She saw me in my battered mail and the blood flowed up to her breast and brow and in her eyes there came a light such as I had never known in them before, the light that is lit only by the torch of woman’s love.  Yes, no longer were hers the eyes of a priestess; they were the eyes of a woman who burns with mortal passion.

“Amada,” I whispered, “Amada found at last.”

“Shabaka,” she whispered back, “returned at last, to me, your home,” and she stretched out her arms toward me.

But before I could take her into mine, she uttered a little cry and shrank away.

“Oh! not here,” she said, “not here in the presence of this Holy One who watches all that passes in heaven and earth.”

“Then perchance, Amada, she has watched the freeing of Egypt on yonder field to-day, and knows for whose sake it was done.”

“Hearken, Shabaka.  I am your guerdon.  Moreover as a woman I am yours.  There is naught I desire so much as to feel your kiss upon me.  For it and it alone I am ready to risk my spirit’s death and torment.  But for you I fear.  Twice have I sworn myself to this goddess and she is very jealous of those who rob her of her votaries.  I fear that her curse will fall not only on me, but on you also, and not only for this life but for all lives that may be given to us.  For your own sake, I pray you leave me.  I hear that Pharaoh my uncle is dead or dying, and doubtless they will offer you the throne.  Take it, Shabaka, for in it I ask no share.  Take it and leave me to serve the goddess till my death.”

“I too serve a goddess,” I answered hoarsely, “and she is named Love, and you are her priestess.  Little I care for Isis who serve the goddess Love.  Come, kiss me here and now, ere perchance I die.  Kiss me who have waited long enough, and so let us be wed.”

One moment she paused, swaying in the wind of passion, like a tall reed on the banks of Nile, and then, ah! then she sank upon my breast and pressed her lips against my own.

AND AFTER

For a few moments I, Shabaka, seemed to be lost in a kind of delirium and surrounded by a rose-hued mist.  Then I, Allan Quatermain, heard a sharp quick sound as of a clock striking, and looked up.  It was a lock, a beautiful old clock on a mantelpiece opposite to me and the hands showed that it had just struck the hour of ten.

Now I remembered that centuries ago, as I was dropping asleep, I did not know why, I had seen that clock and those hands in the same position and known that it was striking the second stroke of ten.  Oh! what did it all mean?  Had thousands of years gone by or—­only eight seconds?

There was a weight upon my shoulder.  I glanced round to see what it was and discovered the beautiful head of Lady Ragnall who was sweetly sleeping there.  Lady Ragnall! and in that very strange dream which I had dreamed she was the priestess called Amada.  Look, there was the mark of the new moon above her breast.  And not a second ago I had been in a shrine with Amada dressed as Lady Ragnall was to-night, in circumstances so intimate that it made me blush to think of them.  Lady Ragnall!  Amada!—­Amada!  Lady Ragnall!  A shrine!  A boudoir!  Oh!  I must be going mad!