“During the last month you have fortunately had so much to distract your thoughts that you have not had time to dwell upon your loss. Moreover, you have needed all your strength and your energy for your search for your sister, and right sure am I that your father, who was as sensible as he was wise—and the two things do not always go together—would be far better pleased to see you energetic and active in your search for your sister and in preparation for this new life on which we are entering, than in vain regrets for him; therefore, lad, for every reason I thought it better to keep silent upon the subject. It may be a satisfaction, however, for you to know that everything will be done to do honor to the dead.
“The king and all the great men of Egypt will be present, and Thebes will turn out its thousands to express its grief for the deed done by a section of its population. Had it not been for the express commands of your father I should have thought that it might have been worth while for you to present yourself on that occasion and it may be that for once even the fanatics would have been satisfied to have pardoned the offense of the son because of the wrong done to the father. However, this affair of Ptylus puts that out of the question, for when it is generally known that Mysa was carried off when Ptylus was slain, public opinion will arrive at the truth and say that the fugitives of whom they were in search, the slayers of the sacred cat, were the rescuers of the daughter of Ameres and the slayers of the high priest.”
“You are right, Jethro, it will be better for me not to have seen my father; I can always think of him now as I saw him last, which is a thousand times better than if he dwelt in my memory as he lies in the cere-clothes in the embalming room of Chigron. As to what you say about my appearing at the funeral, I would in no case have done it; I would a thousand times rather live an exile or meet my death at the hands of savages than crave mercy at the hands of the mob of Thebes, and live to be pointed at all my life as the man who had committed the abhorred offense of killing the sacred cat.”
The conversation in the cabin had all been carried on in an undertone; for although through an opening in the curtains they could see the crew—who had been eating their meal by the light of a torch of resinous wood, and were now wrapped up in thick garments to keep off the night dew—chatting merrily together and occasionally breaking into snatches of song, it was prudent to speak so that not even a chance word should be overheard. The boatmen, indeed, were in high spirits. Their home lay far up near the borders of Upper Egypt, and it was seldom indeed that they obtained a job which gave them the chance of visiting their friends. Thus the engagement was most satisfactory to them, for although their leader had haggled over the terms, he and they would gladly have accepted half the rate of pay rather than let such an opportunity slip. As Chebron finished speaking they were preparing for the night by laying down a few mats on the boards of the fore deck. Then they huddled closely together, pulled another mat or two over them, extinguished the torch, and composed themselves to sleep.
“We will follow their example; but a little more comfortably, I hope,” Jethro said.
The cushions and pillows were arranged, the lamp turned low, and in a short time all on board the boat were sound asleep. No ray of light had entered the cabin when Amuba was awakened by a movement of the boat, caused by a stir among the crew. He felt his way to the door and threw back the hangings and looked out; there was a faint greenish-yellow light in the east, but the stars were still shining brightly.
“Good-morning, young master!” the captain said. “I hope you have slept well.”
“So well that I could hardly believe it was morning,” Amuba replied. “How long will it be before you are off?”
“We shall be moving in ten minutes; at present there is not light enough to see the shore.”
“Chefu, are you awake?”