A refreshing breeze met the two women as they stepped out into the air.  It was evening, and a reviving coolness had succeeded the heat of the day.  The buildings and houses already cast long shadows, and numberless boats, with the visitors returning from the Necropolis, crowded the stream that rolled its swollen flood majestically northwards.

Close below lay the verdant garden, which sent odors from the rose-beds up to the princess’s balcony.  A famous artist had laid it out in the time of Hatasu, and the picture which he had in his mind, when he sowed the seeds and planted the young shoots, was now realized, many decades after his death.  He had thought of planning a carpet, on which the palace should seem to stand.  Tiny streams, in bends and curves, formed the outline of the design, and the shapes they enclosed were filled with plants of every size, form, and color; beautiful plats of fresh green turf everywhere represented the groundwork of the pattern, and flower-beds and clumps of shrubs stood out from them in harmonious mixtures of colors, while the tall and rare trees, of which Hatasu’s ships had brought several from Arabia, gave dignity and impressiveness to the whole.

Clear drops sparkled on leaf and flower and blade, for, only a short time before, the garden by Bent-Anat’s house had been freshly watered.  The Nile beyond surrounded an island, where flourished the well-kept sacred grove of Anion.

The Necropolis on the farther side of the river was also well seen from Bent-Anat’s balcony.  There stood in long perspective the rows of sphinxes, which led from the landing-place of the festal barges to the gigantic buildings of Amenophis III. with its colossi—­the hugest in Thebes—­to the House of Seti, and to the temple of Hatasu.  There lay the long workshops of the embalmers and closely-packed homes of the inhabitants of the City of the Dead.  In the farthest west rose the Libyan mountains with their innumerable graves, and the valley of the kings’ tombs took a wide curve behind, concealed by a spur of the hills.

The two women looked in silence towards the west.  The sun was near the horizon—­now it touched it, now it sank behind the hills; and as the heavens flushed with hues like living gold, blazing rubies, and liquid garnet and amethyst, the evening chant rang out from all the temples, and the friends sank on their knees, hid their faces in the bower-rose garlands that clung to the trellis, and prayed with full hearts.

When they rose night was spreading over the landscape, for the twilight is short in Thebes.  Here and there a rosy cloud fluttered across the darkening sky, and faded gradually as the evening star appeared.

“I am content,” said Bent-Anat.  “And you? have you recovered your peace of mind?”

Nefert shook her head.  The princess drew her on to a seat, and sank down beside her.  Then she began again “Your heart is sore, poor child; they have spoilt the past for you, and you dread the future.  Let me be frank with you, even if it gives you pain.  You are sick, and I must cure you.  Will you listen to me?”