The pulses throbbed in Pentaur’s temples, and he shuddered with horror, as he looked down from the height of the pass into the abyss below, and round upon the countless pinnacles and peaks, cliffs and precipices, in many-colored rocks-white and grey, sulphurous yellow, blood-red and ominous black.  He recalled the sacred lake of Muth in Thebes, round which sat a hundred statues of the lion-headed Goddess in black basalt, each on a pedestal; and the rocky peaks, which surrounded the valley at his feet, seemed to put on a semblance of life and to move and open their yawning jaws; through the wild rush of blood in his ears he fancied he heard them roar, and the load beyond his strength which he carried gave him a sensation as though their clutch was on his breast.

Nevertheless he reached the goal.

The other prisoners flung their loads from their shoulders, and threw themselves down to rest.  Mechanically he did the same:  his pulses beat more calmly, by degrees the visions faded from his senses, he saw and heard once more, and his brain recovered its balance.  The old man and Nebsecht were lying beside him.

His grey-haired companion rubbed the swollen veins in his neck, and called down all the blessings of the Gods upon his head; but the captain of the caravan cut him short, exclaiming: 

“You have strength for three, Huni; farther on, we will load you more heavily.”

“How much the kindly Gods care for our prayers for the blessing of others!” exclaimed Nebsecht.  “How well they know how to reward a good action!”

“I am rewarded enough,” said Pentaur, looking kindly at the old man.  “But you, you everlasting scoffer—­you look pale.  How do you feel?”

“As if I were one of those donkeys there,” replied the naturalist.  “My knees shake like theirs, and I think and I wish neither more nor less than they do; that is to say—­I would we were in our stalls.”

“If you can think,” said Pentaur smiling, “you are not so very bad.”

“I had a good thought just now, when you were staring up into the sky.  The intellect, say the priestly sages, is a vivifying breath of the eternal spirit, and our soul is the mould or core for the mass of matter which we call a human being.  I sought the spirit at first in the heart, then in the brain; but now I know that it resides in the arms and legs, for when I have strained them I find thought is impossible.  I am too tired to enter on further evidence, but for the future I shall treat my legs with the utmost consideration.”

“Quarrelling again you two?  On again, men!” cried the driver.

The weary wretches rose slowly, the beasts were loaded, and on went the pitiable procession, so as to reach the mines before sunset.