The seer struggled once more with his control.

“I next see you at the head of a Roman legion, going forth to battle.  You are a tyrant, ruling by fear alone, and with your own sword I see you cut off the heads of—­”

“Farther back,” beseeched the sitter.  “I—­I’ve had enough of all that battle and killing.  I—­I don’t like it.  Go on back to the very first.”

Patiently the adept redirected his forces.

“I see a poet.  He sings his deathless lay by a roadside in ancient Greece.  He is an old man, feeble, blind—­”

“Something else,” broke in the persistent sitter, resolving not to pay twenty dollars for having been a blind poet.

The professor glanced sharply at him.  Perhaps his control did not relish these interruptions.  He seemed to suppress words of impatience and began anew.

“Ah!  Now I see your very first appearance on this planet.  You were born from another as yet unknown to our astronomers.  You are now”—­he lowered his eyes to the sitter’s face—­“an Egyptian king.”

Detecting no sign of displeasure at this, he continued with refreshed enthusiasm.

“It is thousands of years ago.  You are the last king of the pre-dynastic era—­”

“What kind of a king—­one of those fighters?”

“You are a wise and good king.  I see a peaceful realm peopled by contented subjects.”

“That’s what I want to know.  Go on; tell me more.  Married?”

“Your wife is a princess of rare beauty from—­from Mesopotamia.  You have three lovely children, two boys and a girl, and your palace on the banks of the Nile is one of the most beautiful and grand palaces ever erected by the hand of man.  You are ministered to by slaves, and your councillors of state come to you with their reports.  You are tall, handsome and of a most kingly presence.  Your personal bravery is unquestioned, you are an adept in all manly sports, but you will not go to war as you very properly detest all violence.  For this reason there is little to relate of your reign.  It was uneventful and distinguished only by your wise and humane statesmanship—­”

“What name?” asked Bean, in low, reverent tones.

“The name—­er—­the name is—­oh, yes, I get it—­the name is Ram-tah.”

“Can I find him in the histories?”

“You cannot,” answered the seer emphatically.  “I am probably the only living man that can tell you very much about him.”

“When did he—­pass on?”

“At the age of eighty-two years.  He was deeply mourned by all his people.  He had been a king of great strength of character, stern at moments, but ever just.  His remains received the treatment customary in those times, and the mummy was interred in the royal sepulchre which is now covered by the sands of the centuries.  Anything else?”

Bean was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes lost in that far, glorious past.