"What an intrepid spirit! Small wonder that she did not heed the condemnation of the rabble at mid-day—she who was fresh from a triumph over the Pharaoh!"
Hotep's eyes widened warningly and he shook his head.
"Nay, hush me not, Hotep," Kenkenes went on in a reckless whisper. "I must say it. Would to the gods I had been there to copy it in stone!"
"Hush! babbler!" the scribe exclaimed, his eyes twinkling nevertheless, "thine art will make an untimely mummy of thee yet."
Kenkenes poured out his first glass of wine and set it down untasted.
The contemplated sacrilege in stone opposite Memphis confronted him.
"If Egypt's lack of art does not kill me first," he added in defense.
"Nay," Hotep protested, "why wouldst thou perpetuate the affront to the
Pharaoh?"
"Because it is history and a better delineation of the Israelitish character than all the wordy chronicles of the historians could depict," was the spirited reply.
"But the ritual," Hotep began, with the assurance of a man that feels he is armed with unanswerable argument.
"Sing me no song of the ritual," Kenkenes broke in impatiently. "The ritual offends mine ears—my sight, my sense. We have quarreled beyond any treaty-making—ever."