rer's hospitality. He knew
that the expected climax would follow immediately upon the king's
perusal of the message, and that the nature of that climax depended
upon himself. He needed mental vigor and bodily freshness to make
effective the work before him. His cogitations decided him.

"Let the unhappy king sleep, then, Nechutes; far be it from me to bring
him back to the memory of his sorrows. Lead me to thy shelter, if thou
wilt."

With satisfaction in his manner Nechutes conducted his guest into a
comfortably furnished tent, and showed him a mattress overlaid with
sheeting of fine linen.

"Shame that thou must defer this soft sleeping till the noisy and
glaring hours of the day," Kenkenes observed as he fell on the bed.

"By this time to-morrow night, I may content myself in a bed of sand
with a covering of hyena-fending stones," the cup-bearer muttered.

"Comfort thee, Nechutes," the artist said sententiously, "But do thou
raise me from this ere daybreak, even if thou must take a persuasive
spear to me."

So saying, he fell asleep at once.

After some little employment among his effects, the cup-bearer came to
the bedside on his way back to the king's tent, and bent over his guest.

"Holy Isis! but I am glad he died not!" he said to himself. "Aye, and
there be many who are as glad as I am. Dear Ta-meri! She will be
rejoiced, and Hotep. What a great happiness for the old murket--" he
paused and clasped his hands together. "He is Mentu's only son! Now,
in the name of the mystery-dealing Hathors, how came it that he died
not with the first-born?" After a silence he muttered aloud: "Gods!
the army would barter its mummy to have the secret of his safety, this
day!"

At the first glimmerings of the dawn, the melody of many winded
trumpets arose over the encampment of the Egyptians. Now the notes
were near and clear, now afar and tremulous; again, deep and sonorous;
now, full and rich, and yet again, fine and sweet. There is a pathos
in the call of a war-trumpet that no frivolous rendering can subdue--it
has sung so long at the death of men and nations.

Outlined in black silhouette against the whitening horizons, the
sentries, tiny and slow-moving in the distance, tramped from post to
post in a forward-leaning line. Soldiers began to shout to each other.
The clanking of many arms made another and a harsher music. The tumult
of thousands of voices burdened the wind and above this presently arose