Gudea was standing panting, gazing upon the dead, the widow, and Joram. His jaw was dropped, his eye vacant. Even his own effrontery had failed him. Isaiah plucked him roughly by the robe.
“Make your feet wings, or I will aid you,” he commanded. “You have truly raised the ‘Maskim’ now.”
The wizard recovered his tongue.
“Isaiah plucked him roughly by the robe.
“‘Make your feet wings, or I will aid you.’”
“Dead?” cried he, incredulously; “he is but in a trance. He sleeps; he will awake in quiet. The demons tore him grievously in departing, but he is not dead.”
Urtasen had knelt by the body, examining. Now he looked upward.
“Saruch had an incurable disease. Thoth, the wisest god, could have scarce saved him in the end. But this smoke and bellowing brought on a last convulsion. With treatment he could have lived many years. Now he will wake only at the call of Osiris.”
The widow and Joram had leaped upon Gudea.