“And what said Ki?”

“Ki could say nothing or, rather, that the only answer vouchsafed to him and his company, when they made inquiry of their Kas, was that this god’s reign would be very short and that it and his life would end together.”

“Which perhaps did not please the god Amenmeses, Bakenkhonsu?”

“Which did not please the god at all.  He threatened Ki.  It is a foolish thing to threaten a great magician, Ana, as the Kherheb Ki, himself indeed told him, looking him in the eyes.  Then he prayed his pardon and asked who would succeed him on the throne, but Ki said he did not know, as a Kherheb who had been threatened could never remember anything, which indeed he never can—­except to pay back the threatener.”

“And did he know, Bakenkhonsu?”

By way of answer the old Councillor crumbled some bread fine upon the table, then with his finger traced among the crumbs the rough likeness of a jackal-headed god and of two feathers, after which with a swift movement he swept the crumbs onto the floor.

“Seti!” I whispered, reading the hieroglyphs of the Prince’s name, and he nodded and laughed in his great fashion.

“Men come to their own sometimes, Ana, especially if they do not seek their own,” he said.  “But if so, much must happen first that is terrible.  The new Pharaoh is not the only man who dreams, Ana.  Of late years my sleep has been light and sometimes I dream, though I have no magic like to that of Ki.”

“What did you dream?”

“I dreamed of a great multitude marching like locusts over Egypt.  Before them went a column of fire in which were two hands.  One of these held Amon by the throat and one held the new Pharaoh by the throat.  After them came a column of cloud, and in it a shape like to that of an unwrapped mummy, a shape of death standing upon water that was full of countless dead.”

Now I bethought me of the picture that the Prince and I had seen in the skies yonder in the land of Goshen, but of it I said nothing.  Yet I think that Bakenkhonsu saw into my mind, for he asked: 

“Do you never dream, Friend?  You see visions that come true—­Amenmeses on the throne, for instance.  Do you not also dream at times?  No?  Well, then, the Prince?  You look like men who might, and the time is ripe and pregnant.  Oh!  I remember.  You are both of you dreaming, not of the pictures that pass across the terrible eyes of Ki, but of those that the moon reflects upon the waters of Memphis, the Moon of Israel.  Ana, be advised by me, put away the flesh and increase the spirit, for in it alone is happiness, whereof woman and all our joys are but earthly symbols, shadows thrown by that mortal cloud which lies between us and the Light Above.  I see that you understand, because some of that light has struggled to your heart.  Do you remember that you saw it shining in the hour when your little daughter died?  Ah!  I thought so.  It was the gift she left