said the dwarf, and deep purpose rang in the words, "do not
spoil the future for the sake of the present. If thy son loses his honor
under King Rameses, the future King, Ani, may restore it to him. If the
Regent now renders you all an important service, he will regard you as
amply paid when our efforts have succeeded, and he sits on the throne.
He lets himself be led by thee now because thou hast no need of his
help, and dost seem to work only for his sake, and for his elevation.
As soon as thou hast appealed to him, and he has assisted thee, all thy
confidence and freedom will be gone, and the more difficult he finds
it to raise so large a sum of money at once, the angrier he will be to
think that thou art making use of him. Thou knowest his circumstances."

"He is in debt," said Katuti. "I know that."

"Thou should'st know it," cried the dwarf, "for thou thyself hast forced
him to enormous expenses. He has won the people of Thebes with dazzling
festive displays; as guardian of Apis

[When Apis (the sacred bull) died under Ptolemy I. Soter, his
keepers spent not only the money which they had received for his
maintenance, in his obsequies but borrowed 50 talents of silver from
the king. In the time of Diodurus 100 talents were spent for the
same purpose.]

he gave a large donation to Memphis; he bestowed thousands on the
leaders of the troops sent into Ethiopia, which were equipped by him;
what his spies cost him at, the camp of the king, thou knowest. He has
borrowed sums of money from most of the rich men in the country, and
that is well, for so many creditors are so many allies. The Regent is a
bad debtor; but the king Ani, they reckon, will be a grateful payer."

Katuti looked at the dwarf in astonishment. "You know men!" she said.

"To my sorrow!" replied Nemu. "Do not apply to the Regent, and before
thou dost sacrifice the labor of years, and thy future greatness, and
that of those near to thee, sacrifice thy son's honor."

"And my husband's, and my own?" exclaimed Katuti. "How can you know what
that is! Honor is a word that the slave may utter, but whose meaning he
can never comprehend; you rub the weals that are raised on you by blows;
to me every finger pointed at me in scorn makes a wound like an ashwood
lance with a poisoned tip of brass. Oh ye holy Gods! who can help us?"

The miserable woman pressed her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out
the sight of her own disgrace. The dwarf lo