“Do not thus contemplate the terrors of the sea,” he said to Wenamon.  “For if you do that you should also contemplate my own.  Come, I have not done to you what they did to certain former envoys.  They spent seventeen years in this land, and they died where they were.”  Then, turning to an attendant, “Take him,” he said, “and let him see the tomb in which they lie.”

“Oh, don’t let me see it,” Wenamon tells us that he cried in anguish; but, recovering his composure, he continued in a more valiant strain.  “Mere human beings,” he said, “were the envoys who were then sent.  There was no god among them (as there now is).”

The prince had recently ordered an engraver to write a commemorative inscription upon a stone tablet recording the fact that the king of the gods had sent Amon-of-the-Road to Byblos as his divine messenger and Wenamon as his human messenger, that timber had been asked for and supplied, and that in return Amon had promised him ten thousand years of celestial life over and above that of ordinary persons.  Wenamon now reminded him of this, asking him why he should talk so slightingly of the Egyptian envoys when the making of this tablet showed that in reality he considered their presence an honour.  Moreover, he pointed out that when in future years an envoy from Egypt should read this tablet, he would of course pronounce at once the magical prayers which would procure for the prince, who would probably then be in hell after all, a draught of water.  This remark seems to have tickled the prince’s fancy, for he gravely acknowledged its value, and spoke no more in his former strain.  Wenamon closed the interview by promising that the High Priest of Amon-Ra would fully reward him for his various kindnesses.

Shortly after this the Egyptian paid another visit to the sea-shore to feast his eyes upon the logs.  He must have been almost unable to contain himself in the delight and excitement of the ending of his task and his approaching return, in triumph to Egypt; and we may see him jauntily walking over the sand, perhaps humming a tune to himself.  Suddenly he observed a fleet of eleven ships sailing towards the town, and the song must have died upon his lips.  As they drew nearer he saw to his horror that they belonged to the Sicilians of Dor, and we must picture him biting his nails in his anxiety as he stood amongst the logs.  Presently they were within hailing distance, and some one called to them asking their business.  The reply rang across the water, brief and terrible; “Arrest Wenamon!  Let not a ship of his pass to Egypt.”  Hearing these words the envoy of Amon-Ra, king of the gods, just now so proudly boasting, threw himself upon the sand and burst into tears.

The sobs of the wretched man penetrated to a chamber in which the prince’s secretary sat writing at the open window, and he hurried over to the prostrate figure.  “Whatever is the matter with you?” he said, tapping the man on the shoulder.