y, knew that even in the grave
she should find no rest. And her foe was no longer a face beheld in
a vision, but a living woman, the fairest and most favoured, Helen of
Troy, Argive Helen, the False Hathor, the torch that fired great cities,
the centre of all desire, whose life was the daily doom of men.

Meriamun was beautiful, but her beauty paled before the face of Helen,
as a fire is slain by the sun. Magic she had also, more than any who
were on the earth; but what would her spells avail against the magic of
those changing eyes? And it was Helen whom the Wanderer came to seek,
for _her_ he had travelled the wide lands and sailed the seas. But when
he told her of one whom he desired, one whom he sought, she had deemed
that she herself was that one, ay, and had told him all.

At that thought she laughed out, in the madness of her anger and her
shame. And he had smiled and spoken of Pharaoh her lord--and the while
he spoke he had thought not on her but of the Golden Helen. Now this
at least she swore, that if he might not be hers, never should he be
Helen's. She would see him dead ere that hour, ay, and herself, and if
it might be, Helen would she see dead also.

To what counsel should she turn? On the morrow night these two meet; on
the morrow night they would fly together. Then on the morrow must the
Wanderer be slain. How should he be slain and leave no tale of murder?
By poison he might die, and Kurri the Sidonian should be charged to give
the cup. And then she would slay Kurri, saying that he had poisoned the
Wanderer because of his hate and the loss of his goods and freedom; and
yet how could she slay her love? If once she slew him then she, too,
must die and seek her joy in the kingdom that Osiris rules, and there
she might find little gladness.

What, then, should she do? No answer came into her heart. There was one
that must answer in her soul.

Now she rose from the bed and stood for awhile staring into the dark.
Then she groped her way to a place where there was a carven chest of
olive-wood and ivory, and drawing a key from her girdle she opened
the chest. Within were jewels, mirrors, and unguents in jars of
alabaster--ay, and poisons of deadly bane; but she touched none of
these. Thrusting her hand deep into the chest, she drew forth a casket
of dark metal that the people deemed unholy, a casket made of "Typhon's
Bone," for so they call grey iron. She pressed a secret spring. It
opened, and feeling wi