anath. She was returning to Goshen.

In the street before the house she entered her litter and with Pepi
walking beside her went to the Nile. And there they were joined by
Anubis. He had been absent for days, so his greeting was extravagant,
his loyalty inalienable. He entered the bari Pepi had loaded with
Rachel's belongings, and would not be coaxed or menaced into
disembarking.

"Nay, let him come," Rachel said at last. "Thou canst set him on the
shore opposite the tomb. He will leave us willingly there."

So they pushed away.

Rachel wrapped her wimple about her face and removed it once only to
gaze at the quarries of Masaarah. They were deserted. Months before,
directly after the affliction of the Nile, the Israelites had been
returned to Goshen.

After the bari had passed below the stone wharf, Rachel covered herself
and neither spoke nor moved. Her heart was heavy beyond words.

Pepi broke the silence once.

"Shall we drop the ape first, my Lady?"

Rachel shook her head. Anubis was her last hold on Kenkenes.

At the Marsh of the Discontented Soul, the bari nosed among the reeds
and grounded gently. Rachel stood for a moment gazing sadly across the
stretch of sand toward the abrupt wall against which it terminated
inland. Pepi, already on shore, reached a patient hand toward her and
awaited her awakening. Anubis landed with a bound and made in a series
of wide circles for the cliff. His escape aroused Rachel and she
stepped out of the boat. After a moment's thought, she bade Pepi pull
away from the shore and await her at a safe distance.

"I shall stay no longer than to write my whereabouts on the tomb, but
thy boat here may attract the attention of others on the river, and
hereafter they might ask what thou didst in this place. And I am not
afraid."

The slow Egyptian obeyed reluctantly, shaking his head as he stood away
from shore.

With a sigh that was almost a sob, Rachel walked back over the sand
toward the cave that had been her only shelter once.

She did not fear it. Kenkenes had crossed this gray level of sand in
the night and its wet border at the river had borne the print of his
sandal. He had made the tomb a home for her, he had knelt on its rock
pavement and kissed her hands in its dusk and had passed its threshold,
like a shadow, to return no more. And here, too, was the other
faithful suggestion of her lost love--the pet ape. How his fitful
fidelities had directed