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