Kenkenes said nothing. The murket's wrath was more comforting to him than tender words could have been.
"Who hath the ear of Meneptah?" the murket continued with increasing vehemence. "Har-hat! And behold the miseries of Egypt! Shall we put any great sin past the knave who sinneth monstrously, or divine his methods who is a master of cunning? The land is entangled in difficulty! Give me but a raveling fiber to pull, and, by the gods, I know that we shall find Har-hat at the other end of it! He is destroying Egypt for his ambition's sake! And that a son of mine—me! the right hand of the Incomparable Pharaoh—should furnish meat for his rending!" His voice failed him and he shook his clenched hands high above his head in an abandon of fury.
"Did I not tell thee?" he burst forth again, pointing a finger at his son. "Did I not warn thee from the first?"
Kenkenes raised his head.
"Can you avoid a knave if he hath designs on you?" he asked. "Have I erred in crossing his will? Have I sinned in loving and protecting her whom I love?"
Mentu's hands fell down at his sides. The simple questions had silenced him. His son was blameless now that he had expiated his offenses against the law, and from the moral standpoint his persistence in his claim on Rachel was just—praiseworthy.
"Nay," he said sullenly, "but since thou didst love the girl, how came it that thou didst not wed her long ago and save her this shame and danger?"
He saw the face of his son grow paler.
"The bar of faith lay between us," Kenkenes answered. "I was an idolater, she a worshiper of the One God. She would not wed with me, therefore."
The murket looked at his son, stupefied with amazement.