Kenkenes looked at him, wondering if the news of his supposed death had penetrated even to this little hamlet.
"Art thou not thy father's eldest born?" the priest asked further.
"His only child."
"What sheltered thee in last night's harvest of death?"
"Thou speakest in riddles, holy Father."
"Knowest thou not that every first-born in Egypt died last night at the
Hebrew's sending?" the sorcerer demanded.
"The first-born of Egypt," Kenkenes repeated slowly. "At the Hebrew's sending?"
"Aye, by the sorcery of Mesu. Save for the eldest of Israel, there is no living first-born in Egypt to-day. From that most imperial Prince Rameses to the firstling of the cowherd, they are dead!"
The young man heard him first with a chill of horror, half-unbelieving, barely comprehending. He was not of Israel and yet he had been spared. Then he remembered the dread presence above him in the night,—the chill from its noiseless wing. A light, instant and brilliant as a revelation, broke over him. Unconsciously, he raised his eyes and clasped his hands against his breast. He knew that his God had acknowledged him.
When his thoughts returned to earth, he found the glittering eyes of the sorcerer fixed upon him.