The Queen’s confidential attendant was followed as usual when she went out by a dark-skinned maid.  Lanterns and lamps had already been lighted in the corridors of the spacious palace, and the court-yards were ablaze with torches and pitch-pans; but, brilliantly as they burned in many places, and numerous as were the guards, officers, eunuchs, clerks, soldiers, cooks, attendants, slaves, door-keepers, and messengers whom they passed, not one gave them more than a careless glance.

So they reached the last court-yard, and then came a moment when the hearts of both women seemed to stop beating—­for the man whom they had most cause to dread, Alexas the Syrian, approached.

And he did not pass the fugitives, but stopped Charmian, and courteously, even obsequiously, informed her that he wished to get rid of the troublesome affair of her favourite, which had been assigned to him against his will, and therefore had determined to bring Barine to trial early the following morning.

The Syrian’s body-servant attended his master, and while the former was talking with Charmian the latter turned to the supposed Nubian, tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and whispered:  “Come this evening, as you did yesterday.  You haven’t finished the story of Prince Setnau.”

The fugitive felt as if she had grown dumb and could never more regain the power of speech.  Yet she managed to nod, and directly after the favourite bowed a farewell to Charmian.  The Ligurian was obliged to follow his master, while Charmian and Barine passed through the gateway between the last pylons into the open air.

Here the sea-breeze seemed to waft her a joyous greeting from the realm of liberty and happiness, and the timid woman, amid all the perils which surrounded her, regained sufficient presence of mind to tell her friend what Alexas’s slave had whispered—­that Aisopion might remind him of it the same evening, and thus strengthen his belief that the Nubian had accompanied the Queen’s confidante.

The way to the Temple of Isis was short.  The stars showed that they would reach their destination in time; but a second delay unexpectedly occurred.  From the steps leading to the cella of the sanctuary a procession, whose length seemed endless, came towards them.  At the head of the train marched eight pastophori, bearing the image of Isis.  Then came the basket-bearers of the goddess with several other priestesses, followed by the reader with an open book-roll.  Behind him appeared the quaternary number of prophets, whose head, the chief priest, moved with stately dignity beneath a canopy.  The rest of the priestly train bore in their hands manuscripts, sacred vessels, standards, and wreaths.  The priestesses—­some of whom, with garlands on their flowing hair, were already shaking the sistrum of Isis—­mingled with the line of priests, their high voices blending with the deep notes of the men.  Neokori, or temple servants, and a large number of worshippers of Isis, closed the procession, all wearing wreaths and carrying flowers.  Torch and lantern bearers lighted the way, and the perfume of the incense rising from the little pan of charcoal in the hand of a bronze arm, which the pastophori waved to and fro, surrounded and floated after the procession.