oor to door the Queen shall be watched, and, if it be permitted,
Neb-Anat shall become her slave, and so the watch shall be made closer.
Is not that so, Neb-Anat?"

"The will of the Master is the law of his slave," she replied, sinking
almost to her knees.

"It is enough," replied the Master, who was known to the few who knew
him as Phadrig Amena, a Coptic dealer in ancient Egyptian relics and
curios in a humble way of business. "Serve faithfully, both of you, and
your reward shall not be wanting. Farewell, and the peace of the High
Gods be on you."

When they had gone he sat down to the old bureau, took out a sheaf of
papers, some white and new, others yellow-grey with age, and yet others
which were sheets of the ancient papyrus. The writing on these was in
the old Hermetic character; of the rest some were in cursive Greek and
some in Coptic. A few only were in English, and about half a dozen in
Russian. He read them all with equal ease, and although he knew their
contents almost by heart, he pored over them for a good half-hour with
scarcely so much as a movement of his lips. Then he put them away and
locked the drawer with one of a small bunch of curiously shaped keys
which were fastened round his waist by a chain. When he had concealed
them in his girdle, he got up and began to pace the floor of the
miserable room with long, stately, silent steps as though the dirty,
cracked, uneven boards had been the gleaming squares of alternate black
and white marble of the floor of the Sanctuary in the now ruined Temple
of Ptah in old Memphis. Then, after a while, with head thrown proudly
back and hands clasped behind him, he began to speak in the Ancient
Tongue, as though he were addressing some invisible presence.

"Yes, truly the Powers of Evil and Darkness have conquered through many
generations of men, but the days of the High Gods are unending, and the
climax of Fate is not yet. Not yet, O Nitocris, is the murderous crime
of thy death-bridal forgotten. The souls of those who died by thy hand
in the banqueting chamber of Pepi still call for vengeance out of the
glooms of Amenti. The thirst of hate and the hunger of love are still
unslaked and unsatisfied. I, Phadrig, the poor trader, who was once
Anemen-Ha, hate thee still, and the Russian warrior-prince, who was once
Menkau-Ra, shall love thee yet again with a love as fierce as that of
old, and so, if the High Gods permit, between love and hate shalt thou
pass to the