"Holy Amen!" the scribe exclaimed, his voice barely audible in its earnestness. "What consummate loveliness! But what—what unspeakable impiety!"
"Hast thou seen Athor? She is before thee."
"Athor! The golden goddess in the image of a mortal! Kenkenes, the wrath of the priests awaits thee and thereafter the doom of the insulted Pantheon!" The scribe shuddered and plucked at his friend's robe as if to drag him away from the sight of his own creation.
Firmly fixed were the young artist's convictions to resist the impelling force of Hotep's consternation.
"Nay, nay, Hotep," he answered soothingly. "The wrath of the gods for an offense thus flagrant is exceedingly slow, if it is to fall. Lo! they have propitiated me at great length if they mean to accomplish mine undoing at last. Thus far, and the statue is well-nigh complete, I have met no form of obstacle."
But Hotep shook his head in profound apprehension. He looked at the statue furtively and murmured:
"O Kenkenes, what madness made thee trifle with the gods?"
"Have I not said? The goddess herself lured me. Is she not the embodied essence of Beauty? The ritual insults her. Ah, look at the statue, Hotep. How could Athor be wroth with the sculptor who called such a face as that, a likeness of her!"
"It startles me," the scribe declared. "It is supernaturally human.
That is not art, but creation. O apostate, thine offense is of
two-fold seriousness. Thou hast stolen the function of the divine
Mother and made a living thing!"
Kenkenes laughed with sheer joy at his comrade's genuine praise. The more dismayed Hotep might be, the more sincere his compliment. But the scribe, plunged into a stupor of concern lest the authorities discover the sacrilege, went on helplessly.