“Have I not already told you, Merchant,” asked Rames angrily, “that I have no wife, and no companions that are not men?”

“You said so, Sir,” she replied humbly, always speaking in her feigned voice, “yet forgive us if we believed you not, since in our journeyings my daughter and I have seen many princes, and know that such a thing is contrary to their nature.  Still we will show you our wares, for surely all the men in Napata are not unmarried.”

Then, without more ado, she drew out a box of scented cedar and, opening it, revealed a diadem of pearls worked into the shape of the royal uraeus, which they had fashioned thus at Tat, and also a few of their largest single gems.

“Beautiful, indeed,” said Rames, looking at them, “though there is but one who has the right to wear this crown, the divine Queen of the Upper and the Lower Land,” and he sighed.

“Nay, Lord,” replied Asti, “for surely her husband might wear it also.”

“It would sit but ill on the fat head of Abi, from all I hear, Lady,” he broke in, laughing bitterly.

“Or,” went on Asti, taking no heed of his words, “a general who had conquered a great country could usurp it, and find none to reprove him, especially if he himself happened to be of the royal blood.”

Now Rames looked at her sharply.

“You speak strange words,” he said, “but doubtless it is by chance.  Merchant, those pearls of yours are for richer men than I am, shut them in the box again, and let the lady, your daughter, sing some old song of Egypt, for such I long to hear.”

“So be it, Lord,” answered Asti.  “Still, keep the diadem as a gift, since it was made for you alone, and may yet be useful to you—­who can know?  It is the price we pay for liberty to trade in your dominions.  Nay, unless you keep it my daughter shall not sing.”

“Let it lie there, then, most princely Merchant, and we will talk of the matter afterwards.  Now for the song.”

Then, her moment come at last, Tua stood up, and holding the ivory harp beneath her veil, she swept its golden chords.  Disguising her voice, as Asti had done, she began to sing, somewhat low, a short and gentle love-song, which soon came to an end.

“It is pretty,” said Rames, when she had finished, “and reminds me of I know not what.  But have you no fuller music at your command?  If so, I would listen to it before I bid you good-night.”

She bent her head and answered almost in a whisper: 

“Lord, if you wish it, I will sing you the story of one who dared to set his heart too high, and of what befell him at the hands of an angry goddess.”

“Sing on,” he answered.  “Once I heard such a story—­elsewhere.”