“Ten more white oxen await at my palace, and in the caves beneath my chambers there are bars of gold which I would give to thee.”
“And Osiris would smite me for the blasphemy,” said the priest. “What good are thy treasures to me if my bones lay whitening in the grave?”
“Ur-tasen!” she pleaded.
But the high priest turned suddenly towards the mammoth figure behind which we crouched, and holding aside the gossamer veil of silver tissue which divided the inner sanctuary from the suppliant Queen, he pointed upwards at the gigantic majesty of the god and said:
“I tell thee, woman, that, Queen as thou art, thou canst not change the thread of thy destiny. The crown of Kamt, after hovering on the head of thy ailing son, will descend on that of Princess Neit-akrit. Ra, who sits up there enthroned, guarding the gates of the valley of death, could alone, through some awful and terrible upheaval, change the course of the future of this land by descending himself to sit upon its throne.”
The priest had spoken very solemnly, and his voice, sonorous and clear, went echoing through the majestic vault of the temple. The Queen, who evidently, in spite of her petty hatred and arrogance, was a devout worshipper of the god, had looked upwards with awe and reverence, while in her eyes I could see that she had realised the crumbling of her last, most cherished hope.
Suddenly, as she looked, I saw a curious change pass over her face; her eyes gradually dilated, her lips were parted as if to utter a cry, her cheeks from ashy pale turned to vivid red, and, stretching forth her jewel-laden arm, she pointed towards the god with trembling hand. The sickly youth, too, was looking in our direction with face as pale as death, while the high priest appeared to tremble from head to foot, as his hand grasped the gossamer tissue of the veil. Then I saw that Hugh Tankerville, with head bare and erect, had come forward from his hiding-place and was standing facing the temple, on the very pedestal of its god. Each side of him, from the bronze tripods, a blue and a purple light threw a flickering radiance upon his tall, commanding figure and his fine dark head, and I must confess that had I not known that he was my old friend, Hugh Tankerville, I should most willingly have admitted that he might be the personification of a pagan deity.
There was a long and awful pause, during which I almost could hear the anxious beating of five human hearts, then the high priest murmured:
“Who, and what, art thou?”
“Thou spakest of Ra,” replied Hugh. “He sent me.”