d it on her bosom.

The paraschites, who had not taken his hands from the feet of the sick
child, but who had followed every movement of the princess, now
whispered, "May Hathor requite thee, who gave thee thy beauty."

The princess turned to him and said, "Forgive the sorrow, I have caused
you."

The old man stood up, letting the feet of the sick girl fall, and asked
in a clear loud voice:

"Art thou Bent-Anat?"

"Yes, I am," replied the princess, bowing her head low, and in so gentle
a voice, that it seemed as though she were ashamed of her proud name.

The eyes of the old man flashed. Then he said softly but decisively:

"Leave my hut then, it will defile thee."

"Not till you have forgiven me for that which I did unintentionally."

"Unintentionally! I believe thee," replied the paraschites. "The hoofs of
thy horse became unclean when they trod on this white breast. Look
here--" and he lifted the cloth from the girl's bosom, and showed her the
deep red wound, "Look here--here is the first rose you laid on my
grandchild's bosom, and the second--there it goes."

The paraschites raised his arm to fling the flower through the door of
his hut. But Pentaur had approached him, and with a grasp of iron held
the old man's hand.

"Stay," he cried in an eager tone, moderated however for the sake of the
sick girl. "The third rose, which this noble hand has offered you, your
sick heart and silly head have not even perceived. And yet you must know
it if only from your need, your longing for it. The fair blossom of pure
benevolence is laid on your child's heart, and at your very feet, by this
proud princess. Not with gold, but with humility. And whoever the
daughter of Rameses approaches as her equal, bows before her, even if he
were the first prince in the Land of Egypt. Indeed, the Gods shall not
forget this deed of Bent-Anat. And you--forgive, if you desire to be
forgiven that guilt, which you bear as an inheritance from your fathers,
and for your own sins."

The paraschites bowed his head at these words, and when he raised it the
anger had vanished from his well-cut features. He rubbed his wrist, which
had been squeezed by Pentaur's iron fingers, and said in a tone which
betrayed all the bitterness of his feelings:

"Thy hand is hard, Priest, and thy words hit like the strokes of a
hammer. This fair lady is good and loving, and I know; that she did not
drive her horse intentionally over this poor girl, who is my