“Come away with me, Moon of Israel,” he cried, “and all shall yet be forgiven you.  But if you will not come, then fearful things shall overtake you.”

She stood staring at him, answering never a word, and just then the Prince Seti reached us and saw him.

“Take that man,” he commanded, flushing with anger, and guards sprang into the darkness to do his bidding.  But Laban was gone.

On the second day of the darkness the tumult was great, on the third it was terrible.  A crowd thrust the guard aside, broke down the gates and burst into the palace, humbly demanding that the lady Merapi would come to pray for them, yet showing by their mien that if she would not come they meant to take her.

“What is to be done?” asked Seti of Ki and Bakenkhonsu.

“That is for the Prince to judge,” said Ki, “though I do not see how it can harm the lady Merapi to pray for us in the open square of Memphis.”

“Let her go,” said Bakenkhonsu, “lest presently we should all go further than we would.”

“I do not wish to go,” cried Merapi, “not knowing for whom I am to pray or how.”

“Be it as you will, Lady,” said Seti in his grave and gentle voice.  “Only, hearken to the roar of the mob.  If you refuse, I think that very soon every one of us will have reached a land where perhaps it is not needful to pray at all,” and he looked at the infant in her arms.

“I will go,” she said.

She went forth carrying the child and I walked behind her.  So did the Prince, but in that darkness he was cut off by a rush of thousands of folk and I saw him no more till all was over.  Bakenkhonsu was with me leaning on my arm, but Ki had gone on before us, for his own ends as I think.  A huge mob moved through the dense darkness, in which here and there lights floated like lamps upon a quiet sea.  I did not know where we were going until the light of one of these lamps shone upon the knees of the colossal statue of the great Rameses, revealing his cartouche.  Then I knew that we were near the gateway of the vast temple of Memphis, the largest perhaps in the whole world.

We went on through court after pillared court, priests leading us by the hand, till we came to a shrine commanding the biggest court of all, which was packed with men and women.  It was that of Isis, who held at her breast the infant Horus.

“O friend Ana,” cried Merapi, “give help.  They are dressing me in strange garments.”

I tried to get near to her but was thrust back, a voice, which I thought to be that of Ki, saying: 

“On your life, fool!”

Presently a lamp was held up, and by the light of it I saw Merapi seated in a chair dressed like a goddess, in the sacerdotal robes of Isis and wearing the vulture cap headdress—­beautiful exceedingly.  In her arms was the child dressed as the infant Horus.

“Pray for us, Mother Isis,” cried thousands of voices, “that the curse of blackness may be removed.”