“Cannot you guess? Because I am an outcast who has betrayed my people. Because their blood flows between me and them. For I killed that man, and he was my own kinsman, for the sake of an Egyptian—I mean, Egyptians. Therefore the curse of Jahveh is on me, and as my kinsman died doubtless I shall die in a day to come, and afterwards—what?”
“Afterwards peace and great reward, if there be justice in earth or heaven, O most noble among women.”
“Would that I could think so! Hush, I hear steps. Drink this; I am the chief of your nurses, Scribe Ana, an honourable post, since to-day all Egypt loves and praises you.”
“Surely it is you, lady Merapi, whom all Egypt should love and praise,” I answered.
Then the Prince Seti entered. I strove to salute him by lifting my less injured arm, but he caught my hand and pressed it tenderly.
“Hail to you, beloved of Menthu, god of war,” he said, with his pleasant laugh. “I thought I had hired a scribe, and lo! in this scribe I find a soldier who might be an army’s boast.”
At this moment he caught sight of Merapi, who had moved back into the shadow.
“Hail to you also, Moon of Israel,” he said bowing. “If I name Ana here a warrior of the best, what name can both of us find for you to whom we owe our lives? Nay, look not down, but answer.”
“Prince of Egypt,” she replied confusedly, “I did but little. The plot came to my ears through Jabez my uncle, and I fled away and, knowing the short paths from childhood, was just in time. Had I stayed to think perchance I should not have dared.”
“And what of the rest, Lady? What of the Hebrew who was choking me and of a certain sword thrust that loosed his hands for ever?”