“But,” asked the high-priest in a grave voice and he raised his eyes which he had hitherto on the ground.

“But,” said the young priest, and now his eyes fell, “which can surely be no crime.  When Ra—­[The Egyptian Sun-god.]—­in his golden bark sails across the heavens, his light falls as freely and as bountifully on the hut of the despised poor as on the Palace of the Pharaohs; and shall the tender human heart withhold its pure light—­which is benevolence—­from the wretched, only because they are base?”

“It is the poet Pentaur that speaks,” said the prelate, “and not the priest to whom the privilege was given to be initiated into the highest grade of the sages, and whom I call my brother and my equal.  I have no advantage over you, young man, but perishable learning, which the past has won for you as much as for me—­nothing but certain perceptions and experiences that offer nothing new, to the world, but teach us, indeed, that it is our part to maintain all that is ancient in living efficacy and practice.  That which you promised a few weeks since, I many years ago vowed to the Gods; to guard knowledge as the exclusive possession of the initiated.  Like fire, it serves those who know its uses to the noblest ends, but in the hands of children—­and the people, the mob, can never ripen into manhood—­it is a destroying brand, raging and unextinguishable, devouring all around it, and destroying all that has been built and beautified by the past.  And how can we remain the Sages and continue to develop and absorb all learning within the shelter of our temples, not only without endangering the weak, but for their benefit?  You know and have sworn to act after that knowledge.  To bind the crowd to the faith and the institutions of the fathers is your duty—­is the duty of every priest.  Times have changed, my son; under the old kings the fire, of which I spoke figuratively to you—­the poet—­was enclosed in brazen walls which the people passed stupidly by.  Now I see breaches in the old fortifications; the eyes of the uninitiated have been sharpened, and one tells the other what he fancies he has spied, though half-blinded, through the glowing rifts.”

A slight emotion had given energy to the tones of the speaker, and while he held the poet spell-bound with his piercing glance he continued: 

“We curse and expel any one of the initiated who enlarges these breaches; we punish even the friend who idly neglects to repair and close them with beaten brass!”

“My father!” cried Pentaur, raising his head in astonishment while the blood mounted to his cheeks.  The high-priest went up to him and laid both hands on his shoulders.

They were of equal height and of equally symmetrical build; even the outline of their features was similar.  Nevertheless no one would have taken them to be even distantly related; their countenances were so infinitely unlike in expression.