“Steward, a hundred strokes on the soles of the feet of this scoffer.”

The officer thus addressed bowed and said:  “My lord, the surgeon commanded the mat-weaver not to move and he cannot lift his arm.  He is suffering great pain.  Thou didst break his collar-bone yesterday.

“It served him right!” said Paaker, raising his voice so much that the injured man could not fail to hear it.  Then he turned his back upon him, and entered the garden; here he called the chief butler, and said:  “Give the slaves beer for their night draught—­to all of them, and plenty.”

A few minutes later he stood before his mother, whom he found on the roof of the house, which was decorated with leafy plants, just as she gave her two-years’-old grand daughter, the child of her youngest son, into the arms of her nurse, that she might take her to bed.

Paaker greeted the worthy matron with reverence.  She was a woman of a friendly, homely aspect; several little dogs were fawning at her feet.  Her son put aside the leaping favorites of the widow, whom they amused through many long hours of loneliness, and turned to take the child in his arms from those of the attendant.  But the little one struggled with such loud cries, and could not be pacified, that Paaker set it down on the ground, and involuntarily exclaimed: 

“The naughty little thing!”

“She has been sweet and good the whole afternoon,” said his mother Setchem.  “She sees you so seldom.”

“May be,” replied Paaker; “still I know this—­the dogs love me, but no child will come to me.”

“You have such hard hands.”

“Take the squalling brat away,” said Paaker to the nurse.  “Mother, I want to speak to you.”

Setchem quieted the child, gave it many kisses, and sent it to bed; then she went up to her son, stroked his cheeks, and said: 

“If the little one were your own, she would go to you at once, and teach you that a child is the greatest blessing which the Gods bestow on us mortals.”  Paaker smiled and said:  “I know what you are aiming at—­but leave it for the present, for I have something important to communicate to you.”

“Well?” asked Setchem.

“To-day for the first time since—­you know when, I have spoken to Nefert.  The past may be forgotten.  You long for your sister; go to her, I have nothing more to say against it.”

Setchem looked at her son with undisguised astonishment; her eyes which easily filled with tears, now overflowed, and she hesitatingly asked:  “Can I believe my ears; child, have you?—­”

“I have a wish,” said Paaker firmly, “that you should knit once more the old ties of affection with your relations; the estrangement has lasted long enough.”

“Much too long!” cried Setchem.

The pioneer looked in silence at the ground, and obeyed his mother’s sign to sit down beside her.

“I knew,” she said, taking his hand, “that this day would bring us joy; for I dreamt of your father in Osiris, and when I was being carried to the temple, I was met, first by a white cow, and then by a wedding procession.  The white ram of Anion, too, touched the wheat-cakes that I offered him.”—­[It boded death to Germanicus when the Apis refused to eat out of his hand.]