Now and again the crowd would part to let pass the chariot of some noble or lady before which went running footmen who shouted, “Make way, Make way!” and laid about them with their long wands.  Then came a procession of white-robed priests of Isis travelling by moonlight as was fitting for the servants of the Lady of the Moon, and bearing aloft the holy image of the goddess before which all men bowed and for a little while were silent.  After this followed the corpse of some great one newly dead, preceded by a troop of hired mourners who rent the air with their lamentations as they conducted it to the quarter of the embalmers.  Lastly, from out of one of the side streets emerged a gang of several hundred hook-nosed and bearded men, among whom were a few women, loosely roped together and escorted by a company of armed guards.

“Who are these?” I asked, for I had never seen their like.

“Slaves of the people of Israel who return from their labour at the digging of the new canal which is to run to the Red Sea,” answered the Prince.

We stood still to watch them go by, and I noted how proudly their eyes flashed and how fierce was their bearing although they were but men in bonds, very weary too and stained by toil in mud and water.  Presently this happened.  A white-bearded man lagged behind, dragging on the line and checking the march.  Thereupon an overseer ran up and flogged him with a cruel whip cut from the hide of the sea-horse.  The man turned and, lifting a wooden spade that he carried, struck the overseer such a blow that he cracked his skull so that he fell down dead.  Other overseers rushed at the Hebrew, as these Israelites were called, and beat him till he also fell.  Then a soldier appeared and, seeing what had happened, drew his bronze sword.  From among the throng sprang out a girl, young and very lovely although she was but roughly clad.

Since then I have seen Merapi, Moon of Israel, as she was called, clad in the proud raiment of a queen, and once even of a goddess, but never, I think, did she look more beauteous than in this hour of her slavery.  Her large eyes, neither blue nor black, caught the light of the moon and were aswim with tears.  Her plenteous bronze-hued hair flowed in great curls over the snow-white bosom that her rough robe revealed.  Her delicate hands were lifted as though to ward off the blows which fell upon him whom she sought to protect.  Her tall and slender shape stood out against a flare of light which burned upon some market stall.  She was beauteous exceedingly, so beauteous that my heart stood still at the sight of her, yes, mine that for some years had held no thought of woman save such as were black and evil.

She cried aloud.  Standing over the fallen man she appealed to the soldier for mercy.  Then, seeing that there was none to hope for from him, she cast her great eyes around until they fell upon the Prince Seti.

“Oh!  Sir,” she wailed, “you have a noble air.  Will you stand by and see my father murdered for no fault?”