over
each shoulder by a fibula, ornamented with a round medallion. Through
the vestments, intentionally simple, there was testimony of the
exquisite lines of the figure they clothed.

The sole observance of hieratic symbol were the horns of Athor set in
the hair.

The figure was posed as if in the act of a forward movement. The knee
was slightly bent in an attitude of supplication. The face was
upturned, the eyes lifted, the arms extended to their fullest, forward
and upward, the fingers curved as if ready to receive. The hair was
separated into two heavy plaits, which fell below the waist down the
back.

One sandaled foot was advanced, slightly; the other hidden by the hem
of the robe.

Every physical feature visible upon the living form so disposed and
draped had been carved upon this grace in stone. Egypt had never
fashioned anything so perfect. Indeed, she would not have called it
sculpture.

The glyptic art of Greece had been paralleled hundreds of years before
it was born.

On the face there was the light of overpowering love together with the
intangible pride so marked on the representations of profane deities.
But the most manifest emotions were the great yearning and entreaty.
They were marked in the attitude of the head thrown back, in the
outstretched arms and in the bent knee. That there was more hopeful
expectancy than despairing insistence, was proved by the curve of the
ready fingers and the uncertain smile on the lips. It was Athor,
eternally young, eternally in love, eternally unsatisfied, receiving
the setting sun as she had done since the world began. None of the
rapturous impatience and uncertainty of the moment had been lost since
the first sunset after chaos. And yet, with all the pulse and fervor,
here was womanhood, immaculate and ineffable.

Never did face so command men to worship.

"Holy Amen!" the scribe exclaimed, his voice barely audible in its
earnestness. "What consummate loveliness! But what--what unspeakable
impiety!"

"Hast thou seen Athor? She is before thee."

"Athor! The golden goddess in the image of a mortal! Kenkenes, the
wrath of the priests awaits thee and thereafter the doom of the
insulted Pantheon!" The scribe shuddered and plucked at his friend's
robe as if to drag him away from the sight of his own creation.

Firmly fixed were the young artist's convictions to resist the
impelling force of Hotep's consternation.

"Nay, nay, Hotep," he ans