in Descher, whose deep voice he sadly missed; and when he
went into his own room he was met by a wild cry of lamentation from the
Ethiopian slave, for the dog which he had trained for Paaker's father,
and which he had loved.

The pioneer threw himself on a seat, and ordered some water to be
brought, that he might cool his aching hand in it, according to the
prescription of Nebsecht.

As soon as the old man saw the broken fingers, he gave another yell of
woe, and when Paaker ordered him to cease he asked:

"And is the man still alive who did that, and who killed Descher?"

Paaker nodded, and while he held his hand in the cooling water he looked
sullenly at the ground. He felt miserable, and he asked himself why
the storm had not swamped the boat, and the Nile had not swallowed him.
Bitterness and rage filled his breast, and he wished he were a child,
and might cry. But his mood soon changed, his breath came quickly,
his breast heaved, and an ominous light glowed in his eyes. He was not
thinking of his love, but of the revenge that was even dearer to him.

"That brood of Rameses!" he muttered. "I will sweep them all away
together--the king, and Mena, and those haughty princes, and many
more--I know how. Only wait, only wait!" and he flung up his right fist
with a threatening gesture.

The door opened at this instant, and his mother entered the room; the
raging of the storm had drowned the sound of her steps, and as she
approached her revengeful son, she called his name in horror at the mad
wrath which was depicted in his countenance. Paaker started, and then
said with apparent composure:

"Is it you, mother? It is near morning, and it is better to be asleep
than awake in such an hour."

"I could not rest in my rooms," answered Setchem. "The storm howled so
wildly, and I am so anxious, so frightfully unhappy--as I was before
your father died."

"Then stay with me," said Paaker affectionately, "and lie down on my
couch."

"I did not come here to sleep," replied Setchem. "I am too unhappy at
all that happened to you on the larding-steps, it is frightful! No, no,
my son, it is not about your smashed hand, though it grieves me to see
you in pain; it is about the king, and his anger when he hears of the
quarrel. He favors you less than he did your lost father, I know it
well. But how wildly you smile, how wild you looked when I came in! It
went through my bones and marrow."

Both were silent for a time, and listen