“Pentaur shall be questioned this very night,” returned the high-priest.  “The dishes will soon be taken away, and the drinking will begin.  Let us go and hear what the poet says.”

“But there are now no witnesses,” replied Ani.

“We do not need them,” said Ameni.  “He is incapable of a lie.”

“Let us go then,” said the Regent smiling, “for I am really curious about this white negro, and how he will come to terms with the truth.  You have forgotten that there is a woman in the case.”

“That there always is!” answered Ameni; he called Gagabu to him, gave him his seat, begged him to keep up the flow of cheerful conversation, to encourage the guests to drink, and to interrupt all talk of the king, the state, or the war.

“You know,” he concluded, “that we are not by ourselves this evening.  Wine has, before this, betrayed everything!  Remember this—­the mother of foresight looks backwards!”

Ani clapped his hand on the old man’s shoulder.  “There will be a space cleared to-night in your winelofts.  It is said of you that you cannot bear to see either a full glass or an empty one; to-night give your aversion to both free play.  And when you think it is the right moment, give a sign to my steward, who is sitting there in the corner.  He has a few jars of the best liquor from Byblos, that he brought over with him, and he will bring it to you.  I will come in again and bid you good-night.”  Ameni was accustomed to leave the hall at the beginning of the drinking.

When the door was closed behind him and his companion, when fresh rose-garlands had been brought for the necks of the company, when lotus blossoms decorated their heads, and the beakers were refilled, a choir of musicians came in, who played on harps, lutes, flutes, and small drums.  The conductor beat the time by clapping his hands, and when the music had raised the spirits of the drinkers, they seconded his efforts by rhythmical clippings.  The jolly old Gagabu kept up his character as a stout drinker, and leader of the feast.

The most priestly countenances soon beamed with cheerfulness, and the officers and courtiers outdid each other in audacious jokes.  Then the old man signed to a young temple-servant, who wore a costly wreath; he came forward with a small gilt image of a mummy, carried it round the circle and cried: 

“Look at this, be merry and drink so long as you are on earth, for soon you must be like this.”

[A custom mentioned by Herodotus.  Lucian saw such an image brought in at a feast.  The Greeks adopted the idea, but beautified it, using a winged Genius of death instead of a mummy.  The Romans also had their “larva.”]

Gagabu gave another signal, and the Regent’s steward brought in the wine from Byblos.  Ani was much lauded for the wonderful choiceness of the liquor.

“Such wine,” exclaimed the usually grave chief of the pastophori, “is like soap.”