ake use of him, then say to
him that I may know a secret--and I do know one, I alone--which may make
the Mohar the sport of his wishes, and that I may be disposed to sell
it."

"That shall be done! certainly, mother," cried the dwarf. "What do you
wish for?"

"Very little," said the old woman. "Only a permit that makes me free to
do and to practise whatever I please, unmolested even by the priests,
and to receive an honorable burial after my death."

"The Regent will hardly agree to that; for he must avoid everything that
may offend the servants of the Gods."

"And do everything," retorted the old woman, "that can degrade Rameses
in their sight. Ani, do you hear, need not write me a new license,
but only renew the old one granted to me by Rameses when I cured his
favorite horse. They burnt it with my other possessions, when they
plundered my house, and denounced me and my belongings for sorcery. The
permit of Rameses is what I want, nothing more."

"You shall have it," said the dwarf. "Good-by; I am charged to look into
the tomb of our house, and see whether the offerings for the dead are
regularly set out; to pour out fresh essences and have various things
renewed. When Sechet has ceased to rage, and it is cooler, I shall come
by here again, for I should like to call on the paraschites, and see how
the poor child is."

CHAPTER XIII.

During this conversation two men had been busily occupied, in front of
the paraschites' hut, in driving piles into the earth, and stretching a
torn linen cloth upon them.

One of them, old Pinem, whom we have seen tending his grandchild,
requested the other from time to time to consider the sick girl and to
work less noisily.

After they had finished their simple task, and spread a couch of fresh
straw under the awning, they too sat down on the earth, and looked at
the hut before which the surgeon Nebsecht was sitting waiting till the
sleeping girl should wake.

"Who is that?" asked the leech of the old man, pointing to his young
companion, a tall sunburnt soldier with a bushy red beard.

"My son," replied the paraschites, "who is just returned from Syria."

"Uarda's father?" asked Nebsecht.

The soldier nodded assent, and said with a rough voice, but not without
cordiality.

"No one could guess it by looking at us--she is so white and rosy. Her
mother was a foreigner, and she has turned out as delicate as she was. I
am afraid to touch her with my little finger--an