“But the theft of a heart will make the weight of my sins heavy, when my own heart is weighed,” sighed the old man.

Nebsecht considered for a moment, and then said:  “I will give you a written paper, in which I will certify that it was I who commanded the theft.  You will sew it up in a little bag, carry it on your breast, and have it laid with you in the grave.  Then when Techuti, the agent of the soul, receives your justification before Osiris and the judges of the dead, give him the writing.  He will read it aloud, and you will be accounted just.”

[The vignettes of Chapter 125 of the Book of the Dead represent the Last Judgment of the Egyptians.  Under a canopy Osiris sits enthroned as Chief Judge, 42 assessors assist him.  In the hall stand the scales; the dog headed ape, the animal sacred to Toth, guides the balance.  In one scale lies the heart of the dead man, in the other the image of the goddess of Truth, who introduces the soul into the hall of justice Toth writs the record.  The soul affirms that it has not committed 42 deadly sins, and if it obtains credit, it is named “maa cheru,” i.e. “the truth-speaker,” and is therewith declared blessed.  It now receives its heart back, and grows into a new and divine life.]

“I am not learned in writing,” muttered the paraschites with a slight mistrust that made itself felt in his voice.

“But I swear to you by the nine great Gods, that I will write nothing on the paper but what I have promised you.  I will confess that I, the priest Nebsecht, commanded you to take the heart, and that your guilt is mine.”

“Let me have the writing then,” murmured the old man.

The physician wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and gave the paraschites his hand.  “To-morrow you shall have it,” he said, “and I will not leave your granddaughter till she is well again.”

The soldier engaged in cutting up the ram, had heard nothing of this conversation.  Now he ran a wooden spit through the legs, and held them over the fire to roast them.  The jackals howled louder as the smell of the melting fat filled the air, and the old man, as he looked on, forgot the terrible task he had undertaken.  For a year past, no meat had been tasted in his house.

The physician Nebsecht, himself eating nothing but a piece of bread, looked on at the feasters.  They tore the meat from the bones, and the soldier, especially, devoured the costly and unwonted meal like some ravenous animal.  He could be heard chewing like a horse in the manger, and a feeling of disgust filled the physician’s soul.

“Sensual beings,” he murmured to himself, “animals with consciousness!  And yet human beings.  Strange!  They languish bound in the fetters of the world of sense, and yet how much more ardently they desire that which transcends sense than we—­how much more real it is to them than to us!”

“Will you have some meat?” cried the soldier, who had remarked that Nebsecht’s lips moved, and tearing a piece of meat from the bone of the joint he was devouring, he held it out to the physician.  Nebsecht shrank back; the greedy look, the glistening teeth, the dark, rough features of the man terrified him.  And he thought of the white and fragile form of the sick girl lying within on the mat, and a question escaped his lips.