Clear drops sparkled on leaf and flower and blade, for, only a short time before, the garden by Bent-Anat’s house had been freshly watered.  The Nile beyond surrounded an island, where flourished the well-kept sacred grove of Anion.

The Necropolis on the farther side of the river was also well seen from Bent-Anat’s balcony.  There stood in long perspective the rows of sphinxes, which led from the landing-place of the festal barges to the gigantic buildings of Amenophis III. with its colossi—­the hugest in Thebes—­to the House of Seti, and to the temple of Hatasu.  There lay the long workshops of the embalmers and closely-packed homes of the inhabitants of the City of the Dead.  In the farthest west rose the Libyan mountains with their innumerable graves, and the valley of the kings’ tombs took a wide curve behind, concealed by a spur of the hills.

The two women looked in silence towards the west.  The sun was near the horizon—­now it touched it, now it sank behind the hills; and as the heavens flushed with hues like living gold, blazing rubies, and liquid garnet and amethyst, the evening chant rang out from all the temples, and the friends sank on their knees, hid their faces in the bower-rose garlands that clung to the trellis, and prayed with full hearts.

When they rose night was spreading over the landscape, for the twilight is short in Thebes.  Here and there a rosy cloud fluttered across the darkening sky, and faded gradually as the evening star appeared.

“I am content,” said Bent-Anat.  “And you? have you recovered your peace of mind?”

Nefert shook her head.  The princess drew her on to a seat, and sank down beside her.  Then she began again “Your heart is sore, poor child; they have spoilt the past for you, and you dread the future.  Let me be frank with you, even if it gives you pain.  You are sick, and I must cure you.  Will you listen to me?”

“Speak on,” said Nefert.

“Speech does not suit me so well as action,” replied the princess; “but I believe I know what you need, and can help you.  You love your husband; duty calls him from you, and you feel lonely and neglected; that is quite natural.  But those whom I love, my father and my brothers, are also gone to the war; my mother is long since dead; the noble woman, whom the king left to be my companion, was laid low a few weeks since by sickness.  Look what a half-abandoned spot my house is!  Which is the lonelier do you think, you or I?”

“I,” said Nefert.  “For no one is so lonely as a wife parted from the husband her heart longs after.”

“But you trust Mena’s love for you?” asked Bent-Anat.

Nefert pressed her hand to her heart and nodded assent: 

“And he will return, and with him your happiness.”

“I hope so,” said Nefert softly.

“And he who hopes,” said Bent Anat, “possesses already the joys of the future.  Tell me, would you have changed places with the Gods so long as Mena was with you?  No!  Then you are most fortunate, for blissful memories—­the joys of the past—­are yours at any rate.  What is the present?  I speak of it, and it is no more.  Now, I ask you, what joys can I look forward to, and what certain happiness am I justified in hoping for?