go into the
presence of my father. I sat hidden there among the broken rafters, and
idly watched the pylon gates, to see if, perchance, a face I knew should
issue from them. But none came forth or entered in, though the great
gates stood wide; and then I saw that herbs were growing between the
stones, where no herbs had grown for ages. What could this be? Was the
temple deserted? Nay; how could the worship of the eternal Gods have
ceased, that for thousands of years had, day by day, been offered in the
holy place? Was, then, my father dead? It well might be. And yet, why
this silence? Where were the priests: where the worshippers?

I could bear the doubt no more, but as the sun sank red I crept like a
hunted jackal through the open gates, and on till I reached the first
great Hall of Pillars. Here I paused and gazed around me--not a sight,
not a sound, in the dim and holy place! I went on with a beating heart
to the second great hall, the hall of six-and-thirty pillars where I
had been crowned Lord of all the Lands: still not a sight or a sound!
Thence, half fearful of my own footfall, so terribly did it echo in the
silence of the deserted Holies, I passed down the passage of the names
of the Pharaohs towards my father's chamber. The curtain still swung
over the doorway; but what would there be within?--also emptiness? I
lifted it, and noiselessly passed in, and there in his carven chair
at the table on which his long white beard flowed, sat my father,
Amenemhat, clad in his priestly robes. At first I thought that he was
dead, he sat so still; but at length he turned his head, and I saw that
his eyes were white and sightless. He was blind, and his face was thin
as the face of a dead man, and woeful with age and grief.

I stood still and felt the blind eyes wandering over me. I could not
speak to him--I dared not speak to him; I would go and hide myself
afresh.

I had already turned and grasped the curtain, when my father spoke in a
deep, slow voice:

"Come hither, thou who wast my son and art a traitor. Come hither, thou
Harmachis, on whom Khem builded up her hope. Not in vain, then, have I
drawn thee from far away! Not in vain have I held my life in me till I
heard thy footfall creeping down these empty Holies, like the footfall
of a thief!"

"Oh! my father," I gasped, astonished. "Thou art blind: how knowest thou
me?"

"How do I know thee?--and askest thou that who hast learned of our lore?
Enough, I know the