The high-priest’s garden was in no respect inferior in beauty and extent to that of the Mohar.  The ground had belonged to his family from the remotest generations, and his house was large and magnificent.  He seated himself in a shady arbor, to take a repast with his still handsome wife and his young and pretty daughters.

He consoled his wife for the various damage done by the hurricane, promised the girls to build a new and handsomer clove-cot in the place of the one which had been blown down, and laughed and joked with them all; for here the severe head of the House of Seti, the grave Superior of the Necropolis, became a simple man, an affectionate husband, a tender father, a judicious friend, among his children, his flowers, and his birds.  His youngest daughter clung to his right arm, and an older one to his left, when he rose from table to go with them to the poultry-yard.

On the way thither a servant announced to him that the Lady Setchem wished to see him.

“Take her to your mistress,” he said.

But the slave—­who held in his hand a handsome gift in money—­explained that the widow wished to speak with him alone.

“Can I never enjoy an hour’s peace like other men?” exclaimed Ameni annoyed.  “Your mistress can receive her, and she can wait with her till I come.  It is true, girls—­is it not?—­that I belong to you just now, and to the fowls, and ducks, and pigeons?”

His youngest daughter kissed him, the second patted him affectionately, and they all three went gaily forward.  An hour later he requested the Lady Setchem to accompany him into the garden.

The poor, anxious, and frightened woman had resolved on this step with much difficulty; tears filled her kind eyes, as she communicated her troubles to the high-priest.

“Thou art a wise counsellor,” she said, “and thou knowest well how my son honors the Gods of the temple of Seti with gifts and offerings.  He will not listen to his mother, but thou hast influence with him.  He meditates frightful things, and if he cannot be terrified by threats of punishment from the Immortals, he will raise his hand against Mena, and perhaps—­”

“Against the king,” interrupted Ameni gravely.  “I know it, and I will speak to him.”

“Thanks, oh a thousand thanks!” cried the widow, and she seized the high-priests robe to kiss it.  “It was thou who soon after his birth didst tell my husband that he was born under a lucky star, and would grow to be an honor and an ornament to his house and to his country.  And now—­now he will ruin himself in this world, and the next.”

“What I foretold of your son,” said Ameni, “shall assuredly be fulfilled, for the ways of the Gods are not as the ways of men.”

“Thy words do me good!” cried Setchem.  “None can tell what fearful terror weighed upon my heart, when I made up my mind to come here.  But thou dost not yet know all.  The great masts of cedar, which Paaker sent from Lebanon to Thebes to bear our banners, and ornament our gateway, were thrown to the ground at sunrise by the frightful wind.”