“Do you say that these sweet-voiced women are the best singers in the world, O Prince?” asked Tua, speaking to him for the first time.  “Now if you will be pleased to listen, you provoke me to make trial of my own small skill that I may learn how far I fall short of ’the best singers in the world.’”

Then she lifted up the ivory harp with the strings of gold and swept her fingers over it, trying its notes and adjusting them with the agate screws, looking at Amathel all the while with a challenge in her lovely eyes.

“Nay, nay, my daughter,” said Pharaoh, “it is scarcely fitting that a queen of Egypt should sing before all this noble company.”

“Why not, my father?” she asked.  “To-night we all do honour to the heir of his Majesty of Kesh.  Pharaoh receives him, Pharaoh’s daughter accepts his gifts, the highest in the land surround him,” then she paused and added slowly, “one of blood more ancient than his own waits on him as cup-bearer, one whose race built up the throne his father fills,” and she pointed to Rames, who stood near by holding the vase of wine.  “Why, then, should not Egypt’s queen seek to please our royal guest as best she may—­since she has no other gift to give him?”

Then in the dead silence which followed this bold speech, whereof none could mistake the meaning, Neter-Tua, Morning Star of Amen, rose from her seat.  Pressing the ivory harp against her young breast, she bent over it, her head crowned with the crown of Upper Egypt whereon glistened the royal uraeus, a snake about to strike, and swept the well-tuned strings.

Such magic was in her touch that instantly all else was forgotten, even the Pharaoh leaned back in his golden chair to listen.  Softly she struck at first, then by slow degrees ever louder till the music of the harp rang through the pillared hall.  Now, at length, she lifted up her heavenly voice and began to sing in a strain so wild and sweet that it seemed to pierce to the watching stars.

It was a sad and ancient love-tale that she sang, which told how a priestess of Hathor of high degree loved and was beloved by a simple scribe whom she might not wed.  It told how the scribe, maddened by his passion, crept at night into the very sanctuary of the temple hoping to find her there, and for his sacrilege was slain by the angry goddess.  It told how the beautiful priestess, coming alone to make prayer in the sanctuary for strength to resist her love, stumbled over the lover’s corpse and, knowing it, died of grief.  It told how Hathor, goddess of love, melted by the piteous sight, breathed back life into their nostrils, and since they might not remain upon earth, wafted them to the Under-world, where they awoke and embraced and dwell on for ever and for aye, triumphant and rejoicing.

All had heard this old, old story, but none had ever heard it so divinely sung.  As Tua’s pure and lovely voice floated over them the listeners seemed to see that lover, daring all in his desire, creep into the solemn sanctuary of the temple.  They saw Hathor appear in her wrath and smite him cold in death.  They saw the beauteous priestess with her lamp, and heard her wail her life away upon her darling’s corpse; saw, too, the dead borne by spirits over the borders of the world.