l sights have I seen in this haunted land than in all the cities
where I have wandered, and on all the seas that I have sailed."

"Then be warned," said the priest, "for if thou dost follow where they
went, and desire what they desired, thou too shalt lie in yonder bath,
and be washed of yonder waters. For whatever be false, this is true,
that he who seeks love ofttimes finds doom. But here he finds it most
speedily."

The Wanderer looked again at the dead and at their ministers, and he
shuddered till his harness rattled. He feared not the face of Death in
war, or on the sea, but this was a new thing. Little he loved the sight
of the brazen baths and those who lay there. The light of the sun and
the breath of air seemed good to him, and he stepped quickly from the
chamber, while the priest smiled to himself. But when he reached the
outer air, his heart came back to him, and he began to ask again about
the Hathor--where she dwelt, and what it was that slew her lovers.

"I will show thee," answered the priest, and brought him through the
Hall of Assembly to a certain narrow way that led to a court. In the
centre of the court stood the holy shrine of the Hathor. It was a great
chamber, built of alabaster, lighted from the roof alone, and shut in
with brazen doors, before which hung curtains of Tyrian web. From the
roof of the shrine a stairway ran overhead to the roof of the temple and
so to the inner pylon tower.

"Yonder, Stranger, the holy Goddess dwells within the Alabaster Shrine,"
said the priest. "By that stair she passes to the temple roof, and
thence to the pylon top. There by the curtains, once in every day, we
place food, and it is drawn into the sanctuary, how we know not, for
none of us have set foot there, nor seen the Hathor face to face. Now,
when the Goddess has stood upon the pylon and sung to the multitude
below, she passes back to the shrine. Then the brazen outer doors of the
temple court are thrown wide and the doomed rush on madly, one by one,
towards the drawn curtains. But before they pass the curtains they
are thrust back, yet they strive to pass. Then we hear a sound of the
clashing of weapons and the men fall dead without a word, while the song
of the Hathor swells from within."

"And who are her swordsmen?" said the Wanderer.

"That we know not, Stranger; no man has lived to tell. Come, draw near
to the door of the shrine and hearken, maybe thou wilt hear the Hathor
singing. Have no fear;