This was the second occasion that he had held Manetho in his power, at a time when the Egyptian had been attempting his destruction.  In the previous encounter he had retaliated in kind.  Would the bitter issue of that self-indulgence not make him wary now?  Here was again the murderous lust of power, albeit disguised as love of justice.  Had Balder’s penitent suffering failed to teach him the truth of human brotherhood, and equality before God?  Love, typified by Gnulemah, would fain dissuade him from his purpose:  but love (as often happens when it stands in the way of harsh and ignoble impulses) appeared foolishly merciful.

Once again his glance met Gnulemah’s,—­lingered a moment,—­and then turned away.  It was for the last time.  At that moment he was less noble than ever before.  But the expression of her eyes he never forgot; the love, the entreaty, the grandeur,—­the sorrow!—­

He turned away and approached the bedside, while Gnulemah went to kneel at her maiden altar.  Manetho’s eyes were closed; his features wore a singularly childlike expression.  In truth, he was but half himself; the shock he had sustained had paralyzed one part of his nature.  The subtle, evil-plotting Egyptian was dormant; his brain interpreted nothing save the messages of the heart; only the affectionate, emotional Manetho was awake.  The evil he had done and the misery of it were forgotten.—­All this Balder divined; yet his assumption of godlike censorship would not permit him to relent.  It is when man deems himself most secure that he falls, in a worse way than ever.

“Do you know me, Manetho?” demanded the young man.

The priest opened his eyes dreamily, and smiled, but made no further answer.

“I am Balder Helwyse,—­the son of Thor,” continued the other, speaking with incisive deliberation, better to touch the stunned man’s apprehension, “I once had a twin sister.  You believe that Gnulemah is she.”

The priest’s features were getting a bewildered, plaintive expression.  Either he was beginning to comprehend the purport of Balder’s words, or else the sternness of the latter’s tone and glance agitated him.

Bader concentrated all his force into the utterance of the final sentences, vowing to himself that his fallen enemy should understand!  Did he think of Gnulemah then? or of Salome—­partly for whose; sake, he feigned, he had assumed the scourge?

“My sister died,—­was burned to death before she was a year old.  In trying to save her, the nurse almost lost her own life.  On that same night, this nurse gave birth to a daughter,—­whose name you have called Gnulemah.  Salome is her mother.  Who her father is, Manetho, you best know!”

The words were spoken,—­but had the culprit heard them?  Salome (who from the first had shrunk back to the head of the bed, beyond the possible range Manetho’s vision) burst into confused hysteric cries.  Gnulemah had risen from her altar and was looking at Balder:  he felt her glance,—­but though he told himself that he had done but justice, he dared not meet it!—­He kept his eyes fastened on the pallid countenance of the Egyptian.  The latter’s breath came feebly and irregularly, but the anxious expression was gone, and there was again the flickering smile.  All at once there was an odd, solemn change.—­