“If it is thy wish, oh, messenger of Ra.”
Fortunately I had a very tight hold of the mighty Pharaoh at that moment, for I doubt not that but for this and his own physical weakness, he would have made Hugh atone then and there for that cousinly kiss. His hand had once again clutched the dagger at his belt, and with a hoarse cry, like some wounded beast at bay, had tried to jump forward, but fell back panting in my arms.
Princess Neit-akrit had turned quietly to him.
“My kinsman is very sick. The journey must have been too fatiguing. Art thou his physician, oh, stranger?” she asked of me.
“I am deputed to alleviate the mighty Pharaoh’s sufferings,” I replied.
“Dost think thou wilt succeed?” she asked, looking at me with great wondering blue eyes.
“I can cure, I hope, the ailments of his body,” I replied with a smile.
“Then I will kiss thee, too,” she said, with a merry girlish laugh, “for if thou restore my kinsman to health, thou wilt become very dear to me.”
And I was given the top of a beautiful, smooth, young forehead to kiss—and I, prosy old Mark Emmett, was satisfied.