His soul went up in prayer to the Almighty One, and to the spirit of the sweet humble woman whom he had called his mother, imploring for peace of mind and modest content; but in vain—­for the longer he remained prostrate, flinging up his arms in passionate entreaty, the keener grew his longings, the less he felt able to repent or to recognize his guilt.  Ameni’s order to appear before him came almost as a deliverance, and he followed the messenger prepared for a severe punishment; but not afraid—­almost joyful.

In obedience to the command of the grave high-priest, Pentaur related the whole occurrence—­how, as there was no leech in the house, he had gone with the old wife of the paraschites to visit her possessed husband; how, to save the unhappy girl from ill-usage by the mob, he had raised his hand in fight, and dealt indeed some heavy blows.

“You have killed four men,” said Ameni, “and severely wounded twice as many.  Why did you not reveal yourself as a priest, as the speaker of the morning’s discourse?  Why did you not endeavor to persuade the people with words of warning, rather than with brute force?”

“I had no priest’s garment,” replied Pentaur.  “There again you did wrong,” said Ameni, “for you know that the law requires of each of us never to leave this house without our white robes.  But you cannot pretend not to know your own powers of speech, nor to contradict me when I assert that, even in the plainest working-dress, you were perfectly able to produce as much effect with words as by deadly blows!” “I might very likely have succeeded,” answered Pentaur, “but the most savage temper ruled the crowd; there was no time for reflection, and when I struck down the villain, like some reptile, who had seized the innocent girl, the lust of fighting took possession of me.  I cared no more for my own life, and to save the child I would have slain thousands.”

“Your eyes sparkle,” said Ameni, “as if you had performed some heroic feat; and yet the men you killed were only unarmed and pious citizens, who were roused to indignation by a gross and shameless outrage.  I cannot conceive whence the warrior-spirit should have fallen on a gardener’s son—­and a minister of the Gods.”

“It is true,” answered Pentaur, “when the crowd rushed upon me, and I drove them back, putting out all my strength, I felt something of the warlike rage of the soldier, who repulses the pressing foe from the standard committed to his charge.  It was sinful in a priest, no doubt, and I will repent of it—­but I felt it.”

“You felt it—­and you will repent of it, well and good,” replied Ameni.  “But you have not given a true account of all that happened.  Why have you concealed that Bent-Anat—­Rameses’ daughter—­was mixed up in the fray, and that she saved you by announcing her name to the people, and commanding them to leave you alone?  When you gave her the lie before all the people, was it because you did not believe that it was Bent-Anat?  Now, you who stand so firmly on so high a platform—­now you standard-bearer of the truth answer me.”