The young sculptor’s face was passive, but his eyes were fixed sadly on the remote stars strewn above him.  He felt inexpressibly solitary.  His zest in his convictions did not flag, but it seemed that the whole world and the heavens had receded and left him alone with them.

Again Hotep spoke.

“There is more court gossip,” he began cheerily, as if no word had been said that could depress the tone of the conversation.

Kenkenes accepted the new subject gladly.

“Out with it,” he said.  “Within the four walls of my world I hear naught but the clink of mallet and falling stone.”

“The breach between Meneptah and Amon-meses, his mutinous brother, may be healed by a wedding.”

“So?”

“Of a surety—­nay, and not of a surety, either, but mayhap.  A match between the niece of Amon-meses, the Princess Ta-user, and the heir, Rameses.”

Kenkenes sat up again in his earnestness.  “Nay,” he exclaimed.  “Never!”

“Wherefore, I pray thee?” Hotep asked with a deprecating smile.

“There is no mating between the lion and the eagle; the stag and the asp!  They could not love.”

“Thou dreamy idealist!” Hotep laughed.  “The half of great marriages are moves of strategy, attended more by Set[1] than Athor.[2] Ta-user is mad for the crown, Rameses for undisputed power.  Each has one of these two desirable things to give the other.”

“And how shall they appease Athor?” Kenkenes demanded warmly.  “Ta-user loves Siptah, the son of Amon-meses, and Rameses will crown whom he loves though he had a thousand other crown-loving, treaty-dowered wives!”

Hotep smiled.  “I thought the four walls of thy world hedged thee, but it seems thou art right well acquainted with royalty.”

“Scoff!” Kenkenes cried.  “But I can tell thee this:  Rameses will put his foot on the neck of Amon-meses if the pretender trouble him, and will wed with a slave-girl if she break the armor over his iron heart.”

Hotep laughed again and suggested another subject.

“The new fan-bearer,” he began.

“Nay, what of him?” Kenkenes broke in at once.

“And shall we quarrel about him, also?”

“Dost thou know him?” Hotep queried.

“Right well—­from afar and by hearsay.”

“Do thou express thyself first concerning him, and I shall treat thee to the courtier’s diplomacy if I agree not.”

“I like him not,” Kenkenes responded bluntly.

Hotep leaned toward him, with the smile gone from his face, the jest from his manner, and laid his hand on the sculptor’s.  The pressure spoke eloquently of hearty concord.  “But he has a charming daughter,” he said.

Kenkenes inspected his friend’s face critically, but there was nothing to be read thereon.

A palace attendant approached across the paved roof and bent before the scribe.

“A summons from the Son of Ptah, my Lord,” he said.