clear for a procession.  The gigantic doors of the Pylon opened, and Bartja, who, in spite of himself, had been pushed into the front row, saw a brilliant procession come out of the temple.  The unexpected sight of many faces he had formerly known occupied his attention so much, that he scarcely noticed the loss of his broad-brimmed hat, which had been knocked off in the crowd.  From the conversation of two Ionian mercenaries behind him he learnt that the family of Amasis had been to the temple to pray for the dying king.

The procession was headed by richly-decorated priests, either wearing long white robes or pantherskins.  They were followed by men holding office at the court, and carrying golden staves, on the ends of which peacocks’ feathers and silver lotus-flowers were fastened, and these by Pastophori, carrying on their shoulders a golden cow, the animal sacred to Isis.  When the crowd had bowed down before this sacred symbol, the queen appeared.  She was dressed in priestly robes and wore a costly head-dress with the winged disc and the Uraeus.  In her left hand she held a sacred golden sistrum, the tones of which were to scare away Typhon, and in her right some lotus-flowers.  The wife, daughter and sister of the high-priest followed her, in similar but less splendid ornaments.  Then came the heir to the throne, in rich robes of state, as priest and prince; and behind him four young priests in white carrying Tachot, (the daughter of Amasis and Ladice and the pretended sister of Nitetis,) in an open litter.  The heat of the day, and the earnestness of her prayers, had given the sick girl a slight color.  Her blue eyes, filled with tears, were fixed on the sistrum which her weak, emaciated hands had hardly strength to hold.

A murmur of compassion ran through the crowd; for they loved their dying king, and manifested openly and gladly the sympathy so usually felt for young lives from whom a brilliant future has been snatched by disease.  Such was Amasis’ young, fading daughter, who was now being carried past them, and many an eye grew dim as the beautiful invalid came in sight.  Tachot seemed to notice this, for she raised her eyes from the sistrum and looked kindly and gratefully at the crowd.  Suddenly the color left her face, she turned deadly pale, and the golden sistrum fell on to the stone pavement with a clang, close to Bartja’s feet.  He felt that he had been recognized and for one moment thought of hiding himself in the crowd; but only for one moment—­his chivalrous feeling gained the day, he darted forward, picked up the sistrum, and forgetting the danger in which he was placing himself, held it out to the princess.

Tachot looked at him earnestly before taking the golden sistrum from his hands, and then said, in a low voice, which only he could understand:  “Are you Bartja?  Tell me, in your mother’s name—­are you Bartja?”

“Yes, I am,” was his answer, in a voice as low as her own, “your friend, Bartja.”