“Yes, my lady,” said the black slave; “no mortal eye ever saw such a likeness.  I saw him fighting in front of the paraschites’ cottage, and he was more like my dead master than ever.  He swung the tent-post over his head, as my lord used to swing his battle-axe.”

“Be silent,” cried Paaker, “and get out-idiot!  The priest is like my father; I grant it, mother; but he is an insolent fellow, who offended me grossly, and with whom I have to reckon—­as with many others.”

“How violent you are!” interrupted his mother, “and how full of bitterness and hatred.  Your father was so sweet-tempered, and kind to everybody.”

“Perhaps they are kind to me?” retorted Paaker with a short laugh.  “Even the Immortals spite me, and throw thorns in my path.  But I will push them aside with my own hand, and will attain what I desire without the help of the Gods and overthrow all that oppose me.”

“We cannot blow away a feather without the help of the Immortals,” answered Setchem.  “So your father used to say, who was a very different man both in body and mind from you!  I tremble before you this evening, and at the curses you have uttered against the children of your lord and sovereign, your father’s best friend.”

“But my enemy,” shouted Paaker.  “You will get nothing from me but curses.  And the brood of Rameses shall learn whether your husband’s son will let himself be ill-used and scorned without revenging him self.  I will fling them into an abyss, and I will laugh when I see them writhing in the sand at my feet!”

“Fool!” cried Setchem, beside herself.  “I am but a woman, and have often blamed myself for being soft and weak; but as sure as I am faithful to your dead father—­who you are no more like than a bramble is like a palm-tree—­so surely will I tear my love for you out of my heart if you—­if you—­Now I see! now I know!  Answer me-murderer!  Where are the seven arrows with the wicked words which used to hang here?  Where are the arrows on which you had scrawled ‘Death to Mena?’”

With these words Setchem breathlessly started forward, but the pioneer drew back as she confronted him, as in his youthful days when she threatened to punish him for some misdemeanor.  She followed him up, caught him by the girdle, and in a hoarse voice repeated her question.  He stood still, snatched her hand angrily from his belt, and said defiantly: 

“I have put them in my quiver—­and not for mere play.  Now you know.”

Incapable of words, the maddened woman once more raised her hand against her degenerate son, but he put back her arm.

“I am no longer a child,” he said, “and I am master of this house.  I will do what I will, if a hundred women hindered me!” and with these words he pointed to the door.  Setchem broke into loud sobs, and turned her back upon him; but at the door once more she turned to look at him.  He had seated himself, and was resting his forehead on the table on which the bowl of cold water stood.