The man thus addressed, who was Paaker’s Ethiopian slave, drew back in surprise.

“Are you still alive?” he exclaimed.  “What brings you here?”

“My lord here will tell you,” answered Kaschta as he made way for Pentaur to enter the cave.  The poet went up to the black man, and the light of the fire which burned in the cave fell full on his face.

The old slave stared at him, and drew back in astonishment and terror.  He threw himself on the earth, howled like a dog that fawns at the feet of his angry master, and cried out: 

“He ordered it—­Spirit of my master! he ordered it.”  Pentaur stood still, astounded and incapable of speech, till he perceived a young man, who crept up to him on his hands and feet, which were bound with thongs, and who cried to him in a tone, in which terror was mingled with a tenderness which touched Pentaur’s very soul.

“Save me—­Spirit of the Mohar! save me, father!” Then the poet spoke.

“I am no spirit of the dead,” said he.  “I am the priest Pentaur; and I know you, boy; you are Horus, Paaker’s brother, who was brought up with me in the temple of Seti.”

The prisoner approached him trembling, looked at him enquiringly and exclaimed: 

“Be you who you may, you are exactly like my father in person and in voice.  Loosen my bonds, and listen to me, for the most hideous, atrocious, and accursed treachery threatens us the king and all.”

Pentaur drew his sword, and cut the leather thongs which bound the young man’s hands and feet.  He stretched his released limbs, uttering thanks to the Gods, then he cried: 

“If you love Egypt and the king follow me; perhaps there is yet time to hinder the hideous deed, and to frustrate this treachery.”

“The night is dark,” said Kaschita, “and the road to the valley is dangerous.”

“You must follow me if it is to your death!” cried the youth, and, seizing Pentaur’s hand, he dragged him with him out of the cave.

As soon as the black slave had satisfied himself that Pentaur was the priest whom he had seen fighting in front of the paraschites’ hovel, and not the ghost of his dead master, he endeavored to slip past Paaker’s brother, but Horus observed the manoeuvre, and seized him by his woolly hair.  The slave cried out loudly, and whimpered out: 

“If thou dost escape, Paaker will kill me; he swore he would.”

“Wait!” said the youth.  He dragged the slave back, flung him into the cave, and blocked up the door with a huge log which lay near it for that purpose.

When the three men had crept back through the low passage in the rocks, and found themselves once more in the open air, they found a high wind was blowing.

“The storm will soon be over,” said Horus.  “See how the clouds are driving!  Let us have horses, Pentaur, for there is not a minute to be lost.”

The poet ordered Kaschta to summon the people to start but the soldier advised differently.