he heart of the cloud. Now the cloud rolled from the horns of
light, and was gathered into the blackness. The vision of the crescent
moon grew dim and vanished. Then, as the Goddess passed, once more came
the faint and dreadful music of the shaken sistra, and all was still.

I hid my face in my robe, and even then, though my outstretched hand
could touch the chill corpse of that father who had died cursing me,
I felt hope come back into my heart, knowing that I was not altogether
lost nor utterly rejected of Her whom I had forsaken, but whom I yet
loved. And then weariness overpowered me, and I slept.

I woke, the faint lights of dawn were creeping from the opening in the
roof. Ghastly they lay upon the shadowy sculptured walls and ghastly
upon the dead face and white beard of my father, the gathered to Osiris.
I started up, remembering all things, and wondering in my heart what
I should do, and as I rose I heard a faint footfall creeping down the
passage of the names of the Pharaohs.

"_La! La! La!_" mumbled a voice that I knew for the voice of the old
wife, Atoua. "Why, 'tis dark as the House of the Dead! The Holy Ones
who built this Temple loved not the blessed sun, however much they
worshipped him. Now, where's the curtain?"

Presently it was drawn, and Atoua entered, a stick in one hand and a
basket in the other. Her face was somewhat more wrinkled, and her scanty
locks were somewhat whiter than aforetime, but for the rest she was
as she had ever been. She stood and peered around with her sharp black
eyes, for as yet she could see nothing because of the shadows.

"Now where is he?" she muttered. "Osiris--glory to His name--send that
he has not wandered in the night, and he blind! Alack! that I could not
return before the dark. Alack! and alack! what times have we fallen on,
when the Holy High Priest and the Governor, by descent, of Abouthis, is
left with one aged crone to minister to his infirmity! O Harmachis, my
poor boy, thou hast laid trouble at our doors! Why, what's this? Surely
he sleeps not, there upon the ground?--'twill be his death! Prince! Holy
Father! Amenemhat! awake, arise!" and she hobbled towards the
corpse. "Why, how is it! By Him who sleeps, he's dead! untended and
alone--_dead! dead!_" and she sent her long wail of grief ringing up the
sculptured walls.

"Hush! woman, be still!" I said, gliding from the shadows.

"Oh, what art thou?" she cried, casting down her basket. "Wicked man,
ha