"Mother, O my mother!" he exclaimed, in his strong anguish, "I cannot part with thee! Thou hast been a mother to me indeed!"
As I entered, her gaze turned towards me.
"It is the Prince of Tyre! I thought it was the others!"
"What others, my mother?" asked Remeses.
"They will soon come. I commanded him to bring them all. I must see them ere I die. But the Prince of Tyre is welcome!" And she smiled upon me, and gave me her other hand to kiss. It was cold as ivory! I also knelt by her, and sorrowfully watched her sharpening features, which the chisel of Death seemed shaping into the marble majesty of a god.
At this moment the door opened, and I saw, ushered in by a Hebrew page, the venerable head gardener, Amram; the young Hebrew ecclesiastic; Miriam the papyrus writer; and, leaning upon her arm, a dignified and still beautiful dame of fifty-five. I could not be mistaken—this last was the mother of Remeses.
"Cause all persons to go forth the chamber," cried the queen at the sight, her voice recovering in part its strength. She glanced at me to remain.
"Come hither, Amram," she said, "and lead to my bedside thy wife. Remeses, behold thy mother and father! Mother, embrace thy son! Since he can be no longer mine, I will return him to thee forever!" Her voice was veiled with tears. Remeses rose, and turning to his mother, who looked worthy of him, said:
"My mother, I acknowledge thee to be my mother! Give me thy blessing, as thou hast often done in my infancy."
He tenderly and respectfully embraced her, and then pressing his father's hand to his lips, he knelt before them. They were deeply moved, and instead of blessing him, wept upon him with silent joy.