"Thou speakest of Masaarah, my Kenkenes," the crown prince commented after the salutation, "and it suggests an inquiry I would make of thee. Dost thou go on as sculptor, or wilt thou follow thy father into the art of building?"
"Since the Pharaoh chose for my father, he shall choose for me also."
"Nay, the Pharaoh did not choose," Rameses objected dryly. "It was I."
"Of a truth? Then thou shalt choose for me, O my generous Prince."
"Follow thy father. I would have thee for my murket. Nay, it is ever so. I mold the Pharaoh and he gets the credit."
"And thou, the blame, when blame accrues from the molding," Menes put in very distinctly, though under his breath.
"But be thou of cheer, O Son of the Sun," Kenkenes added. "When thou art Pharaoh, thou canst retaliate upon thine own heir, in the same fashion."
"Thou givest him tardy comfort, O Son of Mentu," Siptah commented with an unpleasant laugh. "He will lose all recollection of the grudge, waiting so long."
Rameses turned his heavy eyes toward the speaker, but Kenkenes halted any remark the prince might have made.
"Nay, let it pass," he said placidly, dropping into a chair. "All this savors too much of the future and is out of place in the happy improvidence of the present."