e hour he leaves the gates of Tanis. He must not go! I
love him yet, and I can not see him overthrown."

"Thou art no more eager to stay him than I," Kenkenes answered quickly.
"Thou art in need of a runner. I am one."

The eye of the sorcerer fell on the young man's dress.

"A runner among the nobility?" he commented suspiciously.

"Is a man less likely to be a patriot because he is of blood, or less
fleet of foot because he is noble?"

"Nay; nor less useful because he is sharp of tongue. Come with me!"
Jambres seized his arm and, hurrying him out of the shed, went through
the ragged street to the shrine at the upper end of the village.

From the tunnel-like entrance between the dwarf pylons a light was
diffused as though it came through thin hangings. The pair entered the
porch and passed into the sanctuary.

Entering his study, Jambres made his way to the heavy table and,
fumbling about the compartments under it, drew forth a wrapped and
addressed roll. Taking up a lighted lamp, he scrutinized the messenger
sharply.

While he gazed, Kenkenes took the opportunity of inspecting the priest.
He had been a familiar figure about the palaces of two monarchs. For
thirty years he had read the stars for the great Rameses, six for
Meneptah, but he had measured rods with Moses and had fallen. From the
pinnacle of power he had declined precipitately to the obscurest office
in the priesthood. This bird-cote shrine was his.

"Art thou seasoned? Canst thou endure? Nay, no need to ask that," he
answered himself, surveying the strong figure before him. "But who art
thou?"

"I am the son of Mentu, the murket."

"The son of Mentu? Enough. If a drop of that man's blood runneth in
thy veins, thou art as steadfast as death. Surely the gods are with
me."

He opened a second compartment in the end of the table, but before he
found what he sought he raised himself, suddenly.

"If thou art that son of the murket," he asked, "how is it thou art not
dead?"

Kenkenes looked at him, wondering if the news of his supposed death had
penetrated even to this little hamlet.

"Art thou not thy father's eldest born?" the priest asked further.

"His only child."

"What sheltered thee in last night's harvest of death?"

"Thou speakest in riddles, holy Father."

"Knowest thou not that every first-born in Egypt died last night at the
Hebrew's sending?" the sorcerer demanded.

"The first-born of Egypt," Kenkenes repeate