ed to the furious raging of
the storm. At last Setchem spoke. "There is something else," she said,
"which disturbs my mind. I cannot forget the poet who spoke at the
festival to-day, young Pentaur. His figure, his face, his movements, nay
his very voice, are exactly like those of your father at the time when
he was young, and courted me. It is as if the Gods were fain to see the
best man that they ever took to themselves, walk before them a second
time upon earth."

"Yes, my lady," said the black slave; "no mortal eye ever saw such a
likeness. I saw him fighting in front of the paraschites' cottage, and
he was more like my dead master than ever. He swung the tent-post over
his head, as my lord used to swing his battle-axe."

"Be silent," cried Paaker, "and get out-idiot! The priest is like my
father; I grant it, mother; but he is an insolent fellow, who offended
me grossly, and with whom I have to reckon--as with many others."

"How violent you are!" interrupted his mother, "and how full of
bitterness and hatred. Your father was so sweet-tempered, and kind to
everybody."

"Perhaps they are kind to me?" retorted Paaker with a short laugh. "Even
the Immortals spite me, and throw thorns in my path. But I will push
them aside with my own hand, and will attain what I desire without the
help of the Gods and overthrow all that oppose me."

"We cannot blow away a feather without the help of the Immortals,"
answered Setchem. "So your father used to say, who was a very different
man both in body and mind from you! I tremble before you this evening,
and at the curses you have uttered against the children of your lord and
sovereign, your father's best friend."

"But my enemy," shouted Paaker. "You will get nothing from me but
curses. And the brood of Rameses shall learn whether your husband's son
will let himself be ill-used and scorned without revenging him self. I
will fling them into an abyss, and I will laugh when I see them writhing
in the sand at my feet!"

"Fool!" cried Setchem, beside herself. "I am but a woman, and have often
blamed myself for being soft and weak; but as sure as I am faithful
to your dead father--who you are no more like than a bramble is like
a palm-tree--so surely will I tear my love for you out of my heart if
you--if you--Now I see! now I know! Answer me-murderer! Where are the
seven arrows with the wicked words which used to hang here? Where are
the arrows on which you had scrawled 'Death to Me