"Open the shutters."
He knew she was afraid of light and did not venture to open all the shutters at once, but ordered them to draw the curtains from one window only.
"All, all," she whispered.
All the windows were flung open. The morning sun flooded the room—the rays of the god Aton like a child's hands embraced her naked body.
"Lift me up," the blade of grass rustled, and the king lifted her as easily as though she were a blade of grass. The sun lighted her face.
"Akhnaton, Sun's joy, Sun's only Son!" she said, looking into his eyes so that he understood this was not delirium, "I know that you are...."
She did not finish, but he understood: "I know that you are He."
Suddenly she trembled in his arms, like a leaf in a storm. He laid her down on the bed.
Pentu put the mirror to her lips, but this time its brass surface remained clear. The rays of the Sun—a child's hands—embraced the body of the dead.
There was the sound of weeping in the chamber. The women cried, wailed frantically, beat their breasts, tore their hair, scratched their own faces till they bled, with a kind of rapture of despair. But all was decorous like a holy rite: this was how they had wailed thousands of years before and how they would wail thousands of years hence.