Manetho’s dissimulation was almost without flaw.  Even Helen, whose fancy had played with him at first, but who in time had indolently yielded to the fascination exerted over her, and even gone so far as to permit his adulation, and accept in the ring the mystic pledge thereof (during all the countless ages of its experience it had never touched woman’s hand before),—­even she, when her lazy heart and overbearing spirit were at length aroused and quelled by the voice rather of a master than suitor, was deceived by forsaken Manetho’s unruffled face, gentle voice, and downcast eyes.  She told herself that his love had never dared be warmer than a kind of worship, like that of a pagan for his idol, apart from human passion; such, at all events, had been her understanding of his attentions.  As to the ring, it had been tendered as an offering at the shrine of abstract womanhood; to return it too soon would imply a supposition of more personal sentiment.  Neither must Thor see it, however; his rough sense would fail to appreciate her fine-drawn distinction.  So she concealed it in her bosom, and Manetho’s serpents were ever between Thor and his wife’s heart.  She was false both to husband and lover.

Great Thor, meanwhile, pitied the slender Egyptian, and in a kindly way despised him, with his supple manners, quiet words, and religious studies.  To the young priest’s timid yet earnest request for permission to pronounce the marriage-service of him and his bride, Thor assented with gruff heartiness.

“Marry us?  Of course! marry us as fast as you can, if it gives you any pleasure, my friend of the crocodile.  A good beginning for your ministerial career,—­marrying a couple who love each other as much as Nell and I do.  Eh, Nellie?”

The ceremony over, Manetho had retired to his study, and there passed the night,—­their marriage-night!  What words and tones, what twistings of face and body, did those passionless walls see and hear?  How the smooth, studious, submissive priest yearned for power to work his will for one day!  And as the cool, still morning sheared the lustre from his lamp-flame, how desolate he felt, with his hatred and despair and blaspheming rage!  Evil passions are but poor company, in the early morning.

But was not Salome left him?  The only sincerely tender words he had ever spoken to woman had been said to her:  his humblest and happiest thoughts had been born of their early acquaintance,—­before he had raised his eyes to the proud and languid mistress.  Yet on her only did the evil passions of Manetho wreak themselves in harm and wrong; her only, on a later day, did he dastardly strike down.  Poor Salome had given him her heart.  These walls had seen their meetings.

Years afterwards, Manetho had here embalmed his foster-father:  through long hours had he labored at his hateful task, with curious zest and conscientiousness.  As regarded the strange place of sepulture, the Egyptian had perhaps imagined a symbolic fitness in enclosing his human immortal in the empty shell of time.  Over this matter of Hiero Glyphic’s death and burial, however, must ever brood a cloud of mystery.  Undoubtedly Manetho loved the man,—­but death was not always the worst of ills in Manetho’s philosophy.