Thus—­on that summer evening of the year 1352 B.C., when we invite the reader to accompany us to the Necropolis of Thebes—­after the priests’ hymn had died away, all was still in the City of the Dead.

The soldiers on guard were already returning from their first round when suddenly, on the north side of the Necropolis, a dog barked loudly; soon a second took up the cry, a third, a fourth.  The captain of the watch called to his men to halt, and, as the cry of the dogs spread and grew louder every minute, commanded them to march towards the north.

The little troop had reached the high dyke which divided the west bank of the Nile from a branch canal, and looked from thence over the plain as far as the river and to the north of the Necropolis.  Once more the word to “halt” was given, and as the guard perceived the glare of torches in the direction where the dogs were barking loudest, they hurried forward and came up with the author of the disturbance near the Pylon of the temple erected by Seti I., the deceased father of the reigning King Rameses II.

     [The two pyramidal towers joined by a gateway which formed the
     entrance to an Egyptian temple were called the Pylon.]

The moon was up, and her pale light flooded the stately structure, while the walls glowed with the ruddy smoky light of the torches which flared in the hands of black attendants.

A man of sturdy build, in sumptuous dress, was knocking at the brass-covered temple door with the metal handle of a whip, so violently that the blows rang far and loud through the night.  Near him stood a litter, and a chariot, to which were harnessed two fine horses.  In the litter sat a young woman, and in the carriage, next to the driver, was the tall figure of a lady.  Several men of the upper classes and many servants stood around the litter and the chariot.  Few words were exchanged; the whole attention of the strangely lighted groups seemed concentrated on the temple-gate.  The darkness concealed the features of individuals, but the mingled light of the moon and the torches was enough to reveal to the gate-keeper, who looked down on the party from a tower of the Pylon, that it was composed of persons of the highest rank; nay, perhaps of the royal family.

He called aloud to the one who knocked, and asked him what was his will.

He looked up, and in a voice so rough and imperious, that the lady in the litter shrank in horror as its tones suddenly violated the place of the dead, he cried out—­“How long are we to wait here for you—­you dirty hound?  Come down and open the door and then ask questions.  If the torch-light is not bright enough to show you who is waiting, I will score our name on your shoulders with my whip, and teach you how to receive princely visitors.”

While the porter muttered an unintelligible answer and came down the steps within to open the door, the lady in the chariot turned to her impatient companion and said in a pleasant but yet decided voice, “You forget, Paaker, that you are back again in Egypt, and that here you have to deal not with the wild Schasu,—­[A Semitic race of robbers in the cast of Egypt.]—­but with friendly priests of whom we have to solicit a favor.  We have always had to lament your roughness, which seems to me very ill-suited to the unusual circumstances under which we approach this sanctuary.”