The great judgment-hall of Men-ne-fer stood—a gigantic circular, roofless building—high above a flight of dull grey granite steps. Open to the sky above, it was only lighted by the brilliant yet weird rays of the moon, which threw into bold relief the semi-circular rows of seats on which, when we entered, were seated a number of solemn-looking Egyptians in long flowing robes. They all rose as Hugh’s figure appeared in the massive, square archway, and he and I paused a moment to take in the strange picture which lay before our eyes.
It would be impossible for me to give any definite facts as to the proportions of this vast coliseum. It looked probably larger than it really was, owing to the dense shadows into which one-half of it was plunged and which looked almost limitless. There were several tiers of stone seats, placed in semi-circle each side of a tall throne, on which, propped up with cushions, the mighty Pharaoh reclined. On his left, a foot lower than the kingly throne, sat Ur-tasen, the high priest of Ra, and at the foot of the throne sat three old men, in one of whom I recognised my fat neighbour at the banqueting table. They also rose when Hugh entered, and I noticed that they wore round their waists heavy belts of lapis-lazuli, on which was engraved the device: “Justice. Mercy.”
A seat had been placed on the right of the Pharaoh, with a low one close behind it. These were for the beloved of the gods and his wise counsellor.
No one spoke a word in the vast and crowded building, as we made our way down into the arena first, and then up the gradients to the seats allotted to us. In the shadows behind and all around, my eyes, becoming accustomed to the gloom, distinguished a crowd of moving figures, with here and there a glint of helmet and shield.
The silence was becoming weird and almost oppressive. We were all standing, except the Pharaoh, who looked terribly cadaverous beneath the gorgeous diadem which he wore. At last Ur-tasen, raising has hands up towards the starlit sky, began to recite a long and solemn prayer. It was an invocation to all the gods of Egypt—of whom I noticed there was a goodly number—for righteousness, justice and impartiality. The solemn Egyptians in white robes, who, I concluded, were perhaps the jury, spoke the responses in nasal, sleepy tones.
While Ur-tasen prayed, a number of slaves, who were naked save for a white veil wound tightly round their heads, were going about carrying large trays, from which each member of the jury one by one took something, which I discovered to be a branch of lotus blossom. This each man touched with his forehead as he spoke the responses, and then held solemnly in his right hand.
We were, of course, deeply interested in the proceedings: the mode of administering justice in every country is the surest keynote to the character of its people. Here a decided savour of mysticism accompanied it; the peculiar hour of the night, the weird light of the moon, the white draperies, the hooded slaves even, all spoke of a people whose every thought tended towards the picturesque.
But now Ur-tasen had finished speaking. The last response had been uttered, and silence once again reigned within the mysterious hall. A herald came forth with long silver trumpet, and stood in the centre of the arena, with the light of the moon shining full upon him. He raised his trumpet skywards and blew a deafening blast. Then three times he called a name in a loud voice,—“Har-sen-tu! Har-sen-tu! Har-sen-tu!” and every time he called he was answered by a flourish of trumpets from three different ends of the buildings, accompanied by the loud cry:
“Is he there? Is he there? Is he there?”
The herald then added: