are scared by the threats of slaves? Nay, he outwitted the Gods, he
made night into day, he lived out twice his years, with revel and love
and wine in the lamp-lit groves of persea trees. Come, my guests, let us
be merry, if it be but for an hour. Drink, and be brave!"

"For once thou speakest well," said the King. "Drink and forget; the
Gods who give Death give wine," and his angry eyes ranged through the
hall, to seek some occasion of mirth and scorn.

"Thou Wanderer!" he said, suddenly. "Thou drinkest not: I have watched
thee as the cups go round; what, man, thou comest from the North,
the sun of thy pale land has not heat enough to foster the vine. Thou
seemest cold, and a drinker of water; why wilt thou be cold before thine
hour? Come, pledge me in the red wine of Khem. Bring forth the cup of
Pasht!" he cried to them who waited, "bring forth the cup of Pasht, the
King drinks!"

Then the chief butler of Pharaoh went to the treasure-house, and came
again, bearing a huge golden cup, fashioned in the form of a lion's
head, and holding twelve measures of wine. It was an ancient cup, sacred
to Pasht, and a gift of the Rutennu to Thothmes, the greatest of that
name.

"Fill it full of unmixed wine!" cried the King. "Dost thou grow pale
at the sight of the cup, thou Wanderer from the North? I pledge thee,
pledge thou me!"

"Nay, King," said the Wanderer, "I have tasted wine of Ismarus before
to-day, and I have drunk with a wild host, the one-eyed Man Eater!" For
his heart was angered by the King, and he forgot his wisdom, but the
Queen marked the saying.

"Then pledge me in the cup of Pasht!" quoth the King.

"I pray thee, pardon me," said the Wanderer, "for wine makes wise men
foolish and strong men weak, and to-night methinks we shall need our
wits and our strength."

"Craven!" cried the King, "give me the bowl. I drink to thy better
courage, Wanderer," and lifting the great golden cup, he stood up and
drank it, and then dropped staggering into his chair, his head fallen on
his breast.

"I may not refuse a King's challenge, though it is ill to contend with
our hosts," said the Wanderer, turning somewhat pale, for he was in
anger. "Give me the bowl!"

He took the cup, and held it high; then pouring a little forth to his
Gods, he said, in a clear voice, for he was stirred to anger beyond his
wont:

"_I drink to the Strange Hathor!_"

He spoke, and drained the mighty cup, and set it down on the board, and
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