“Yes,” answered she who had been addressed. “I wonder that a man with such a noble air should find pleasure in disturbing graves and stealing the offerings of the dead,” words that gave Smith much cause for thought. He had never considered the matter in this light.
Now he came to the place where Ma-Mee stood, the black-browed Pharaoh who had been her husband at her side. On his left hand which held the cigar-box was the gold Bes ring, and that box he felt constrained to carry pressed against him just over his heart.
As he went by he turned his head, and his eyes met those of Ma-Mee. She started violently. Then she saw the ring upon his hand and again started still more violently.
“What ails your Majesty?” asked the Pharaoh.
“Oh, naught,” she answered. “Yet does this earth-dweller remind you of anyone?”
“Yes, he does,” answered the Pharaoh. “He reminds me very much of that accursed sculptor about whom we had words.”
“Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court artist; he who worked the image that was buried with me, and whom you sent to carve your statues in the deserts of Kush, until he died of fevers—or was it poison?”
“Aye; Horu and no other, may Set take and keep him!” growled the Pharaoh.
Then Smith passed on and heard no more. Now he stood before the venerable Menes. Some instinct caused him to bow to this Pharaoh, who bowed back to him. Then he turned and bowed to the royal company, and they also bowed back to him, coldly, but very gravely and courteously.
“Dweller on the world where once we had our place, and therefore brother of us, the dead,” began Menes, “this divine priest and magician”—and he pointed to Khaemuas—“declares that you are one of those who foully violate our sepulchres and desecrate our ashes. He declares, moreover, that at this very moment you have with you a portion of the mortal flesh of a certain Majesty whose spirit is present here. Say, now, are these things true?”