She rose and faced him.  “Did Rameses tell thee I loved him?” she demanded, a faint hope stirring in her heart.

“Nay, far from it.  He told me, and laughed as he said it, that if thy soft heart had any passion for him it was hate.”

“Said he that?  Nay, now, my father, thou seest I can not marry him.”  There was relief in her voice, and she drew near to the fan-bearer and invited his arms.  He sat down instead, and drawing up a stool with his foot, bade her sit at his feet.

“Listen!  It is a whim of the Hathors to conceal one’s own feelings from him at times, that he may accomplish his own undoing, being blind.  Much is at stake on thy love for the prince.  Awake, Masanath!  Thou dost love him; thou wilt wed him—­and it shall go well with—­all others whom thou lovest.”

“Wouldst use me for a price, my father—­wouldst barter thy daughter for something?” she asked in a tone low with apprehension.

“Ah, what inelegant words,” he chid.  “Thou dost miscall my purpose.  Look, my daughter.  Have I not served thee with hand and heart all thy life, asking nothing, sacrificing much?  I, for one, have a debt against thee, and thou canst pay it in thy marriage to Rameses.  Dost thou not love me enough to make me secure with the prince, and so, secure in mine advisership to the king?”

Masanath arose slowly, as if her movements kept pace with the progress of her realizations.  Thus far she had been a loving and a believing child.  The genial knavishness of her father had never appeared as such to her.  In her sight he was cheery, great and lovable.  Most of all she had flattered herself that he loved her better than life, and that his nights were sleepless in planning for her happiness.  Now, a terrifying lapse in his care, or a more terrifying display of his real character, appalled her.

He had placed his demand in the most irresistible form, by calling upon her dutifulness.  Being obedient, she felt constrained to submit, but being spirited, with her heart already bestowed, she resisted.

She floundered wildly for testimony that would justify her rebellion in his sight.  The memory of Ta-user’s threats came to her as unexpected and unbidden as all inspirations come.

“Shall I hold thee in thy position at the expense of Egypt’s peace, if not at the expense of the dynasty?” she cried.

“By the heaven-bearing shoulders of Buto!” he responded laughingly, “thou dost put a high estimate on the results of thine acts.  Add thereto, ‘if not at the expense of the Pantheon,’ and thou shalt have all heaven and earth at thy mercy.”

“Nay, my father, hear me!  Thou knowest Ta-user—­”

“O, aye, I know Ta-user—­all Egypt knows her—­more particularly, Rameses.”

“Thou dost not fathom the evil in her—­”

“Her fangs are drawn, daughter.”