March and Ra had grown ardent and the marshes
malarious. The old housekeeper, to whom the great artist mentioned his
son's indisposition, glanced sharply at the young master, touched his
hand when she served him at table, and felt his forehead when she
pretended to smooth his hair. And having made her furtive examination,
the astute old servant told the great artist that the young master was
not ill. If she had further information to impart, Mentu did not give
her the opportunity, for had she not said that Kenkenes was well? So
he fell to his work again.

Senci noted it, and sorrowful Io, but they, like Mentu, ascribed it to
the miasmas and said nothing to the young man about himself.

But Hotep was a penetrative man, and more hidden things than his
friend's ailment had been an open secret to his keen eye. He did not
care to know which one of the butterflies was the fluttering object of
Kenkenes' bounteous love, for Hotep knew that those high-born Memphian
women, who were openly partial to the handsome young sculptor, loved
him for his comeliness and his silken tongue alone. It would take a
profounder soul than any they had displayed to understand and
sympathize with the restive genius hidden under the smooth exterior
they saw.

Therefore, with some impatience, Hotep conceded that his friend was in
love, and presumably throwing himself away. So the scribe purposed,
even though the attempt were inevitably fruitless, to win Kenkenes out
of his dream.

One faint dawn he entered the temple to pray for his own cause at the
shrine of the lovers' goddess.

In the half-night of the vast interior, at the foot of the sumptuous
pedestal of Athor, he distinguished another supplicant, kneeling. But
there was a hopelessness in the droop of the bowed head and a tenseness
in the interlaced fingers of the clasped hands, which proved that
Athor's answer had not been propitious.

Hotep knew at once who besought the goddess. Setting his offering of
silver and crystal on the altar, the scribe departed with silent step.
But without, he ground his teeth and execrated the giver of pain to
Kenkenes.

In mid-afternoon of the same day Hotep's chariot drew up at the portals
of Mentu's house, and the scribe in his most splendid raiment was
conducted to Kenkenes. The young sculptor was alone.

"What was it, a palsy or the sun which kept thee at home this day?" was
Hotep's greeting. "Nine is a mystic number and is fruitful of mu