“She might get up and go out into the air,” said the old woman.  “She has slept long and soundly.”  The surgeon examined her pulse, and her wound, on which green leaves were laid.

“Excellent,” he said; “who gave you this healing herb?”

The old woman shuddered, and hesitated; but Uarda said fearlessly; “Old Hekt, who lives over there in the black cave.”

“The witch!” muttered Nebsecht.  “But we will let the leaves remain; if they do good, it is no matter where they came from.”

“Hekt tasted the drops thou didst give her,” said the old woman, “and agreed that they were good.”

“Then we are satisfied with each other,” answered Nebsecht, with a smile of amusement.  “We will carry you now into the open air, little maid; for the air in here is as heavy as lead, and your damaged lung requires lighter nourishment.”

“Yes, let me go out,” said the girl.  “It is well that thou hast not brought back the other with thee, who tormented me with his vows.”

“You mean blind Teta,” said Nebsecht, “he will not come again; but the young priest who soothed your father, when he repulsed the princess, will visit you.  He is kindly disposed, and you should—­you should—­”

“Pentaur will come?” said the girl eagerly.

“Before midday.  But how do you know his name?”

“I know him,” said Uarda decidedly.

The surgeon looked at her surprised.

“You must not talk any more,” he said, “for your cheeks are glowing, and the fever may return.  We have arranged a tent for you, and now we will carry you into the open air.”

“Not yet,” said the girl.  “Grandmother, do my hair for me, it is so heavy.”

With these words she endeavored to part her mass of long reddish-brown hair with her slender hands, and to free it from the straws that had got entangled in it.

“Lie still,” said the surgeon, in a warning voice.

“But it is so heavy,” said the sick girl, smiling and showing Nebsecht her abundant wealth of golden hair as if it were a fatiguing burden.  “Come, grandmother, and help me.”

The old woman leaned over the child, and combed her long locks carefully with a coarse comb made of grey horn, gently disengaged the straws from the golden tangle, and at last laid two thick long plaits on her granddaughter’s shoulders.

Nebsecht knew that every movement of the wounded girl might do mischief, and his impulse was to stop the old woman’s proceedings, but his tongue seemed spell-bound.  Surprised, motionless, and with crimson cheeks, he stood opposite the girl, and his eyes followed every movement of her hands with anxious observation.

She did not notice him.

When the old woman laid down the comb Uarda drew a long breath.

“Grandmother,” she said, “give me the mirror.”  The old woman brought a shard of dimly glazed, baked clay.  The girl turned to the light, contemplated the undefined reflection for a moment, and said: