So Pharaoh spoke, and a great groan rose from those who hearkened. Only Meriamun spoke:
“So shall things go with us while that False Hathor dwells in Khem.”
Now as she spoke thus, again there came a sound of knocking at the gates and a cry of “Open—a messenger! a messenger!”
“Open!” said Meriamun, “though his tidings be ill, scarce can they match these that have been told.”
The gates were opened, and one came through them. His eyes stared wide in fear, so dry was his throat with haste and with the sand, that he stood speechless before them all.
“Give him wine,” cried Meriamun, and wine was brought. Then he drank, and he fell upon his knees before the Queen, for he knew not Pharaoh.
“Thy tidings!” she cried. “Be swift with thy tidings.”
“Let the Queen pardon me,” he said. “Let her not be wrath. These are my tidings. A mighty host marches towards the city of On, a host gathered from all lands of the peoples of the North, from the lands of the Tulisha, of the Shakalishu, of the Liku, and of the Shairdana. They march swiftly and raven, they lay the country waste, naught is left behind them save the smoke of burning towns, the flight of vultures, and the corpses of men.”
“Hast done?” said Meriamun.
“Nay, O Queen! A great fleet sails with them up the eastern mouth of Sihor, and in it are twelve thousand chosen warriors of the Aquaiusha, the sons of those men who sacked Troy town.”