There was a King in Egypt

by Norma Lorimer

The form of the Pharaoh was only dimly visible. Its luminousness had disappeared. It was a shadow in the light. The prayer of all Egyptians from time immemorial had been that they might each day "leave the dim Underworld in order to see the light of the sun upon earth." Akhnaton had prayed this prayer, which was ancient before his day.

Meg knew that his prayer had been answered. Akhnaton, the King, the passionate heretic, the visionary and the prophet, was seeing his adored Sun rising over his kingdom. His persistent prayers had been granted, his desire realized. His spirit had come forth to see the sun's rays. As he gazed at the sun, the years had rolled back. Three thousand years are but a span in the march of eternity. He was alone with his God, as alone as the Moslem figures who were prostrating themselves to the ground. He was enjoying the beauty of Aton in the silent valley, which his footsteps had so often trod, the valley overlooking the city which to him, in his manhood, became the city of abomination and desolation, the city of false gods.

As the light of day flooded the desert, the figure became invisible to Meg. It seemed to melt into the golden air. She felt that it might still be standing there, quite close to her, only she could not see it. Her powers were limited; the light concealed the figure. Being luminous, she had been able to see it clearly in the darkness, just as she was able to see the luminous match-box which she always kept on a table by her bedside. She knew it was there, always shining, only her eyes were unable to see its brightness in the daylight. The figure of Akhnaton might be near her still. How clearly it had stood out in the darkness, how brightly the rays of the sun had declared the symbol of Aton!

Had it all been an optical delusion, born of her nervous condition? Or was it a dream? Was she still in bed sleeping? How could she prove to herself that she was awake, that she had come out to see the dawn, that she was standing in front of her hut and not asleep in bed? In her dreams, she had often dreamed that she was dreaming; she had often told herself that her dreams were all dreams; she had often done things in her dreams to prove to herself that they were not dreams. If she stooped to pick up some sand to prove that her feet were pressing the desert, might not that, too, be a part of her dream? What on earth was there to prove the real from the unreal?

Now that she knew about Akhnaton and his beautiful religion, which is the religion of all reasoning mortals to-day, and had read something of his life and mission, was it not quite probable that she was creating all that she had seen, that she was deceiving herself? It was still possible that she was dreaming.

With nerves unstrung and a beating heart, she saw Michael appear. He was in his early-morning top-coat. He, too, had been greeting the sun. He had made a hasty sketch of the first colours in the sky.

"Mike," Meg cried, in a tone of relief and anxiety. "Mike, I want you, do come here!"

The next moment Mike's arms were round her; her head was on his shoulder.

"What is the matter, dearest?"

"The vision, Mike! I have seen it again—it has been even more wonderful. Oh, Mike!" A stifled sob came from Margaret's full heart; the tension of her nerves was relaxed by the comfort of human arms, of human magnetism.