he tomb for the shelter Masanath offered
her in Memphis."

The admission cheered him somewhat, but it did not repair his exhausted
forces. By the time he reached his father's door he was unsteady,
indeed, and beyond further exertion.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE MURKET'S SACRIFICE

The murket sat at his place in the work-room, but no papyrus scrolls
lay before him; his fine implements were not in sight; the ink-pots and
pens were put away and the table was clear except for a copper lamp
that sputtered and flared at one end. The great artist's arms were
extended across the table, his head bowed upon them, his hands clasped.
The attitude was not that of weariness but of trouble.

Kenkenes hesitated. For the first time since the hour he left Memphis
for Thebes, months before, he felt a sense of culpability. He
realized, with great bounds of comprehension, that the results of his
own trouble had not been confined to himself. He began to understand
how infectious sorrow is.

He crossed the room and laid a trembling hand on the murket's shoulder.
Instantly the great artist lifted his head and, seeing Kenkenes, leaped
to his feet with a cry that was all joy.

The young man responded to the kiss of welcome with so little composure
that Mentu forced him down on the bench and summoned a servant.

The old housekeeper appeared at the door, started with a suppressed cry
and flung herself at her young master's feet. He raised her and
touched her cheek with his lips.

"Bring me somewhat to eat and drink, Sema," he said weakly. "I have
fasted, since I returned here, well-nigh four days agone."

The stiff old creature rose with a murmur half of compassion, half of
promise, and went forth immediately.

The murket stood very close to his son, regarding him with
interrogation on his face.

"Memphis was full of famishing at the coming of dawn this morning," he
said. "For the first time in my life I knew hunger, and it is a
fearsome thing, but thou--a shade from Amenti could not be ghastlier.
Where hast thou been--what are thy fortunes, Kenkenes?"

"Rachel--thou knowest--" Kenkenes began, speaking with an effort.

"Aye, I know. Didst find her?"

"Aye, and lost her, even while I fought to save her!"

"Alas, thou unfortunate!" Mentu exclaimed. "Of a surety the gods have
punished thee too harshly!"

Kenkenes was not in the frame of mind to receive so soft a speech
composedly. A strong tremor ran over him and he ave