“Nothing.”
Seti stooped and put his ear close to the lips of the dying woman. He shook his head.
“Old age,” said he, “has its disadvantages, and dull ears are one of them. Perhaps my young friend here can help us”—and he beckoned to Aleph, who had remained at some distance.
The young man at once came forward, and, kneeling by the bed, laid his ear close to the twitching lips. For a few moments he seemed not to breathe at all. As Seti looked down on that noble head with its wealth of youth and strength in broad contrast with the sharp, worn features of the sick woman, he said to himself: “It is the head of Horus, the sun-god.”
At length Aleph rose. “She says water, water—that and nothing else.”
“Give her water, then,” commanded Seti.
“But the leech, grandfather!” interposed the maiden anxiously.
“No matter what the leech says. I too am a leech. Let her drink freely.”
Aleph took up the water-jar that was standing by the bed, poured into a large cup that was near till it was almost full, and held it to the lips of the woman—saying to Rachel as he did so: “It is the way of my country.” The dry lips closed spasmodically over the rim of the cup, and did not release it till not a drop was left. She opened her eyes. A faint sigh of relief reached the younger ears.