And he saw the doorway darkened by a lowly, bending figure, who, with folded arms, glided into the room and sank down silently by the side of the sick girl.  The physicians and the old people moved as if to rise; but she signed to them without opening her lips, and with moist, expressive eyes, to keep their places; she looked long and lovingly in the face of the wounded girl, stroked her white arm, and turning to the old woman softly whispered to her

“How pretty she is!”

The paraschites’ wife nodded assent, and the girl smiled and moved her lips as though she had caught the words and wished to speak.

Bent-Anat took a rose from her hair and laid it on her bosom.

The paraschites, who had not taken his hands from the feet of the sick child, but who had followed every movement of the princess, now whispered, “May Hathor requite thee, who gave thee thy beauty.”

The princess turned to him and said, “Forgive the sorrow, I have caused you.”

The old man stood up, letting the feet of the sick girl fall, and asked in a clear loud voice: 

“Art thou Bent-Anat?”

“Yes, I am,” replied the princess, bowing her head low, and in so gentle a voice, that it seemed as though she were ashamed of her proud name.

The eyes of the old man flashed.  Then he said softly but decisively: 

“Leave my hut then, it will defile thee.”

“Not till you have forgiven me for that which I did unintentionally.”

“Unintentionally!  I believe thee,” replied the paraschites.  “The hoofs of thy horse became unclean when they trod on this white breast.  Look here—­” and he lifted the cloth from the girl’s bosom, and showed her the deep red wound, “Look here—­here is the first rose you laid on my grandchild’s bosom, and the second—­there it goes.”

The paraschites raised his arm to fling the flower through the door of his hut.  But Pentaur had approached him, and with a grasp of iron held the old man’s hand.

“Stay,” he cried in an eager tone, moderated however for the sake of the sick girl.  “The third rose, which this noble hand has offered you, your sick heart and silly head have not even perceived.  And yet you must know it if only from your need, your longing for it.  The fair blossom of pure benevolence is laid on your child’s heart, and at your very feet, by this proud princess.  Not with gold, but with humility.  And whoever the daughter of Rameses approaches as her equal, bows before her, even if he were the first prince in the Land of Egypt.  Indeed, the Gods shall not forget this deed of Bent-Anat.  And you—­forgive, if you desire to be forgiven that guilt, which you bear as an inheritance from your fathers, and for your own sins.”

The paraschites bowed his head at these words, and when he raised it the anger had vanished from his well-cut features.  He rubbed his wrist, which had been squeezed by Pentaur’s iron fingers, and said in a tone which betrayed all the bitterness of his feelings: