“Dog!” he gasped, “Dog of a Vizier! I have spared you too long; it should have been done last night. But I waited——”
“Aye,” answered the voice of Anath, “you over-shot yourself, Pharaoh, and gave the dog time to bite. Away with you to Set, son-murderer.”
A withered form, that of Anath, leapt forward, its black eyes gleaming in the yellow wrinkled face, a thin arm smote with the tormentor’s heated iron at the hands that gripped the seat, crushing and burning them. Apepi loosed his hold and with a cry fell backwards into the moat beneath.
Ru saw him fall and leaped into the water, swimming with great strokes. As the Pharaoh rose he seized him with his mighty hands and dragged him to the bank where he broke him like a stick, then cast him to the shore.
“Pharaoh Apepi is dead!” piped the thin voice of Anath, “but Pharaoh Khian lives! Life! Blood! Strength! Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!”
So he cried as he hacked at Khian’s bonds and dragged away the gag, and all the multitude beneath took up the ancient greeting, shouting:
“Life! Blood! Strength! Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Pharaoh!”
It was evening. Khian lay upon a couch in the royal pavilion of the Babylonians, whither by his own command he had been brought, since as yet Nefra could not enter the city. The Lady Kemmah and a leech bathed his bruised face and bandaged his swollen knee, while Nefra, who stood near, shivered at the sight of a long red burn upon his flesh made by the touch of hot iron.
Then suddenly a question burst from her:
“Tell me, Khian, why did you fly away from me in the battle, when you might have escaped and spared us all this agony?”