ther,
Amenemhat, renouncing all his right on thy behalf. We are met, not,
indeed, in that pomp and ceremony which is due to the occasion--for what
we do must be done in secret, lest our lives, and the cause that is more
dear to us than life, should pay the forfeit--but yet with such dignity
and observance of the ancient rites as our circumstance may command.
Learn, now, how this matter hangs, and if, after learning, thy mind
consents thereto, then mount thy throne, O Pharaoh--and swear the oath!

"Long has Khemi groaned beneath the mailed heel of the Greek, and
trembled at the shadow of the Roman's spear; long has the ancient
worship of its Gods been desecrated, and its people crushed with
oppression. But we believe that the hour of deliverance is at hand,
and with the solemn voice of Egypt and by the ancient Gods of Egypt, to
whose cause thou art of all men bound, we call upon thee, Prince, to be
the sword of our deliverance. Hearken! Twenty thousand good and leal men
are sworn to wait upon thy word, and at thy signal to rise as one, to
put the Grecian to the sword, and with their blood and substance to
build thee a throne set more surely on the soil of Khem than are its
ancient pyramids--such a throne as shall even roll the Roman legions
back. And for the signal, it shall be the death of that bold harlot,
Cleopatra. Thou must compass her death, Harmachis, in such fashion as
shall be shown to thee, and with her blood anoint the Royal throne of
Egypt.

"Canst thou refuse, O our Hope? Doth not the holy love of country swell
within thy heart? Canst thou dash the cup of Freedom from thy lips and
bear to drink the bitter draught of slaves? The emprise is great; maybe
it shall fail, and thou with thy life, as we with ours, shalt pay the
price of our endeavour. But what of it, Harmachis? Is life, then,
so sweet? Are we so softly cushioned on the stony bed of earth? Is
bitterness and sorrow in its sum so small and scant a thing? Do we here
breathe so divine an air that we should fear to face the passage of
our breath? What have we here but hope and memory? What see we here but
shadows? Shall we then fear to pass pure-handed where Fulfilment is and
memory is lost in its own source, and shadows die in the light which
cast them? O Harmachis, that man alone is truly blest who crowns his
life with Fame's most splendid wreath. For, since to all the Brood of
Earth Death hands his poppy-flowers, he indeed is happy to whom there is
o