how the mother bends over the one, and the bright dew-drops fall on the other.  But would you know where the stream of divine goodness is most freely poured out, where the grace of the Creator bestows the richest gifts, and where His holiest altars are prepared?  In your own heart; so long as it is pure and full of love.  In such a heart, nature is reflected as in a magic mirror, on whose surface the Beautiful shines in three-fold beauty.  There the eye can reach far away over stream, and meadow, and hill, and take in the whole circle of the earth; there the morning and evening-red shine, not like roses and rubies, but like the very cheeks of the Goddess of Beauty; there the stars circle on, not in silence, but with the mighty voices of the pure eternal harmonies of heaven; there the child smiles like an infant-god, and the bud unfolds to magic flowers; finally, there thankfulness grows broader and devotion grows deeper, and we throw ourselves into the arms of a God, who—­as I imagine his glory—­is a God to whom the sublime nine great Gods pray as miserable and helpless suppliants.”

The tomtom which announced the end of the hour interrupted him.

Pentaur ceased speaking with a deep sigh, and for a minute not a scholar moved.

At last the poet laid the papyrus roll out of his hand, wiped the sweat from his hot brow, and walked slowly towards the gate of the court, which led into the sacred grove of the temple.  He had hardly crossed the threshold when he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder.

He looked round.  Behind him stood Ameni.  “You fascinated your hearers, my friend,” said the high-priest, coldly; “it is a pity that only the Harp was wanting.”

Ameni’s words fell on the agitated spirit of the poet like ice on the breast of a man in fever.  He knew this tone in his master’s voice, for thus he was accustomed to reprove bad scholars and erring priests; but to him he had never yet so spoken.

“It certainly would seem,” continued the high-priest, bitterly, “as if in your intoxication you had forgotten what it becomes the teacher to utter in the lecture-hall.  Only a few weeks since you swore on my hands to guard the mysteries, and this day you have offered the great secret of the Unnameable one, the most sacred possession of the initiated, like some cheap ware in the open market.”

“Thou cuttest with knives,” said Pentaur.

“May they prove sharp, and extirpate the undeveloped canker, the rank weed from your soul,” cried the high-priest.  “You are young, too young; not like the tender fruit-tree that lets itself be trained aright, and brought to perfection, but like the green fruit on the ground, which will turn to poison for the children who pick it up—­yea even though it fall from a sacred tree.  Gagabu and I received you among us, against the opinion of the majority of the initiated.  We gainsaid all those who doubted your ripeness because of your youth; and you swore to me, gratefully and enthusiastically, to guard the mysteries and the law.  To-day for the first time I set you on the battle-field of life beyond the peaceful shelter of the schools.  And how have you defended the standard that it was incumbent on you to uphold and maintain?”