The Greek prince was an old man, his beard and thick hair were grey, but his movements were youthful and light, though dignified and deliberate.  His even, well-formed features were deeply furrowed, he had large, bright, clear blue eyes, but round his fine lips were lines of care.  Close to him walked his daughter; her long white robe striped with purple was held round her hips by a golden girdle, and her sunny yellow hair fell in waving locks over her neck and shoulders, while it was confined by a diadem which encircled her head; she was of middle height, and her motions were measured and calm like her father’s.  Her brow was narrow, and in one line with her straight nose, her rosy mouth was sweet and kind, and beyond everything beautiful were the lines of her oval face and the turn of her snow-white throat.  By their side stood the interpreter who translated every word of the conversation on both sides.  Behind them came two men and two women, who carried gifts for Mena and his wife.

The prince praised Mena’s magnanimity in the warmest terms.

“You have proved to me,” he said, “that the virtues of gratitude, of constancy, and of faith are practised by the Egyptians; although your merit certainly appears less to me now that I see your wife, for he who owns the fairest may easily forego any taste for the fair.”

Nefert blushed.

“Your generosity,” she answered, “does me more than justice at your daughter’s expense, and love moved my husband to the same injustice, but your beautiful daughter must forgive you and me also.”

Praxilla went towards her and expressed her thanks; then she offered her the costly coronet, the golden clasps and strings of rare pearls which her women carried; her father begged Mena to accept a coat of mail and a shield of fine silver work.  The strangers were then led into the tent, and were there welcomed and entertained with all honor, and offered bread and wine.  While Mena pledged her father, Praxilla related to Nefert, with the help of the interpreter, what hours of terror she had lived through after she had been taken prisoner by the Egyptians, and was brought into the camp with the other spoils of war; how an older commander had asserted his claim to her, how Mena had given her his hand, had led her to his tent, and had treated her like his own daughter.  Her voice shook with emotion, and even the interpreter was moved as she concluded her story with these words:  “How grateful I am to him, you will fully understand when I tell you that the man who was to have been my husband fell wounded before my eyes while defending our camp; but he has recovered, and now only awaits my return for our wedding.”

“May the Gods only grant it!” cried the king, “for Praxilla is the last child of my house.  The murderous war robbed me of my four fair sons before they had taken wives, my son-in-law was slain by the Egyptians at the taking of our camp, and his wife and new-born son fell into their hands, and Praxilla is my youngest child, the only one left to me by the envious Gods.”