e and I brought thee hither. Would, Harmachis, that I
knew thee not! Would that I had been blasted of the Invisible ere I drew
thee down from the womb of Nout, to be my curse and shame, and the last
woe of Khem!"

"Oh, speak not thus!" I moaned; "is not my burden already more than I
can bear? Am I not myself betrayed and utterly outcast? Be pitiful, my
father!"

"Be pitiful!--be pitiful to thee who hast shown so great pity? It
was thy pity which gave up noble Sepa to die beneath the hands of the
tormentors!"

"Oh, not that--not that!" I cried.

"Ay, traitor, that!--to die in agony, with his last poor breath
proclaiming thee, his murderer, honest and innocent! Be pitiful to
thee, who gavest all the flower of Khem as the price of a wanton's
arms!--thinkest thou that, labouring in the darksome desert mines, those
noble ones in thought are pitiful to thee, Harmachis? Be pitiful to
thee, by whom this Holy Temple of Abouthis hath been ravaged, its lands
seized, its priests scattered, and I alone, old and withered, left to
count out its ruin--to thee, who hast poured the treasures of _Her_ into
thy leman's lap, who hast forsworn Thyself, thy Country, thy Birthright,
and thy Gods! Yea, thus am I pitiful: Accursed be thou, fruit of my
loins!--Shame be thy portion, Agony thy end, and Hell receive thee at
the last! Where art thou? Yea, I grew blind with weeping when I heard
the truth--sure, they strove to hide it from me. Let me find thee that I
may spit upon thee, thou Renegade! thou Apostate! thou Outcast!"--and he
rose from his seat and staggered like a living Wrath toward me, smiting
the air with his wand. And as he came with outstretched arms, awful to
see, suddenly his end found him, and with a cry he sank down upon the
ground, the red blood streaming from his lips. I ran to him and lifted
him; and as he died, he babbled:

"He was my son, a bright-eyed lovely boy, and full of promise as the
Spring; and now--and now--oh, would that he were dead!"

Then came a pause and the breath rattled in his throat.

"Harmachis," he gasped, "art there?"

"Yea, father."

"Harmachis, atone!--atone! Vengeance can still be wreaked--forgiveness
may still be won. There's gold; I've hidden it--Atoua--she can tell
thee--ah, this pain! Farewell!"

And he struggled faintly in my arms and was dead.

Thus, then, did I and my holy father, the Prince Amenemhat, meet
together for the last time in the flesh, and for the last time part.