A man dreams sometimes a dream of paradise, as though his soul returned to its heavenly home; and long after waking he refuses to believe that it had only been a dream and is full of sadness and yearning. Such was the sadness in that face. The drooping eyelids were heavy as though with sleep, the long eye-lashes seemed wet with tears and the lips wore a smile—a trace of paradise—heavenly joy through earthly sadness, like sunshine through a cloud.
"Can it be the same face?" Dio wondered. As in delirium the beautiful face was distorted, grown decrepit and monstrous, and, most awful of all, one could still see that young face in this changed one.
"Well, don't you know him?" Pentaur whispered. There was horror in his voice and mockery, too—triumph over an enemy. "No, he is not easy to recognize. But it is he, Joy of the Sun, Akhnaton!"
"How did they dare insult him like this!" Dio cried out.
"No one would have dared if he had not asked for it himself. It is he who teaches painters not to lie, not to flatter. 'Living in Truth'—Ankh-em-Maat—so he calls himself, and this is what truth is; he did not want to be a man, so this is what he has become!"
"No, that's not it, that's not it!" a voice said behind Dio.
She turned round and recognized Issachar, son of Hamuel. "No, that's not it. The deception is worse and more subtle!" he said looking at the face of the bas-relief.
"What deception?" Dio asked.
"Why, this: listen to the prophecy. 'As many were astonied at Him: His visage was so marred more than any man, and his form more than the sons of men. And we hid our faces from Him. But He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows. The chastisement of our peace was upon Him: and with His stripes we are healed.' Do you know of whom this has been said? ... And who is this man? Accursed, accursed, accursed is the deceiver who said 'I am the Son'!"
Slowly, as though with an effort, he averted his eyes from the bas-relief and looking at Dio bent down to whisper in her ear: