During the afternoon Fai, the second prophet of Amon, was carried past the ruined quarter.  He did not come to gloat over the spectacle of destruction, it was his nearest way from the necropolis to his home.  Yet a satisfied smile hovered around his stern mouth as he noticed how thoroughly the people had performed their work.  His own purpose, it is true, had not been fulfilled, the leader of the fugitives had escaped their vengeance, but hate, though never sated, can yet be gratified.  Even the smallest pangs of an enemy are a satisfaction, and the priest had just come from the grieving Pharaoh.  He had not succeeded in releasing him entirely from the bonds of the Hebrew magician, but he had loosened them.

The resolute, ambitious man, by no means wont to hold converse with himself, had repeated over and over again, while sitting alone in the sanctuary reflecting on what had occurred and what yet remained to be done, these little words, and the words were:  “Bless me too!”

Pharaoh had uttered them, and the entreaty had been addressed neither to old Rui, the chief priest, nor to himself, the only persons who could possess the privilege of blessing the monarch, nay—­but to the most atrocious wretch that breathed, to the foreigner the Hebrew, Mesu, whom he hated more than any other man on earth.

“Bless me too!” The pious entreaty, which wells so trustingly from the human heart in the hour of anguish, had pierced his soul like a dagger.  It had seemed as if such a petition, uttered by the royal lips to such a man, had broken the crozier in the hand of the whole body of Egyptian priests, stripped the panther-skin from their shoulders, and branded with shame the whole people whom he loved.

He knew full well that Moses was one of the wisest sages who had ever graduated from the Egyptian schools, knew that Pharaoh was completely under the thrall of this man who had grown up in the royal household and been a friend of his father Rameses the Great.  He had seen the monarch pardon deeds committed by Moses which would have cost the life of any other mortal, though he were the highest noble in the land—­and what must the Hebrew be to Pharaoh, the sun-god incarnate on the throne of the world, when standing by the death-bed of his own son, he could yield to the impulse to uplift his hands to him and cry “Bless me too!”

He had told himself all these things, maturely considered them, yet he would not yield to the might of the strangers.  The destruction of this man and all his race was in his eyes the holiest, most urgent duty—­to accomplish which he would not shrink even from assailing the throne.  Nay, in his eyes Pharaoh Menephtah’s shameful entreaty:  “Bless me too!” had deprived him of all the rights of sovereignty.