The mourners had gone home and Hatatcha lay alone; but someone had placed a coarse cloth over her face to keep the flies away.
The dwarf drew from his pocket a rush-candle and lighted it. Removing the face-cloth he gazed for several minutes earnestly upon the features of the dead woman. Then he sighed deeply, untied the sack from his saddle and blew out the flame of the candle.
Kāra stood in the archway, looking at the slender rim of the moon. In a short time the dwarf’s white donkey paused beside him. The sack, now bulky and
heavy, hung limply across the saddle. Kāra could see it plainly in the dim light.
He put his hand on the sack.
“Will it ride without tumbling off?” he asked.
“I will hold it fast,” replied the dwarf, springing upon the donkey’s back behind the burden. “Poor Hatatcha! She will not know we are taking our last ride together in Khonsu’s company.”
“Good-night,” said Kāra.