Bent-Anat took a rose from her hair and laid it on her bosom.
The paraschites, who had not taken his hands from the feet of the sick child, but who had followed every movement of the princess, now whispered, “May Hathor requite thee, who gave thee thy beauty.”
The princess turned to him and said, “Forgive the sorrow, I have caused you.”
The old man stood up, letting the feet of the sick girl fall, and asked in a clear loud voice:
“Art thou Bent-Anat?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the princess, bowing her head low, and in so gentle a voice, that it seemed as though she were ashamed of her proud name.
The eyes of the old man flashed. Then he said softly but decisively:
“Leave my hut then, it will defile thee.”
“Not till you have forgiven me for that which I did unintentionally.”
“Unintentionally! I believe thee,” replied the paraschites. “The hoofs of thy horse became unclean when they trod on this white breast. Look here—” and he lifted the cloth from the girl’s bosom, and showed her the deep red wound, “Look here—here is the first rose you laid on my grandchild’s bosom, and the second—there it goes.”