Ameni arrived at the palace before them, and entered the banqueting-hall just as Ani was assigning a place to each of his guests.  The high-priest went straight up to him, and said, as he bowed before him: 

“Pardon my long delay, but I was detained by a great surprise.  The poet Pentaur is living—­as you know.  I have invited him to remain in my tent as my guest, and to tend the prophet Gagabu.”

The Regent turned pale, he remained speechless and looked at Ameni with a cold ghastly smile; but he soon recovered himself.

“You see,” he said, “how you have injured me by your unworthy suspicions; I meant to have restored your favorite to you myself to-morrow.”

“Forgive me, then, for having anticipated your plan,” said Ameni, taking his seat near the king.  Hundreds of slaves hurried to and fro loaded with costly dishes.  Large vessels of richly wrought gold and silver were brought into the hall on wheels, and set on the side-boards.  Children were perched in the shells and lotus-flowers that hung from the painted rafters; and from between the pillars, that were hung with cloudy transparent tissues, they threw roses and violets down on the company.  The sounds of harps and songs issued from concealed rooms, and from an altar, six ells high, in the middle of the hall, clouds of incense were wafted into space.

The king-one of whose titles was “Son of the Sun,”—­was as radiant as the sun himself.  His children were once more around him, Mena was his cupbearer as in former times, and all that was best and noblest in the land was gathered round him to rejoice with him in his triumph and his return.  Opposite to him sat the ladies, and exactly in front of him, a delight to his eyes, Bent-Anat and Nefert.  His injunction to Mena to hold the wine cup steadily seemed by no means superfluous, for his looks constantly wandered from the king’s goblet to his fair wife, from whose lips he as yet had heard no word of welcome, whose hand he had not yet been so happy as to touch.

All the guests were in the most joyful excitement.  Rameses related the tale of his fight at Kadesh, and the high-priest of Heliopolis observed In later times the poets will sing of thy deeds.”

“Their songs will not be of my achievements,” exclaimed the king, “but of the grace of the Divinity, who so miraculously rescued your sovereign, and gave the victory to the Egyptians over an innumerable enemy.”

“Did you see the God with your own eyes? and in what form did he appear to you?” asked Bent-Anat.  “It is most extraordinary,” said the king, “but he exactly resembled the dead father of the traitor Paaker.  My preserver was of tall stature, and had a beautiful countenance; his voice was deep and thrilling, and he swung his battle-axe as if it were a mere plaything.”