"From six to seven thousand men."
"That cannot be. Is it possible that almost a whole army could perish in such an encounter?"
"And still it is so; that was a terrible battle," replied Tutmosis. "Thou didst surround them on all sides, the soldiers did the rest, well yes and the worthy Mentezufis. Even inscriptions on the tombs of the most famous pharaohs do not mention such a crushing of the enemies of Egypt."
"Go to sleep, Tutmosis; I am wearied," interrupted the prince, feeling that pride was beginning to rise to his head.
"Then have I won such a victory? Impossible!" thought he.
He threw himself on to the skins, but though mortally weary he could not sleep.
Only fourteen hours had passed since the moment when he had given the signal to begin the battle. Only fourteen hours? Was it possible!
Had he won such a battle? But he had not even seen a battle, nothing but a yellow dense cloud, whence unearthly shouts were poured out in torrents. Even now he sees that cloud, he hears the uproar, he feels the heat, but there is no battle.
Next he sees a boundless desert, in which he is struggling through the sand with painful effort. He and his men have the best horses in the army, and still they creep forward like turtles. And what heat! Impossible for man to support the like.
And now Typhon springs up, hides the light, burns, bites, suffocates. Pale sparks are shooting forth from Pentuer's body. Above their heads thunder rolls such thunder as he had never heard till that day. Later on, silent night in the desert. The fleeing griffin, the dark outline of the sphinx on the limestone hill.