would pile up a small heap of stones and abandon his labor after some
hours had passed, asking: 'What good is this to me?' Ten, one hundred,
one thousand men would pile up a few more stones. They would throw them
down without order, and leave the work after a few days, for what good
would it be to them?

"'But when a pharaoh of Egypt decides, when the Egyptian state has
decided to rear a pile of stones, thousands of legions of men are sent
out, and for a number of tens of years they build, till the work is
completed. For the question is not this: Are the pyramids needed, but
this is the will of the pharaoh to be accomplished, once it is
uttered.' So, Pentuer, this pyramid is not the tomb of Cheops, but the
will of Cheops, a will which had more men to carry it out than had any
king on earth, and which was as orderly and enduring in action as the
gods are.

"While I was yet at school they taught me that the will of the people
was a great power, the greatest power under the sun. And still the will
of the people can raise one stone barely. How great, then, must be the
will of the pharaoh who has raised a mountain of stones only because it
pleased him, only because he wished thus, even were it without an
object."

"Wouldst thou, lord, wish to show thy power in such fashion?" inquired
Pentuer, suddenly.

"No," answered the prince, without hesitation. "When the pharaohs have
once shown their power, they may be merciful; unless some one should
resist their orders."

"And still this young man is only twenty three years of age!" thought
the frightened priest.

They turned toward the river and walked some time in silence.

"Lie down, lord," said the priest, after a while; "sleep. We have made
no small journey."

"But can I sleep?" answered the prince. "First I am surrounded by those
legions of laborers who, according to thy view, perished in building
the pyramids Just as if they could have lived forever had they not
raised those structures! Then, again, I think of his holiness, my
father, who is dying, perhaps, at this very moment. Common men suffer,
common men spill their blood! Who will prove to me that my divine
father is not tortured more on his costly bed than thy toilers who are
carrying heated stones to a building?

"Laborers, always laborers! For thee, O priest, only he deserves
compassion who bites lice. A whole series of pharaohs have gone into
their graves; some died in torments, some were killed. But Thou