“Strange things have happened,” said the dwarf, and he told his mother what had taken place between Katuti and Nefert.  Nemu was a good listener, and had not forgotten a word of what he had heard.

The old woman listened to his story with the most eager attention.

“Well, well,” she muttered, “here is another extraordinary thing.  What is common to all men is generally disgustingly similar in the palace and in the hovel.  Mothers are everywhere she-apes, who with pleasure let themselves be tormented to death by their children, who repay them badly enough, and the wives generally open their ears wide if any one can tell them of some misbehavior of their husbands!  But that is not the way with your mistress.”

The old woman looked thoughtful, and then she continued: 

“In point of fact this can be easily explained, and is not at all more extraordinary than it is that those tired girls should sit yawning.  You told me once that it was a pretty sight to see the mother and daughter side by side in their chariot when they go to a festival or the Panegyrai; Katuti, you said, took care that the colors of their dresses and the flowers in their hair should harmonize.  For which of them is the dress first chosen on such occasions?”

“Always for the lady Katuti, who never wears any but certain colors,” replied Nemu quickly.

“You see,” said the witch laughing, “Indeed it must be so.  That mother always thinks of herself first, and of the objects she wishes to gain; but they hang high, and she treads down everything that is in her way—­even her own child—­to reach them.  She will contrive that Paaker shall be the ruin of Mena, as sure as I have ears to hear with, for that woman is capable of playing any tricks with her daughter, and would marry her to that lame dog yonder if it would advance her ambitious schemes.”

“But Nefert!” said Nemu.  “You should have seen her.  The dove became a lioness.”

“Because she loves Mena as much as her mother loves herself,” answered Hekt.  “As the poets say, ‘she is full of him.’  It is really true of her, there is no room for any thing else.  She cares for one only, and woe to those who come between him and her!”

“I have seen other women in love,” said Nemu, “but—­”

“But,” exclaimed the old witch with such a sharp laugh that the girls all looked up, “they behaved differently to Nefert—­I believe you, for there is not one in a thousand that loves as she does.  It is a sickness that gives raging pain—­like a poisoned arrow in an open wound, and devours all that is near it like a fire-brand, and is harder to cure than the disease which is killing that coughing wench.  To be possessed by that demon of anguish is to suffer the torture of the damned—­or else,” and her voice sank to softness, “to be more blest than the Gods, happy as they are.  I know—­I know it all; for I was once one of the possessed, one of a thousand, and even now—­”