"Thou art a god among gods, transfigured, indestructible, ruling over other gods;" the officiating priest declared.
"I am one. My being is the being of all the gods throughout eternity," the mummy answered and the dead eyes glittered more brightly than the living. "He is—I am; I am—He is."
The king fell on his face: he understood that this new terrible god, Lightgiving, Everlasting, Ancient of days, Makitaton, had overthrown Aton.
He breathed with relief when the body was put back in the coffin and Makitaton became little Maki once more.
He bent over her, kissed her on the mouth and put upon her heart a branch of mimosa: the tender, feathery leaves were to respond with their tremour to the first stir of the heart at resurrection.
The king spent the night in a tent in the desert, waiting for sunrise, to say the morning prayers at the tomb.
He could not go to sleep for hours. At last he got up, lifted the side of the tent and looked out. The Milky Way stretched like a cloud rent in two from one end of the desert to the other, the Pleiades glowed, and the seven stars of Tuart the Hippopotamus glittered with a cold brilliance. Dead stillness was all round; only the jackals' howling and the hooting of owls came from the gorge below.
He lay down again and went to sleep.
He dreamt he was standing on a square platform at the top of Cheops' great pyramid. The desert below was thronged with a countless multitude of men: there seemed to be as many heads as there were grains of sand in the desert; it was as though all tribes and peoples had gathered together for the last judgment on him, Uaenra. They were looking at him and waiting with bated breath.
A puny, black little creature—Shiha, the eunuch, or the god Tot himself, the Wise Monkey—fidgeted by his side. The king wanted to push it away and could not—he felt weak all over.