this their Ethiopian escort had quarrelled with the natives
of the oasis, and every day skirmishes took place under their
eyes--indeed lately one of these fights had ended in bloodshed.

Bent-Anat was sick at heart. The two strong pinions of her soul, which
had always borne her so high above other women--her princely pride and
her bright frankness--seemed quite broken; she felt that she had loved
once, never to love again, and that she, who had sought none of her
happiness in dreams, but all in work, had bestowed the best half of her
identity on a vision. Pentaur's image took a more and more vivid, and at
the same time nobler and loftier, aspect in her mind; but he himself had
died for her, for only once had a letter reached them from Egypt, and
that was from Katuti to Nefert. After telling her that late intelligence
established the statement that her husband had taken a prince's daughter,
who had been made prisoner, to his tent as his share of the booty, she
added the information that the poet Pentaur, who had been condemned to
forced labor, had not reached the mountain mines, but, as was supposed,
had perished on the road.

Nefert still held to her immovable belief that her husband was faithful
to his love for her, and the magic charm of a nature made beautiful by
its perfect mastery over a deep and pure passion made itself felt in
these sad and heavy days.

It seemed as though she had changed parts with Bent-Anat. Always hopeful,
every day she foretold help from the king for the next; in truth she was
ready to believe that, when Mena learned from Rameri that she was with
the princess, he himself would come to fetch them if his duties allowed
it. In her hours of most lively expectation she could go so far as to
picture how the party in the tents would be divided, and who would bear
Bent-Anat company if Mena took her with him to his camp, on what spot of
the oasis it would be best to pitch it, and much more in the same vein.

Uarda could very well take her place with Bent-Anat, for the child had
developed and improved on the journey. The rich clothes which the
princess had given her became her as if she had never worn any others;
she could obey discreetly, disappear at the right moment, and, when she
was invited, chatter delightfully. Her laugh was silvery, and nothing
consoled Bent-Anat so much as to hear it.

Her songs too pleased the two friends, though the few that she knew were
grave and sorrowful. She had lea