly defend,"
whispered the other.
"Pentaur shall be questioned this very night," returned the high-priest.
"The dishes will soon be taken away, and the drinking will begin. Let us
go and hear what the poet says."
"But there are now no witnesses," replied Ani.
"We do not need them," said Ameni. "He is incapable of a lie."
"Let us go then," said the Regent smiling, "for I am really curious
about this white negro, and how he will come to terms with the truth.
You have forgotten that there is a woman in the case."
"That there always is!" answered Ameni; he called Gagabu to him, gave
him his seat, begged him to keep up the flow of cheerful conversation,
to encourage the guests to drink, and to interrupt all talk of the king,
the state, or the war.
"You know," he concluded, "that we are not by ourselves this evening.
Wine has, before this, betrayed everything! Remember this--the mother of
foresight looks backwards!"
Ani clapped his hand on the old man's shoulder. "There will be a space
cleared to-night in your winelofts. It is said of you that you cannot
bear to see either a full glass or an empty one; to-night give your
aversion to both free play. And when you think it is the right moment,
give a sign to my steward, who is sitting there in the corner. He has a
few jars of the best liquor from Byblos, that he brought over with
him, and he will bring it to you. I will come in again and bid you
good-night." Ameni was accustomed to leave the hall at the beginning of
the drinking.
When the door was closed behind him and his companion, when fresh
rose-garlands had been brought for the necks of the company, when lotus
blossoms decorated their heads, and the beakers were refilled, a choir
of musicians came in, who played on harps, lutes, flutes, and small
drums. The conductor beat the time by clapping his hands, and when the
music had raised the spirits of the drinkers, they seconded his efforts
by rhythmical clippings. The jolly old Gagabu kept up his character as a
stout drinker, and leader of the feast.
The most priestly countenances soon beamed with cheerfulness, and the
officers and courtiers outdid each other in audacious jokes. Then the
old man signed to a young temple-servant, who wore a costly wreath; he
came forward with a small gilt image of a mummy, carried it round the
circle and cried:
"Look at this, be merry and drink so long as you are on earth, for soon
you must be like this."
[A custom mentioned by Herodotus. Lucian saw such an image brought
in at a feast. The Greeks adopted the idea, but beautified it,
using a winged Genius of death instead of a mummy. The Romans also
had their "larva."]
Gagabu gave another signal, and the Regent's steward brought in the wine
from Byblos. Ani was much lauded for the wonderful choiceness of the
liquor.
"Such wine," exclaimed the usually grave chief of the pastophori, "is
like soap."
[This comparison is genuinely Eastern. Kisra called wine "the soap
of sorrow." The Mohammedans, to whom wine is forbidden, have
praised it like the guests of the House of Seti. Thus Abdelmalik
ibn Salih Haschimi says: "The best thing the world enjoys is wine."
Gahiz says: "When wine enters thy bones and flows through thy limbs
it bestows truth of feeling, and perfects the soul; it removes
sorrow, elevates the mood, etc., etc." When Ibn 'Aischah was told
that some one drank no wine, he said: "He has thrice disowned the
world." Ibn el Mu'tazz sang:
"Heed not time, how it may linger, or how swiftly take its flight,
Wail thy sorrows only to the wine before thee gleaming bright.
But when thrice thou st drained the beaker watch and ward
keep o'er thy heart.
Lest the foam of joy should vanish, and thy soul with anguish smart,
This for every earthly trouble is a sovereign remedy,
Therefore listen to my counsel, knowing what will profit thee,
Heed not time, for ah, how many a man has longed in pain
Tale of evil days to lighten--and found all his longing vain."
--Translated by Mary J. Safford.]
"What a simile!" cried Gagabu. "You must explain it."
"It cleanses the soul of sorrow," answered the other. "Good, friend!"
they all exclaimed. "Now every one in turn shall praise the noble juice
in some worthy saying."
"You begin--the chief prophet of the temple of Atnenophis."
"Sorrow is a poison," said the priest, "and wine is the antidote."
"Well said!--go on; it is your turn, my lord privy councillor."
"Every thing has its secret spring," said the official, "and wine is the
secret of joy."
"Now you, my lord keeper of the seal."
"Wine seals the door on discontent, and locks the gates on sorrow."
"That it does, that it certainly does!--Now the governor of Hermothis,
the oldest of all the company."
"Wine ripens especially for us old folks, and not for you young people."
"That you must explain," cried a voice from the table of the military
officers.
"It makes young men of the old," laughed the octogenarian, "and children
of the young."
"He has you there, you youngsters," cried Gagabu. "What have you to say,
Septah?"
"Wine is a poison," said the morose haruspex, "for it makes fools of
wise men."
"Then you have little to fear from it, alas!" said Gagabu laughing.
"Proceed, my lord of the chase."
"The rim of the beaker," was the answer, "is like the lip of the woman
you love. Touch it, and taste it, and it is as good as the kiss of a
bride."
"General--the turn is yours."
"I wish the Nile ran with such wine instead of with water," cried the
soldier, "and that I were as big as the colossus of Atnenophis, and that
the biggest obelisk of Hatasu were my drinking vessel, and that I might
drink as much as I would! But now--what have you to say of this noble
liquor, excellent Gagabu?"
The second prophet raised his beaker, and gazed lovingly at the golden
fluid; he tasted it slowly, and then said with his eyes turned to
heaven:
"I only fear that I am unworthy to thank the Gods for such a divine
blessing."
"Well said!" exclaimed the Regent Ani, who had re-entered the room
unobserved. "If my wine could speak, it would thank you for such a
speech."
"Hail to the Regent Ani!" shouted the guests, and they all rose with
their cups filled with his noble present.
He pledged them and then rose.
"Those," said he, "who have appreciated this wine, I now invite to dine
with me to-morrow. You will then meet with it again, and if you still
find it to your liking, you will be heartily welcome any evening. Now,
good night, friends."
A thunder of applause followed him, as he quitted the room.
The morning was already grey, when the carousing-party broke up; few of
the guests could find their way unassisted through the courtyard; most
of them had already been carried away by the slaves, who had waited for
them--and who took them on their heads, like bales of goods--and had
been borne home in their litters; but for those who remained to the end,
couches were prepared in the House of Seti, for a terrific storm was now
raging.
While the company were filling and refilling the beakers, which raised
their spirits to so wild a pitch, the prisoner Pentaur had been examined
in the presence of the Regent. Ameni's messenger had found the poet
on his knees, so absorbed in meditation that he did not perceive his
approach. All his peace of mind had deserted him, his soul was in a
tumult, and he could not succeed in obtaining any calm and clear control
over the new life-pulses which were throbbing in his heart.
He had hitherto never gone to rest at night without requiring of himself
an account of the past day, and he had always been able to detect the
most subtle line that divided right from wrong in his actions. But
to-night he looked back on a perplexing confusion of ideas and events,
and when he endeavored to sort them and arrange them, he could see
nothing clearly but the image of Bent-Anat, which enthralled his heart
and intellect.
He had raised his hand against his fellow-men, and dipped it in blood,
he desired to convince himself of his sin, and to repent but he could
not; for each time he recalled it, to blame and condemn himself, he
saw the soldier's hand twisted in Uarda's hair, and the princess's eyes
beaming with approbation, nay with admiration, and he said to himself
that he had acted rightly, and in the same position would do the same
again to-morrow. Still he felt that he had broken through all the
conditions with which fate had surrounded his existence, and it seemed
to him that he could never succeed in recovering the still, narrow, but
peaceful life of the past.
His soul went up in prayer to the Almighty One, and to the spirit of the
sweet humble woman whom he had called his mother, imploring for peace
of mind and modest content; but in vain--for the longer he remained
prostrate, flinging up his arms in passionate entreaty, the keener grew
his longings, the less he felt able to repent or to recognize his guilt.
Ameni's order to appear before him came almost as a deliverance, and
he followed the messenger prepared for a severe punishment; but not
afraid--almost joyful.
In obedience to the command of the grave high-priest, Pentaur related
the whole occurrence--how, as there was no leech in the house, he
had gone with the old wife of the paraschites to visit her possessed
husband; how, to save the unhappy girl from ill-usage by the mob, he had
raised his hand in fight, and dealt indeed some heavy blows.
"You have killed four men," said Ameni, "and severely wounded twice as
many. Why did you not reveal yourself as a priest, as the speaker of
the morning's discourse? Why did you not endeavor to persuade the people
with words of warning, rather than with brute force?"
"I had no priest's garment," replied Pentaur. "There again you did
wrong," said Ameni, "for you know that the law requires of each of
us never to leave this house without our white robes. But you cannot
pretend not to know your own powers of speech, nor to contradict me when
I assert that, even in the plainest working-dress, you were perfectly
able to produce as much effect with words as by deadly blows!" "I might
very likely have succeeded," answered Pentaur, "but the most savage
temper ruled the crowd; there was no time for reflection, and when I
struck down the villain, like some reptile, who had seized the innocent
girl, the lust of fighting took possession of me. I cared no more for my
own life, and to save the child I would have slain thousands."
"Your eyes sparkle," said Ameni, "as if you had performed some heroic
feat; and yet the men you killed were only unarmed and pious citizens,
who were roused to indignation by a gross and shameless outrage. I
cannot conceive whence the warrior-spirit should have fallen on a
gardener's son--and a minister of the Gods."
"It is true," answered Pentaur, "when the crowd rushed upon me, and I
drove them back, putting out all my strength, I felt something of the
warlike rage of the soldier, who repulses the pressing foe from the
standard committed to his charge. It was sinful in a priest, no doubt,
and I will repent of it--but I felt it."
"You felt it--and you will repent of it, well and good," replied Ameni.
"But you have not given a true account of all that happened. Why have
you concealed that Bent-Anat--Rameses' daughter--was mixed up in the
fray, and that she saved you by announcing her name to the people, and
commanding them to leave you alone? When you gave her the lie before all
the people, was it because you did not believe that it was Bent-Anat?
Now, you who stand so firmly on so high a platform--now you
standard-bearer of the truth answer me."
Pentaur had turned pale at his master's words, and said, as he looked at
the Regent:
"We are not alone."
"Truth is one!" said Ameni coolly. "What you can reveal to me, can also
be heard by this noble lord, the Regent of the king himself. Did you
recognize Bent-Anat, or not?"
"The lady who rescued me was like her, and yet unlike," answered the
poet, whose blood was roused by the subtle irony of his Superior's
words. "And if I had been as sure that she was the princess, as I am
that you are the man who once held me in honor, and who are now trying
to humiliate me, I would all the more have acted as I did to spare
a lady who is more like a goddess than a woman, and who, to save an
unworthy wretch like me, stooped from a throne to the dust."
"Still the poet--the preacher!" said Ameni. Then he added severely. "I
beg for a short and clear answer. We know for certain that the princess
took part in the festival in the disguise of a woman of low rank, for
she again declared herself to Paaker; and we know that it was she who
saved you. But did you know that she meant to come across the Nile?"
"How should I?" asked Pentaur.
"Well, did you believe that it was Bent-Anat whom you saw before you
when she ventured on to the scene of conflict?"
"I did believe it," replied Pentaur; he shuddered and cast down his
eyes.
"Then it was most audacious to drive away the king's daughter as an
impostor."
"It was," said Pentaur. "But for my sake she had risked the honor of her
name, and that of her royal father, and I--I should not have risked my
life and freedom for--"
"We have heard enough," interrupted Ameni.
"Not so," the Regent interposed. "What became of the girl you had
saved?"
"An old witch, Hekt by name, a neighbor of Pinem's, took her and her
grandmother into her cave," answered the poet; who was then, by the
high-priest's order, taken back to the temple-prison.
Scarcely had he disappeared when the Regent exclaimed:
"A dangerous man! an enthusiast! an ardent worshipper of Rameses!"
"And of his daughter," laughed Ameni, "but only a worshipper. Thou hast
nothing to fear from him--I will answer for the purity of his motives."
"But he is handsome and of powerful speech," replied Ani. "I claim him
as my prisoner, for he has killed one of my soldiers."
Ameni's countenance darkened, and he answered very sternly:
"It is the exclusive right of our conclave, as established by our
charter, to judge any member of this fraternity. You, the future king,
have freely promised to secure our privileges to us, the champions of
your own ancient and sacred rights."
"And you shall have them," answered the Regent with a persuasive smile.
"But this man is dangerous, and you would not have him go unpunished."
"He shall be severely judged," said Ameni, "but by us and in this
house."
"He has committed murder!" cried Ani. "More than one murder. He is
worthy of death."
"He acted under pressure of necessity," replied Ameni. "And a man so
favored by the Gods as he, is not to be lightly given up because an
untimely impulse of generosity prompted him to rash conduct. I know--I
can see that you wish him ill. Promise me, as you value me as an ally,
that you will not attempt his life."
"Oh, willingly!" smiled the Regent, giving the high-priest his hand.
"Accept my sincere thanks," said Ameni. "Pentaur was the most promising
of my disciples, and in spite of many aberrations I still esteem him
highly. When he was telling us of what had occurred to-day, did he not
remind you of the great Assa, or of his gallant son, the Osirian father
of the pioneer Paaker?"
"The likeness is extraordinary," answered Ani, "and yet he is of quite
humble birth. Who was his mother?"
"Our gate-keeper's daughter, a plain, pious, simple creature."
"Now I will return to the banqueting hall," said Ani, after a fete
moments of reflection. "But I must ask you one thing more. I spoke to
you of a secret that will put Paaker into our power. The old sorceress
Hekt, who has taken charge of the paraschites' wife and grandchild,
knows all about it. Send some policeguards over there, and let her be
brought over here as a prisoner; I will examine her myself, and so can
question her without exciting observation."
Ameni at once sent off a party of soldiers, and then quietly ordered a
faithful attendant to light up the so-called audience-chamber, and to
put a seat for him in an adjoining room.
CHAPTER XXX.
While the banquet was going forward at the temple, and Ameni's
messengers were on their way to the valley of the kings' tombs, to waken
up old Hekt, a furious storm of hot wind came up from the southwest,
sweeping black clouds across the sky, and brown clouds of dust across
the earth. It bowed the slender palm-trees as an archer bends his bow,
tore the tentpegs up on the scene of the festival, whirled the light
tent-cloths up in the air, drove them like white witches through the
dark night, and thrashed the still surface of the Nile till its yellow
waters swirled and tossed in waves like a restless sea.
Paaker had compelled his trembling slaves to row him across the stream;
several times the boat was near being swamped, but he had seized the
helm himself with his uninjured hand, and guided it firmly and surely,
though the rocking of the boat kept his broken hand in great and
constant pain. After a few ineffectual attempts he succeeded in landing.
The storm had blown out the lanterns at the masts--the signal lights for
which his people looked--and he found neither servants nor torch-bearers
on the bank, so he struggled through the scorching wind as far as the
gate of his house. His big dog had always been wont to announce his
return home to the door-keeper with joyful barking; but to-night the
boatmen long knocked in vain at the heavy doer. When at last he entered
the court-yard, he found all dark, for the wind had extinguished the
lanterns and torches, and there were no lights but in the windows of his
mother's rooms.
The dogs in their open kennels now began to make themselves heard, but
their tones were plaintive and whining, for the storm had frightened the
beasts; their howling cut the pioneer to the heart, for it reminded him
of the poor slain Descher, whose deep voice he sadly missed; and when he
went into his own room he was met by a wild cry of lamentation from the
Ethiopian slave, for the dog which he had trained for Paaker's father,
and which he had loved.
The pioneer threw himself on a seat, and ordered some water to be
brought, that he might cool his aching hand in it, according to the
prescription of Nebsecht.
As soon as the old man saw the broken fingers, he gave another yell of
woe, and when Paaker ordered him to cease he asked:
"And is the man still alive who did that, and who killed Descher?"
Paaker nodded, and while he held his hand in the cooling water he looked
sullenly at the ground. He felt miserable, and he asked himself why
the storm had not swamped the boat, and the Nile had not swallowed him.
Bitterness and rage filled his breast, and he wished he were a child,
and might cry. But his mood soon changed, his breath came quickly,
his breast heaved, and an ominous light glowed in his eyes. He was not
thinking of his love, but of the revenge that was even dearer to him.
"That brood of Rameses!" he muttered. "I will sweep them all away
together--the king, and Mena, and those haughty princes, and many
more--I know how. Only wait, only wait!" and he flung up his right fist
with a threatening gesture.
The door opened at this instant, and his mother entered the room; the
raging of the storm had drowned the sound of her steps, and as she
approached her revengeful son, she called his name in horror at the mad
wrath which was depicted in his countenance. Paaker started, and then
said with apparent composure:
"Is it you, mother? It is near morning, and it is better to be asleep
than awake in such an hour."
"I could not rest in my rooms," answered Setchem. "The storm howled so
wildly, and I am so anxious, so frightfully unhappy--as I was before
your father died."
"Then stay with me," said Paaker affectionately, "and lie down on my
couch."
"I did not come here to sleep," replied Setchem. "I am too unhappy at
all that happened to you on the larding-steps, it is frightful! No, no,
my son, it is not about your smashed hand, though it grieves me to see
you in pain; it is about the king, and his anger when he hears of the
quarrel. He favors you less than he did your lost father, I know it
well. But how wildly you smile, how wild you looked when I came in! It
went through my bones and marrow."
Both were silent for a time, and listened to the furious raging of
the storm. At last Setchem spoke. "There is something else," she said,
"which disturbs my mind. I cannot forget the poet who spoke at the
festival to-day, young Pentaur. His figure, his face, his movements, nay
his very voice, are exactly like those of your father at the time when
he was young, and courted me. It is as if the Gods were fain to see the
best man that they ever took to themselves, walk before them a second
time upon earth."
"Yes, my lady," said the black slave; "no mortal eye ever saw such a
likeness. I saw him fighting in front of the paraschites' cottage, and
he was more like my dead master than ever. He swung the tent-post over
his head, as my lord used to swing his battle-axe."
"Be silent," cried Paaker, "and get out-idiot! The priest is like my
father; I grant it, mother; but he is an insolent fellow, who offended
me grossly, and with whom I have to reckon--as with many others."
"How violent you are!" interrupted his mother, "and how full of
bitterness and hatred. Your father was so sweet-tempered, and kind to
everybody."
"Perhaps they are kind to me?" retorted Paaker with a short laugh. "Even
the Immortals spite me, and throw thorns in my path. But I will push
them aside with my own hand, and will attain what I desire without the
help of the Gods and overthrow all that oppose me."
"We cannot blow away a feather without the help of the Immortals,"
answered Setchem. "So your father used to say, who was a very different
man both in body and mind from you! I tremble before you this evening,
and at the curses you have uttered against the children of your lord and
sovereign, your father's best friend."
"But my enemy," shouted Paaker. "You will get nothing from me but
curses. And the brood of Rameses shall learn whether your husband's son
will let himself be ill-used and scorned without revenging him self. I
will fling them into an abyss, and I will laugh when I see them writhing
in the sand at my feet!"
"Fool!" cried Setchem, beside herself. "I am but a woman, and have often
blamed myself for being soft and weak; but as sure as I am faithful
to your dead father--who you are no more like than a bramble is like
a palm-tree--so surely will I tear my love for you out of my heart if
you--if you--Now I see! now I know! Answer me-murderer! Where are the
seven arrows with the wicked words which used to hang here? Where are
the arrows on which you had scrawled 'Death to Mena?'"
With these words Setchem breathlessly started forward, but the pioneer
drew back as she confronted him, as in his youthful days when she
threatened to punish him for some misdemeanor. She followed him up,
caught him by the girdle, and in a hoarse voice repeated her question.
He stood still, snatched her hand angrily from his belt, and said
defiantly:
"I have put them in my quiver--and not for mere play. Now you know."
Incapable of words, the maddened woman once more raised her hand against
her degenerate son, but he put back her arm.
"I am no longer a child," he said, "and I am master of this house. I
will do what I will, if a hundred women hindered me!" and with these
words he pointed to the door. Setchem broke into loud sobs, and turned
her back upon him; but at the door once more she turned to look at him.
He had seated himself, and was resting his forehead on the table on
which the bowl of cold water stood.
Setchem fought a hard battle. At last once more through her choking
tears she called his name, opened her arms wide and exclaimed:
"Here I am--here I am! Come to my heart, only give up these hideous
thoughts of revenge."
But Paaker did not move, he did not look up at her, he did not speak,
he only shook his head in negation. Setchem's hands fell, and she said
softly:
"What did your father teach you out of the scriptures? 'Your highest
praise consists in this, to reward your mother for what she has done for
you, in bringing you up, so that she may not raise her hands to God, nor
He hear her lamentation.'"
At these words, Paaker sobbed aloud, but he did not look at his mother.
She called him tenderly by his name; then her eyes fell on his quiver,
which lay on a bench with other arms. Her heart shrunk within her, and
with a trembling voice she exclaimed:
"I forbid this mad vengeance--do you hear? Will you give it up? You do
not move? No! you will not! Ye Gods, what can I do?"
She wrung her hands in despair; then she hastily crossed the room,
snatched out one of the arrows, and strove to break it. Paaker sprang
from his seat, and wrenched the weapon from her hand; the sharp point
slightly scratched the skin, and dark drops of blood flowed from it, and
dropped upon the floor.
The Mohar would have taken the wounded hand, for Setchem, who had the
weakness of never being able to see blood flow--neither her own nor
anybody's else--had turned as pale as death; but she pushed him from
her, and as she spoke her gentle voice had a dull estranged tone.
"This hand," she said--"a mother's hand wounded by her son--shall never
again grasp yours till you have sworn a solemn oath to put away from you
all thoughts of revenge and murder, and not to disgrace your father's
name. I have said it, and may his glorified spirit be my witness, and
give me strength to keep my word!"
Paaker had fallen on his knees, and was engaged in a terrible mental
struggle, while his mother slowly went towards the door. There again she
stood still for a moment; she did not speak, but her eyes appealed to
him once more.
In vain. At last she left the room, and the wind slammed the door
violently behind her. Paaker groaned, and pressed his hand over his
eyes.
"Mother, mother!" he cried. "I cannot go back--I cannot."
A fearful gust of wind howled round the house, and drowned his voice,
and then he heard two tremendous claps, as if rocks had been hurled from
heaven. He started up and went to the window, where the melancholy grey
dawn was showing, in order to call the slaves. Soon they came trooping
out, and the steward called out as soon as he saw him:
"The storm has blown down the masts at the great gate!"
"Impossible!" cried Paaker.
"Yes, indeed!" answered the servant. "They have been sawn through close to the ground. The matmaker no doubt did it, whose collar-bone was broken. He has escaped in this fearful night." |
|
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기