“By no means.”

“How then is it—?”

“It is, as it is,” interrupted Gagabu.  “The son of the vine-dresser has his mouth full of grapes, and the child of the door-keeper opens the lock with words.”

“Never mind,” said an old priest who had hitherto kept silence.  “Paaker earned for himself the post of Mohar, and possesses many praiseworthy qualities.  He is indefatigable and faithful, quails before no danger, and has always been earnestly devout from his boyhood.  When the other scholars carried their pocket-money to the fruit-sellers and confectioners at the temple-gates, he would buy geese, and, when his mother sent him a handsome sum, young gazelles, to offer to the Gods on the altars.  No noble in the land owns a greater treasure of charms and images of the Gods than he.  To the present time he is the most pious of men, and the offerings for the dead, which he brings in the name of his late father, may be said to be positively kingly.”

“We owe him gratitude for these gifts,” said the treasurer, “and the high honor he pays his father, even after his death, is exceptional and far-famed.”

“He emulates him in every respect,” sneered Gagabu; “and though he does not resemble him in any feature, grows more and more like him.  But unfortunately, it is as the goose resembles the swan, or the owl resembles the eagle.  For his father’s noble pride he has overbearing haughtiness; for kindly severity, rude harshness; for dignity, conceit; for perseverance, obstinacy.  Devout he is, and we profit by his gifts.  The treasurer may rejoice over them, and the dates off a crooked tree taste as well as those off a straight one.  But if I were the Divinity I should prize them no higher than a hoopoe’s crest; for He, who sees into the heart of the giver-alas! what does he see!  Storms and darkness are of the dominion of Seth, and in there—­in there—­” and the old man struck his broad breast “all is wrath and tumult, and there is not a gleam of the calm blue heaven of Ra, that shines soft and pure in the soul of the pious; no, not a spot as large as this wheaten-cake.”

“Hast thou then sounded to the depths of his soul?” asked the haruspex.

“As this beaker!” exclaimed Gagabu, and he touched the rim of an empty drinking-vessel.  “For fifteen years without ceasing.  The man has been of service to us, is so still, and will continue to be.  Our leeches extract salves from bitter gall and deadly poisons; and folks like these—­”

“Hatred speaks in thee,” said the haruspex, interrupting the indignant old man.

“Hatred!” he retorted, and his lips quivered.  “Hatred?” and he struck his breast with his clenched hand.  “It is true, it is no stranger to this old heart.  But open thine ears, O haruspex, and all you others too shall hear.  I recognize two sorts of hatred.  The one is between man and man; that I have gagged, smothered, killed, annihilated—­with what efforts, the Gods