And then, when the sacred music ceased, as aforetime on the setting of the majesty of Ra, the High Priest raised the statue of the living God and held it on high before the multitude.

With a joyful shout of

“Osiris! our hope, Osiris!  Osiris!”

the people tore the black wrappings from their dress, showing the white robes beneath, and, as one man, bowed before the God.

Then they went to feast each at his home; but I stayed in the court of the temple.

Presently a priest of the temple drew near, and asked me of my business.  And I answered him that I came from Alexandria, and would be led before the council of the High Priests, for I knew that the Holy Priests were gathered together debating the tidings from Alexandria.

Thereon the man left, and the High Priests, hearing that I was from Alexandria, ordered that I should be led into their presence in the Hall of Columns—­and so I was led in.  It was already dark, and between the great pillars lights were set, as on that night when I was crowned Pharaoh of the Upper and the Lower Land.  There, too, was the long line of Dignitaries seated in their carven chairs, and taking counsel together.  All was the same; the same cold images of Kings and Gods gazed with the same empty eyes from the everlasting walls.  Ay, more; among those gathered there were five of the very men who, as leaders of the great plot, had sat here to see me crowned, being the only conspirators who had escaped the vengeance of Cleopatra and the clutching hand of Time.

I took my stand on the spot where once I had been crowned and made me ready for the last act of shame with such bitterness of heart as cannot be written.

“Why, it is the physician Olympus,” said one.  “He who lived a hermit in the Tombs of Tape, and who but lately was of the household of Cleopatra.  Is it, then, true that the Queen is dead by her own hand, Physician?”

“Yea, holy Sirs, I am that physician; also Cleopatra is dead by my hand.”

“By thy hand?  Why, how comes this?—­though well is she dead, forsooth, the wicked wanton!”

“Your pardon, Sirs, and I will tell you all, for I am come hither to that end.  Perchance among you there may be some—­methinks I see some—­who, nigh eleven years ago, were gathered in this hall to secretly crown one Harmachis, Pharaoh of Khem?”

“It is true!” they said; “but how knowest thou these things, thou Olympus?”

“Of the rest of those seven-and-thirty nobles,” I went on, making no answer, “are two-and-thirty missing.  Some are dead, as Amenemhat is dead; some are slain, as Sepa is slain; and some, perchance, yet labour as slaves within the mines, or live afar, fearing vengeance.”

“It is so,” they said:  “alas! it is so.  Harmachis the accursed betrayed the plot, and sold himself to the wanton Cleopatra!”

“It is so,” I went on, lifting up my head.  “Harmachis betrayed the plot and sold himself to Cleopatra; and, holy Sirs—­I am that Harmachis!”