s who were present
expressed the utmost joy and astonishment, for they had long thought the
young poet, who was highly esteemed throughout Egypt, to be dead.

The king had often heard of the fame of Pentaur from his sons and
especially from Rameri, and he willingly consented that Ameni should send
for the poet, who had himself borne arms at Kadesh, in order that he
should sing a song of triumph. The Regent gazed blankly and uneasily into
his wine cup, and the high-priest rose to fetch Pentaur himself into the
presence of the king.

During the high-priest's absence, more and more dishes were served to the
company; behind each guest stood a silver bowl with rose water, in which
from time to time he could dip his fingers to cool and clean them; the
slaves in waiting were constantly at hand with embroidered napkins to
wipe them, and others frequently changed the faded wreaths, round the
heads and shoulders of the feasters, for fresh ones.

"How pale you are, my child!" said Rameses turning to Bent-Anat. "If you
are tired, your uncle will no doubt allow you to leave the hall; though I
think you should stay to hear the performance of this much-lauded poet.
After having been so highly praised he will find it difficult to satisfy
his hearers. But indeed I am uneasy about you, my child--would you rather
go?" The Regent had risen and said earnestly, "Your presence has done me
honor, but if you are fatigued I beg you to allow me to conduct you and
your ladies to the apartments intended for you."

"I will stay," said Bent-Anat in a low but decided tone, and she kept her
eyes on the floor, while her heart beat violently, for the murmur of
voices told her that Pentaur was entering the hall. He wore the long
white robe of a priest of the temple of Seti, and on his forehead the
ostrich-feather which marked him as one of the initiated. He did not
raise his eyes till he stood close before the king; then he prostrated
himself before him, and awaited a sign from the Pharaoh before he rose
again.

But Rameses hesitated a long time, for the youthful figure before him,
and the glance that met his own, moved him strangely. Was not this the
divinity of the fight? Was not this his preserver? Was he again deluded
by a resemblance, or was he in a dream?

The guests gazed in silence at the spellbound king, and at the poet; at
last Rameses bowed his head,

Pentaur rose to his feet, and the bright color flew to his face as close
to him he per