AFTER his reception by the viceroy, Sargon delayed at Pi-Bast, waiting for letters from the pharaoh at Memphis. Meanwhile strange reports began to circulate among officers and nobles.
The Phœnicians told, of course as the greatest secret, that the priests, it was unknown for what reason, not only forgave the Assyrians the unpaid tribute, not only freed them once and for all time from paying it, but, besides, to facilitate some northern war for the Assyrians, had concluded a treaty of peace for many years with them.
“The pharaoh,” said the Phœnicians, “on learning of these concessions to Assyria fell very ill. Prince Rameses is troubled, and goes around grief-stricken. But both must give way to the priests, for they are not sure of the nobles and the army.”
This enraged the Egyptian aristocracy.
“Is it possible?” whispered magnates who were in debt. “Does the dynasty not trust us? Have the priests undertaken to disgrace and ruin Egypt? For it is clear that if Assyria has a war in the distant north somewhere, now is just the time to attack her and fill the reduced treasury of the pharaoh and the aristocracy with plunder.”
One and another of the young lords made bold to ask the prince what he thought of Assyrians. Rameses was silent, but the gleam in his eyes and his fixed lips expressed his feelings sufficiently.
“It is clear,” whispered the lords, later on, “that this dynasty is bound by the priesthood. It yields not its confidence to nobles; great misfortunes are threatening Egypt.”
Silent anger was soon turned into secret councils, which had even the semblance of conspiracy. Though many persons took part in this action, the priests were self-confident, or knew nothing of this in their blindness; and Sargon, though he felt the existing hatred, did not attach to it importance. He learned that Prince Rameses disliked him, but that he attributed to the event in the arena, and to his jealousy in the affair of the priestess. Confident, however, in his position as ambassador, he drank, feasted, and slipped away almost every evening to Kama, who received with increasing favor his courting and his presents.
Such was the condition of mind in the higher circles, when on a certain night the holy Mentezufis rushed to the prince’s dwelling, and declared that he must see the viceroy immediately.
The courtiers answered that one of his women was visiting their lord, and that they would not disturb him. But when Mentezufis insisted with increasing emphasis, they called out Rameses.
The prince appeared after a time, and was not even angry.
“What is this?” asked he of the priest. “Are we at war, that thou takest the trouble to visit me at an hour like the present?”
Mentezufis looked diligently at the prince, and sighed deeply.
“Has the prince not gone out all the evening?” inquired he.
“Not a step.”
“Can I give a priest’s word for this?”
The heir was astonished.
“It seems to me,” answered he, haughtily, “that thy word is not needed, since I have given mine. What does this mean?”
They withdrew to a special chamber.
“Dost thou know, lord,” asked the excited priest, “what has happened, perhaps an hour since? Some young men attacked the worthy Sargon and clubbed him.”
“Who were they? Where did this happen?”
“At the villa of a Phœnician priestess named Kama,” answered Mentezufis, watching the face of the heir sharply.
“Daring fellows,” said the prince, shrugging his shoulders, “to attack such a stalwart man! I suppose that more than one bone was broken in that struggle.”
“But to attack an ambassador! Consider, worthy lord,—an ambassador protected by the majesty of Assyria and Egypt,” said the priest.
“Ho! ho!” laughed the prince. “Then King Assar sends ambassadors even to Phœnician dancers?”
Mentezufis was confused. All at once he tapped his forehead, and cried out also, with laughter,—
“See, prince, what a simple man I am, unfamiliar with ceremonies. I forgot that Sargon, strolling about in the night near the house of a suspected woman, is not an ambassador, but an ordinary person.”
After a while he added,—
“In every case something evil has happened. Sargon may conceive a dislike for us.”
“Priest! O priest!” cried Rameses, shaking his head. “Thou hast forgotten this,—a thing of much more importance,—that Egypt has no need to fear or even care for the good or bad feeling toward her, not merely of Sargon, but King Assar.”
Mentezufis was so confused by the appositeness of the remark, that, instead of an answer, he bowed, muttering,—
“Prince, the gods have given thee the wisdom of high priests,—may their names be blessed! I wanted to issue anorder to search for these insolents, but now I prefer to follow thy advice, for thou art a sage above sages. Tell me, therefore, lord, what I am to do with Sargon and those turbulent young people.”
“First of all, wait till morning. As a priest, thou knowest best that divine sleep often brings good counsel.”
“But if before morning I think out nothing?”
“I will visit Sargon in every case, and try to efface that little accident from his memory.”
The priest took farewell of Rameses with marks of respect. On the way home, he pondered.
“I will let the heart be torn out of my breast,” thought he, “if the prince had to do with that business. He neither beat Sargon, nor persuaded another to beat him; he did not even know of the incident. Whoso judges an affair with such coolness and so pointedly cannot be a confederate. In that case I can begin an investigation, and if we do not mollify the shaggy barbarian I will deliver the disturbers to justice. Beautiful treaty of friendship between two states, which begins by insulting the ambassador!”
Next morning the lordly Sargon lay on his felt couch till midday. He lay thus rather frequently, however, that is, after each drinking-feast. Near him, on a low divan, sat the devout Istubar, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, while muttering a prayer.
“Istubar,” sighed the dignitary, “art thou sure that no man of our court knows of my misfortune?”
“Who could know, if thou hast seen no one?”
“But the Egyptians!” groaned Sargon.
“Of the Egyptians Mentezufis and the prince know, yes, and those madmen who surely will remember thy fists for a long time.”
“They may—they may; but it seems to me that the heir was among them, and that his nose is crushed, if not broken.”
“The heir has a sound nose, and he was not there, I assure thee.”
“In that case,” sighed Sargon, “the prince should impale a good number of those rioters on stakes. I am an ambassador; my person is sacred.”
“But I tell thee,” counselled Istubar, “to cast anger from thy heart, and not to complain even; for if those rioters are arraigned before a court, the whole world will learn that the ambassador of the most worthy King Assar goes about among Phœnicians, and, what is worse, visits them alone during night hours. What wilt thou answer if thy mortal enemy, the chancellor Lik-Bagus, asks thee, ‘Sargon, what Phœnicians didst thou see, and of what was thy discourse with them at night, outside their temple?’”
Sargon sighed, if sounds like the growling of a lion are to be called sighs.
That moment one of the Assyrian officers rushed in. He knelt down, struck the pavement with his forehead, and said to Sargon,—
“Light of our lord’s eyes! There is a crowd of magnates and dignitaries of Egypt before the entrance, and at the head of them the heir himself, with the evident intention of giving thee homage.”
But before Sargon could utter a command, the prince was in the door of the chamber. He pushed the gigantic watch aside, and approached the felts quickly, while the confused ambassador, with widely opened eyes, knew not what to do,—to flee naked to another chamber, or hide beneath the covers.
On the threshold stood a number of Assyrian officers, astonished at the invasion of the heir in opposition to every etiquette. But Istubar made a sign to them, and they vanished.
The prince was alone; he had left his suite in the courtyard.
“Be greeted, O ambassador of a great king, and guest of the pharaoh. I have come to visit thee and inquire if thou hast need of anything, also to learn if time and desire will permit thee to ride in my company on a horse from my father’s stables, surrounded by our suites in a manner becoming an ambassador of the mighty Assar,—may he live through eternity!”
Sargon listened as he lay there, without understanding a syllable. But when Istubar interpreted the words of the Egyptian viceroy, the ambassador felt such delight that hebeat his head against the couch, repeating the names Rameses and Assar.
When he had calmed himself, and made excuses for the wretched state in which so worthy and famous a guest had found him, he added,—
“Do not take it ill, O lord, that an earthworm and a support of the throne, as I am, show delight in a manner so unusual. But I am doubly pleased at thy coming; first, because such a superterrestrial honor has come to me; second, because in my dull and worthless heart I thought that thou, O lord, wert the author of my misfortune. It seemed to me that among the sticks which fell on my shoulders I felt thine, which struck, indeed, vigorously.”
The calm Istubar interpreted phrase after phrase to the prince. To this the heir, with genuine kingly dignity, answered,—
“Thou wert mistaken, O Sargon. If thou thyself hadst not confessed the error, I should command to count out fifty blows of a stick to thee, so that thou shouldst remember that persons like me do not attack one man with a crowd, or in the night-time.”
Before the serene Istubar could finish the interpretation of this speech, Sargon had crawled up to the prince and embraced his legs earnestly.
“A great lord! a great king!” cried he. “Glory to Egypt, that has such a ruler.”
To this the prince answered,—
“I will say more, Sargon. If an attack was made on thee yesterday, I assure thee that no one of my courtiers made it. For I judge that a man of such strength as thou art must have broken more than one skull. But my attendants are unharmed, every man of them.”
“He has told truth, and spoken wisely,” whispered Sargon to Istubar.
“But though,” continued the prince, “this evil deed has happened, not through my fault, or through that of my attendants, I feel bound to decrease thy dissatisfaction with a city in which thou wert met so unworthily; hence I have visited thy bedchamber; hence I open to thee my house at alltimes, as often as thou mayst wish to visit it, and I beg thee to accept this small gift from me.”
The prince drew forth from his tunic a chain set with rubies and sapphires.
The gigantic Sargon shed tears; this moved the prince but did not affect the indifference of Istubar. The priest saw that Sargon had tears, joy, or anger, at call, as befitted the ambassador of a king full of wisdom.
The viceroy sat a moment longer, and then took farewell of Sargon. While going out, he thought that the Assyrians, though barbarians, were not evil minded, since they knew how to respond to magnanimity.
Sargon was so touched that he gave order immediately to bring wine, and he drank from midday till evening.
Some time after sunset the priest, Istubar, left Sargon’s chamber for a while; he returned soon, but through a concealed doorway. Behind him appeared two men in dark mantles. When they had pushed their cowls aside, Sargon recognized in one the high priest Mefres, in the other Mentezufis the prophet.
“We bring thee, worthy ambassador, good news,” said Mefres.
“May I be able to give you the like,” cried the ambassador. “Be seated, holy and worthy fathers. And though I have reddened eyes, speak to me as if I were in perfect soberness; for when I am drunk my mind is improved even. Is this not true, Istubar?”
“Speak on,” said the Chaldean.
“To-day,” began Mentezufis, “I have received a letter from the most worthy minister Herhor. He writes that his holiness—may he live through eternity!—awaits thy embassy at Memphis in his wonderful palace, and that his holiness—may he live through eternity!—is well disposed to make a treaty with Assyria.”
Sargon tottered on his feet, but his eyes showed clear mental action.
“I will go,” said he, “to his holiness the pharaoh,—may he live through eternity! In the name of my lord I will put my seal on the treaty, if it be written on bricks in cuneiformletters, for I do not understand your writing. I will lie even all day on my belly before his holiness, and will sign the treaty. But how will ye carry it out,—ha! ha! ha! that I know not,” concluded he, with rude laughter.
“How darest thou, O servant of the great Assar, doubt the good-will and faith of our ruler?” inquired Mentezufis.
Sargon grew a little sobered.
“I do not speak of his holiness,” replied he, “but of the heir to the throne of Egypt.”
“He is a young man full of wisdom, who will carry out the will of his father and the supreme council without hesitation,” answered Mefres.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the drunken barbarian again. “Your prince— O gods, put my joints out if I speak an untruth, when I say that I should wish Assyria to have such an heir as he is. Our Assyrian heir is a sage, a priest. He, before going to war, looks first at the stars in the sky; afterward he looks under hens’ tails. But yours would examine to see how many troops he had; he would learn where the enemy was camping, and fall on him as an eagle on a lamb. He is a leader, he is a king! He is not of those who obey priestly counsels. He will take counsel with his own sword, and ye will have to carry out what he orders. Therefore, though I sign a treaty, I shall tell my lord that behind the sick pharaoh and the wise priests there is in Egypt a young heir to the throne who is a lion and a bull in one person,—a man on whose lips there is honey, but in whose heart lies a thunderbolt.”
“And thou wilt tell an untruth,” interrupted Mentezufis. “For our prince, though impulsive and riotous somewhat, as is usual with young people, knows how to respect both the counsel of sages and the highest institutions of the country.”
“O ye sages learned in letters, ye who know the circuits of the stars!” said Sargon, jeering. “I am a simple commander of troops, who without my seal would not always be able to scratch off my signature. Ye are sages, I am unlearned; but by the beard of my king, I would not change what I know for your wisdom. Ye are men to whom the world of papyrus and brick is laid bare; but the real world in which men live is closed to you. I am unlearned, but Ihave the sniff of a dog; and, as a dog sniffs a bear from a distance; so I with reddened nose sniff a hero.
“Ye will give counsel to the prince! But ye are charmed by him already, as a dove is by a serpent. I, at least, do not deceive myself; and, though the prince is as kind to me as my own father, I feel through my skin that he hates me and my Assyrians as a tiger hates an elephant. Ha! ha! Only give him an army, and in three months he would be at Nineveh, if soldiers would rise up to him in the desert instead of falling down and dying—”
“Even though thou wert speaking truth,” interrupted Mentezufis, “even if the prince wished to go to Nineveh, he will not go.”
“But who will detain him when he is the pharaoh?”
“We.”
“Ye? ye? Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Sargon. “Ye think always that that young man does not feel this treaty. But I—but I—ha! ha! ha! I will let the skin be torn from me, and my body be impaled if he does not know everything.”
“Would the Phœnicians be so quiet if they possessed not the certainty that your young lion of Egypt would shield them before the bull of Assyria?”
Mentezufis and Mefres looked at each other stealthily. The genius of the barbarian almost terrified them; he had given bold utterance to that which they had not thought of. What would the result be, indeed, if the heir had divined their plans and wished to cross them?
But Istubar, silent thus far, rescued them from momentary trouble.
“Sargon,” said he, “thou art interfering in affairs not thy own. Thy duty is to conclude with Egypt a treaty of the kind that our lord wishes. But what the heir knows or does not know, what he will do or will not do, is not thy affair, since the supreme, eternally existent priestly council assures us that the treaty will be executed. In what way it will be executed is not a question for our heads.”
The dry tone with which Istubar declared this calmed the riotous joy of the ambassador. He nodded and muttered,—
“A pity for the man in that case! He is a grand warrior, and magnanimous.”
AFTER their visit to Sargon the two holy men, Mentezufis and Mefres, when they had concealed themselves carefully with their burnouses, returned home, meditating deeply.
“Who knows,” said Mentezufis, “that the view of that drunken Sargon concerning our prince is not the right one?”
“In that case Istubar’s view is still more correct,” answered Mefres, decidedly.
“Still, let us not be too hasty. We should examine the prince first,” remarked Mentezufis.
“Let us do so.”
In fact, both priests went to the heir next morning with very serious faces, and asked for a confidential talk with him.
“What has happened?” inquired the prince. “Has his worthiness Sargon gone on some new night embassy?”
“Alas! the question for us is not of Sargon,” answered Mefres. “But reports are current among people that thou, most worthy lord, art maintaining relations continually with unbelieving Phœnicians.”
From these words the prince divined why the two prophets had made the visit, and the blood boiled in him. But he saw at once that this was the beginning of a play between the priests and him, and, as became the son of a pharaoh, he mastered himself in one instant. His face assumed an expression of innocent curiosity.
“The Phœnicians are dangerous, born enemies of Egypt,” said Mefres.
The heir smiled.
“Holy fathers, if ye would lend me money, and if ye had beautiful maidens in your temples, I should see you oftener. But as things are, I must be friendly with Phœnicians.”
“Men say, Erpatr, that thou dost visit that Phœnician woman during night hours.”
“I must till the girl gains wit and moves to my house. But have no fear, I go with a sword; and if any man should bar the way to me—”
“But through that Phœnician woman thou hast conceived repulsion for King Assar’s envoy.”
“Not through her by any means, but because Sargon smells of tallow. But whither does this lead? Ye, holy fathers, are not overseers of my women; I think that the worthy Sargon has not committed his to you. What is your desire?”
Mefres was so confused that blushes appeared on his shaven forehead.
“It is true, worthiness,” answered he, “thy love affairs and the methods therein do not pertain to us. But there is a worse thing;—people are astonished that the cunning Hiram lent thee a hundred talents with such readiness, even without a pledge.”
The prince’s lips quivered, but again he answered quietly,—
“It is no fault of mine that Hiram has more trust in my words than have rich Egyptians! He knows that I would rather yield the arms which I inherit from my grandfather than fail to pay the money due him. It seems to me that he must be at rest concerning interest, since he has not mentioned it. I do not think of hiding from you, holy fathers, that the Phœnicians are more dextrous than Egyptians. Our wealthy men would make sour faces before lending me one hundred talents; they would groan, make me wait a month, and at last demand immense pledges and a high rate of interest. But Phœnicians know the hearts of princes better; they give us money even without a judge or witnesses.”
The high priest was so irritated by this quiet banter that he pressed his lips together and was silent. Mentezufis rescued him by asking quickly,—
“What wouldst thou say, worthiness, were we to make a treaty with Assyria, yielding northern Asia and Phœnicia?”
While asking this question, he had his eyes fixed on the face of the heir. But Rameses answered him with perfect calmness,—
“I should say that only traitors could persuade the pharaoh to make such a treaty.”
Both priests started up. Mefres raised his hands; Mentezufis clinched his fist.
“But if danger to the state demanded it?” insisted Mentezufis.
“What do ye wish of me?” burst out the prince. “Ye interfere with my debts and women, ye surround me with spies, ye dare reproach me, and now ye give me some sort of traitorous queries. Now I will tell you: I, if ye were to poison me, would not sign a treaty like the one ye mention. Luckily that does not depend on me, but on his holiness, whose will we must all obey.”
“What wouldst thou do, then, wert thou the pharaoh?”
“What the honor and the profit of the state demanded.”
“Of that I doubt not,” said Mentezufis. “But what dost thou consider the profit of the state? Where are we to look for indications?”
“Why is the supreme council in existence?” asked Rameses, with feigned anger this time. “Ye say this council is made up of all the great sages. In that case let them take on themselves responsibility for a treaty which I should look on as a shame and as destruction.”
“Whence dost thou know, worthiness, that thy godlike father would not act in just such a manner?”
“Why ask me, then, of this matter? What investigation is this? Who gives you the right to pry into my heart?”
Rameses feigned to be so mightily indignant that the priests were satisfied.
“Thou speakest, prince,” said Mefres, “as becomes a good Egyptian. Such a treaty would pain us, too; but danger to the state forces men to yield temporarily to circumstances.”
“What forces you to yield?” cried the prince. “Have we lost a great battle, or have we no army?”
“The oarsmen on the boat in which Egypt is sailing through the river of eternity are gods,” replied Mefres, with solemnity; “but the steersman is the Highest Lord of existence. The oarsmen stop frequently, or turn the boat so as to avoid dangerous eddies which we do not even notice. In such cases we need only patience and obedience, for which, later or earlier, a liberal reward will meet us, surpassing all that mortal man can imagine.”
After this statement the priests took farewell. They were full of hope that the prince, though angry because of the treaty, would not break it, and would assure to Egypt the timeof rest which she needed. After their departure the prince called his adjutant. When alone with Tutmosis, his long-restrained anger and sorrow burst forth. He threw himself on a couch; he writhed like a serpent, he struck his head with his fists, and shed tears even.
The frightened Tutmosis waited till the access of rage had subsided; then he gave Rameses wine and water, and fumed him with calming perfumes; finally he sat near his lord and inquired the cause of this unmanly outburst.
“Sit here,” said the prince, without rising. “Knowest thou, I am to-day convinced that our priests have concluded an infamous treaty with Assyria; without war, without demands even from the other side! Canst thou imagine what we are losing?”
“Dagon told me that the Assyrians wished to take Phœnicia. But the Phœnicians are now less alarmed, for King Assar has a war on the northeastern boundaries. A very valiant and numerous people inhabit that region; hence it is unknown what the end of this affair may be. The Phœnicians will have peace for a couple of years in every case,—time in which to prepare defence and find allies—”
The prince waved his hand impatiently.
“See,” said he, interrupting Tutmosis, “even Phœnicia is arming her own people, and perhaps all the neighbors who surround her; in every case, we lose the unpaid tribute of Asia, which reaches—hast thou heard the like?—more than a hundred thousand talents.”
“A hundred thousand talents,” repeated the prince. “O gods! but such a sum would fill the treasury of the pharaoh. And were we to attack Assyria at the right season, in Nineveh alone, in the single palace of Assar, we should find inexhaustible treasures. Think how many slaves we could take,—half a million—a million,—people of gigantic strength, and so wild that captivity in Egypt with the hardest labor on canals or in quarries would seem play to them. The fertility of the land would be increased; in the course of a few years our people, now wretched, would rest, and before the last Assyrian slave had died, the state would regain its ancient might and well-being. And the priests are destroying allthis by the aid of a few silver tablets, and a few bricks marked with arrow-headed signs understood by no Egyptian.”
When he had heard the complaints of the prince, Tutmosis rose from the armchair and looked carefully through the adjoining chambers to see if someone in them were listening; then he sat down again near Rameses, and whispered,—
“Be of good heart, lord. As far as I know, the entire aristocracy, all the nomarchs, all the higher officers have heard something of this treaty and are indignant. Only give the sign and we will break these brick treaties on the head of Sargon, even on the head of King Assar.”
“But that would be rebellion against his holiness,” replied the prince, also in a whisper.
Tutmosis put on a sad face.
“I should not like,” said he, “to make thy heart bleed, but—thy father, who is equal to the highest god, has a grievous illness.”
“That is not true!” said the prince, springing up.
“It is true; but let not people see that thou knowest this. His holiness is greatly wearied by his stay on earth, and desires to leave it. But the priests hold him back, and do not summon thee to Memphis, so that the treaty with Assyria may be signed without opposition.”
“But they are traitors, traitors!” whispered the enraged prince.
“Therefore thou wilt have no difficulty in breaking the treaty when thou shalt inherit power after thy father,—may he live through eternity!”
Rameses thought awhile.
“It is easier,” said he, “to sign a treaty than to break it.”
“It is easy also to break a treaty,” laughed Tutmosis. “Are there not in Asia unorganized races which attack our boundaries? Does not the godlike Nitager stand on guard with his army to repulse them and carry war into their countries? Dost thou suppose that Egypt will not find armed men and treasures for the war? We will go, all of us, for each man can gain something, and in some way make his life independent. Treasures are lying in the temples—but the labyrinth—”
“Who will take them from the labyrinth?” asked the prince, doubtingly.
“Who? Any nomarch, any officer, any noble will take them if he has a command from the pharaoh, and—the minor priests will show the way to secret places.”
“They would not dare to do so. The punishment of the gods—”
Tutmosis waved his hand contemptuously.
“But are we slaves or shepherds, to fear gods whom Greeks and Phœnicians revile, and whom any mercenary warrior will insult and go unpunished?”
“The priests have invented silly tales about gods,—tales to which they themselves attach no credit. Thou knowest that they recognize only the One in temples. They perform miracles, too, at which they laugh.
“Only the lowest people strike the earth with their foreheads before statues in the old way. Even working women have doubts now about the all-might of Osiris, Set, and Horus; the scribes cheat the gods in accounts, and the priests use them as a lock and chain to secure their treasures.”
“Oho!” continued Tutmosis; “the days have passed when all Egypt believed in everything announced from temples. At present we insult the Phœnician gods, the Phœnicians insult our gods, and no thunderbolt strikes any man of us.”
The viceroy looked carefully at Tutmosis.
“How did such thoughts come to thy head?” inquired he. “But it is not so long ago that thou wouldst pale at the very mention of the priesthood.”
“Yes, because I felt alone. But to-day, after I have seen that all the nobles understand as I, I feel encouraged.”
“But who told thee and the nobles of that treaty with Assyria?”
“Dagon and other Phœnicians,” answered Tutmosis. “They even said that when the time came they would rouse Asiatic races to rebellion, so that our troops might have a pretext to cross the boundaries, and when once on the road to Nineveh, the Phœnicians and their allies would join us. And thy army would be larger than that which Rameses the Great had behind him.”
This zeal of the Phœnicians did not please the heir, but he was silent on that subject.
“But what will happen if the priests learn of your conversations?” inquired he. “None of you will escape death, be sure of that.”
“They will learn nothing,” replied Tutmosis, joyfully. “They trust too much in their power, they pay their spies badly, and have disgusted all Egypt with their pride and rapacity. Moreover, the aristocracy, the army, the scribes, the laborers, even the minor priests are only waiting for the signal to attack the temples, take out the treasures, and lay them at the feet of the pharaoh. When their treasures fail, all their power will be lost to the holy fathers. They will cease even to work miracles, for to work them gold rings are needed.”
The prince turned conversation to other subjects and gave Tutmosis the sign of withdrawal. When alone, he began to meditate.
He would have been enchanted at the hostile disposition of the nobles toward the priests, and the warlike instincts of the higher classes, if the enthusiasm had not broken out so suddenly, and if Phœnicians were not concealed behind it. This enjoined caution, for he understood that in the affairs of Egypt it was better to trust the patriotism of priests than the friendship of Phœnicians. He recalled, however, his father’s words, that Phœnicians were truth-speaking and faithful whenever truth was in their interest. Beyond doubt the Phœnicians had a great interest in not falling under control of Assyria. And it was possible to depend on them as allies in case of war, for the defeat of Egypt would injure, first of all, Phœnicia.
On the other hand, Rameses did not admit that Egyptian priests, even when concluding such a harmful treaty with Assyria, thought of treason. No, they were not traitors, they were slothful dignitaries. Peace agreed with them, for during peace their treasures grew, and they increased their influence. They did not wish for war, since war would raise the pharaoh’s power, and impose on them a grievous outlay.
So the young prince, despite his inexperience, understoodthat he must be cautious, that he must not hasten, that he must not condemn, but also that he must not trust too much. He had decided on war with Assyria, not because the nobles and the pharaoh desired it, but because Egypt needed slaves and also treasures.
But in making war he wished to make it with judgment. He wished to bring the priestly order to it gradually, and only in case of opposition to crush that order through the nobles and the army.
And just when the holy Mefres and Mentezufis were jeering at the predictions of Sargon, who said that the heir would not yield to the priests but force them to obedience, the prince had a plan to subject them. And he saw what power he possessed for that purpose. The moment to begin the war and the means of waging it he left to the future.
“Time will bring the best counsels,” said he to himself.
He was calm and satisfied, like a man who after long hesitation knows what he must do, and has faith in his own abilities. So then, to free himself of even the traces of his recent indignation, he went to Sarah. Amusement with his little son always calmed him, and filled his heart with serenity.
He passed the garden, entered Sarah’s villa, and found her in tears again.
“Oh, Sarah!” cried he, “if the Nile were in thy bosom thou wouldst weep it all away.”
“I will not weep any longer,” said she; but a more abundant stream flowed from her eyes.
“What is this?” asked the prince; “or hast thou brought in some witch again who frightens thee with Phœnician women?”
“I am not afraid of Phœnician women, but of Phœnicia,” said Sarah; “thou knowest not, lord, what bad people the Phœnicians are.”
“Do they burn children?” laughed Rameses.
“Thou thinkest that they do not?” asked she, looking at him with great eyes.
“A fable! I know, besides, from Prince Hiram, that that is a fable.”
“Hiram!” cried Sarah, “Hiram! but he is the most wicked of all! Ask my father, and he will tell thee how Hiram entices young girls of distant countries to his ships, and raising the sails takes away the unfortunates to sell them. Even we had a bright-haired slave girl stolen by Hiram. She became insane from sorrow for her country. But she could not even say where her country was; and she died. Such is Hiram, such is that vile Dagon, and all those wretches.”
“Perhaps; but how does this concern us?” inquired Rameses.
“Very much. Thou, O lord, art listening to Phœnician counsels; but our Jews have learned that Phœnicia wants to raise a war between Egypt and Assyria. Even their first bankers and merchants have bound themselves by dreadful oaths to raise it.”
“Why should they want war?” inquired the prince, with apparent indifference.
“Because they will furnish arms to you and to Assyrians; they will furnish, also, supplies and information, and for everything they furnish they will make you pay ten prices. They will plunder the dead and wounded of both armies. They will buy slaves from your warriors and from the Assyrians. Is that little? Egypt and Assyria will ruin themselves, but the Phœnicians will build up new storehouses with wealth from both sides!”
“Who explained such wisdom to thee?” asked the prince, smiling.
“Do I not hear my father and our relatives and friends whispering of this, while they look around in dread lest some one may hear what they are saying? Besides, do I not know the Phœnicians? They lie prostrate before thee, but thou dost not note their deceitful looks; often have I seen their eyes green with greed and yellow from anger. O lord, guard thyself from Phœnicians as from venomous serpents.”
Rameses looked at Sarah, and involuntarily he compared her sincere love with the calculations of the Phœnician priestess, her outbursts of tenderness with the treacherous coldness of Kama.
“Indeed,” thought he, “the Phœnicians are poisonousreptiles. But if Rameses the Great used a lion in war, why should I not use a serpent against the enemies of Egypt?”
And the more plastically he pictured to himself the perversity of Kama, the more did he desire her. At times heroic souls seek out danger.
He took farewell of Sarah, and suddenly, it is unknown for what reason, he remembered that Sargon had suspected him of taking part in the attack on his person.
The prince struck his forehead.
“Did that second self of mine,” thought he, “arrange the attack on the ambassador? But if he did, who persuaded him? Was it Phœnicians? But if they wished to connect my person with such a vile business? Sarah says, justly, that they are scoundrels against whom I should guard myself always.”
Straightway anger rose in him, and he determined to settle the question. Since evening was just coming, Rameses, without going home, went to Kama.
It concerned him little that he might be recognized; besides, in case of need, he had a sword on his person.
There was light in the villa of the priestess, but there was no servant at the entrance.
“Thus far,” thought he, “Kama has sent away her servants when I was to come. Had she a feeling that I would come to-day, or will she receive a more fortunate lover?”
He ascended one story, stood before the chamber of the priestess, and pushed aside the curtain quickly. In the chamber were Kama and Hiram; they were whispering.
“Oh, I come at the wrong time!” said Rameses, laughing. “Well, prince, art thou, too, paying court to a woman who cannot be gracious to men unless death be the penalty?”
Hiram and the priestess sprang from their seats.
“Thou wert forewarned by some good spirit that we were speaking of thee, that is clear,” said the Phœnician, bowing.
“Are ye preparing some surprise for me?” inquired the heir.
“Perhaps. Who can tell?” answered Kama, with a challenging expression.
“May those who in future wish to surprise me not exposetheir own necks to the axe or the halter; if they do, they will surprise themselves more than me.”
The smile grew cold on Kama’s half-open lips; Hiram, now pale, answered humbly,—
“How have we earned the anger of our lord and guardian?”
“I would know the truth,” said Rameses, sitting down and looking threateningly at Hiram. “I would know who arranged an attack on the Assyrian ambassador, and associated in that villainy a man resembling me as much as my two hands resemble each other?”
“Seest, Kama,” said the frightened Hiram, “I told thee that intimacy with that ruffian would bring great misfortune— And here it is! We have not waited long to see it.”
The priestess fell at the prince’s feet.
“I will tell all,” cried she, groaning; “only cast from thy heart, lord, anger against Phœnicians. Slay me, imprison me, but be not angry at Phœnicians.”
“Who attacked Sargon?”
“Lykon, the Greek, who sings in our temples,” said the priestess, still kneeling.
“Aha! it was he, then, who was singing outside thy house, and he resembles me greatly?”
Hiram bent his head and placed his hand on his heart.
“We, lord, have paid that man bountifully because he is so like thee. We thought that his figure might serve thee should the need come.”
“And it has,” interrupted the prince. “Where is he? I wish to see this perfect singer, this living picture of myself.”
Hiram held his hands apart.
“The scoundrel has fled, but we will find him,” replied he, “unless he turns into a fly or an earthworm.”
“But thou wilt forgive me, lord?” whispered the priestess, leaning on the knees of the prince.
“Much is forgiven women,” said Rameses.
“And ye will not take vengeance on me?” asked she of Hiram, with fear.
“Phœnicia,” replied the old man, deliberately and with emphasis, “forgives the greatest offence to that person who possesses the favor of our lord Rameses,—may he live througheternity! As to Lykon,” added he, turning to the heir, “thou wilt have him, dead or living.”
Hiram made a profound obeisance and went from the chamber, leaving the prince with the priestess.
The blood rushed to Rameses’ head; he embraced the kneeling Kama, and asked,—
“Hast thou heard the words of the worthy Hiram? Phœnicia forgives thee the greatest offence! That man is faithful to me indeed. And if he has said that, what answer wilt thou find?”
Kama kissed his hands, whispering,—
“Thou hast won me—I am thy slave. But leave me in peace to-day, respect the house which belongs to Astaroth.”
“Then thou wilt remove to my palace?” asked the prince.
“O gods, what hast thou said? Since the sun first rose and set, no priestess of As— But this is difficult! Phœnicia, lord, gives thee a proof of attachment and honor such as no son of hers has received at any time.”
“Then?—” interrupted the prince.
“But not to-day, and not here,” implored Kama.
LEARNING from Hiram that the Phœnicians had given him the priestess, Rameses wished to have her in his house at the earliest, not because he could not live without her, but because she had become for him a novelty.
Kama delayed her coming; she implored the prince to leave her in peace till the inflow of pilgrims diminished, and above all till the most noted among them should go from Pi-Bast. Were she to become his favorite during their presence, the income of the temple might decrease and danger threaten the priestess.
“Our sages and great men,” said she to Rameses, “would forgive me. But the common people would call the vengeance of the gods on my head, and thou, lord, knowest that the gods have long hands.”
“May they not lose those hands in thrusting them under my roof,” said Rameses.
But he did not insist greatly, as his attention was much occupied at that juncture.
The Assyrian ambassadors, Sargon and Istubar, had gone to Memphis to put their names to the treaty. At the same time the pharaoh had summoned Rameses to give a report of his journey.
The prince commanded his scribes to write accurately of all that had happened from the time of leaving Memphis; hence the review of artisans, the visits to fields and factories, the conversations with nomarchs and officials. To present the report he appointed Tutmosis.
“Thou wilt be heart and lips for me before the face of the pharaoh,” said the prince to him, “and this is what thou must do there.
“When the most worthy Herhor asks what, to my thinking, causes the poverty of Egypt and the treasury, tell the minister to turn to his assistant, Pentuer, and he will explain my views in the same way that he did his own in the temple of Hator.
“When Herhor wishes to know my opinion of a treaty with Assyria, answer that my duty is to carry out the commands of my master.”
Tutmosis nodded in sign that he comprehended.
“But,” continued the heir, “when thou shalt stand in the presence of my father,—may he live through eternity!—and convince thyself that no one is listening, fall at his feet in my name, and say,—
“‘Our lord, thy son and servant, the worthy Rameses, to whom thou hast given life and power, says the following,—
“‘The cause of Egypt’s suffering is the loss of fertile lands taken by the desert, and the loss of men who die from want and hard labor. But know, our lord, that the damage caused thy treasury by priests is no less than that wrought by death and the desert; for not only are the temples filled with gold and jewels, which would suffice to pay our debts entirely, but the holy fathers and the prophets have the best lands, the best slaves and laborers, and lands far greater in extent than those of the divine pharaoh.
“‘Thy son and slave, Rameses, says this to thee,—he whoall the time of his journey had his eyes open like a fish, and his ears set forward like an ass which is watching.’”
The prince stopped. Tutmosis repeated the words mentally.
“If,” continued the viceroy, “his holiness asks for my opinion of the Assyrians, fall on thy face and answer,—
“‘Thy servant Rameses, if thou permit, makes bold to say that the Assyrians are strong and large men, and have perfect weapons; but it is evident that they have bad training. At the heels of Sargon marched the best Assyrian warriors, archers, axemen, spearmen, and still there were not six among them who could march in line warrior fashion. Besides they carry their spears crookedly, their swords are badly hung, they bear their axes like carpenters or butchers. Their clothing is heavy, their rude sandals gall their feet, and their shields, though strong, are of small use, for the men are awkward.’”
“Thou speakest truth,” said Tutmosis. “I have noticed that, and I have heard the same from Egyptian officers who declare that Assyrian troops, like those which we saw here, would offer less resistance than the hordes of Libya.”
“Say also to our lord, who gives us life, that all the nobles and the Egyptian army are indignant at the mere report that Assyria might annex Phœnicia. Why, Phœnicia is the port of Egypt, and the Phœnicians the best warriors in our navy.
“Say, besides, that I have heard from Phœnicians (of this his holiness must know best of all) that Assyria is weak at the moment, for she has a war on her northern and eastern boundaries; all western Asia is arming against her. Should we attack to-day, we could win immense wealth, and take multitudes of captives who would help our slaves in their labor.
“But say, in conclusion, that the wisdom of my father excels that of all men, therefore I shall do whatsoever he commands, if only he gives not Phœnicia to King Assar; if he gives it, we are ruined. Phœnicia is the bronze door of our treasure-house, and where is the man who would yield his door to a robber?”
Tutmosis went to Memphis in the month Paofi (July and August).
The Nile was increasing mightily; hence the influx of Asiatic pilgrims to the temple of Astaroth diminished. People of the place betook themselves to the fields to gather with theutmost speed grapes, flax, and a certain plant which furnished cotton.
In one word, the neighborhood grew quiet, and the gardens surrounding the temples were almost deserted.
At that time Prince Rameses, relieved from amusements and the duties of the state, turned to his love affair with Kama. On a certain day he had a secret consultation with Hiram, who at his command gave the temple of Astaroth twelve talents in gold, a statue of the goddess wonderfully carved out of malachite, fifty cows and of wheat one hundred and fifty measures. That was such a generous gift that the high priest of the temple himself came to Rameses to fall prostrate and thank him for the favor which, as he said, people who loved the goddess would remember during all the ages.
Having settled with the temple, the prince summoned the chief of police in Pi-Bast and passed a long hour with him. Because of this the whole city was shaken some days later under the influence of extraordinary tidings: Kama, the priestess of Astaroth, had been seized, borne away and lost, like a grain of sand in a desert.
This unheard-of event occurred under the following conditions: The high priest of the temple sent Kama to the town Sabne-Chetam at Lake Menzaleh with offerings for the chapel of Astaroth in that place. To avoid summer heat and secure herself against curiosity and the homage of people, the priestess journeyed in a boat and during night hours. Toward morning, when the three wearied rowers were dozing, boats manned by Greeks and Hittites pushed out suddenly from among reeds at the shore, surrounded the boat bearing Kama, and carried off the priestess. The attack was so sudden that the Phœnician rowers made no resistance. The strangers gagged Kama, evidently, for she remained silent. The Greeks and Hittites after the sacrilege vanished in the reeds, to sail toward the sea afterward. To prevent pursuit they sank the boat which had borne the priestess.
Pi-Bast was as excited as a beehive. People talked of nothing else. They even guessed who did the deed. Some suspected Sargon, who had offered Kama the title of wife if she would leave the temple and remove to Nineveh. Otherssuspected Lykon, the temple singer, who long had burned with passion for the priestess. He was moreover rich enough to hire Greek slaves, and so godless that he would not hesitate to snatch away a priestess.
A Phœnician council of the richest and most faithful members was summoned to the temple. The council resolved, first of all, to free Kama from her duties as priestess and remove from her the curse against a virgin who lost her innocence in the service of the goddess.
That was a wise and pious resolution, for if some one had carried off the priestess and deprived her of sacredness against her will, it would have been unjust to punish her.
A couple of days later they announced, with sound of trumpet, to worshippers in the temple that the priestess Kama was dead, and if any man should meet a woman seeming like her he would have no right to seek revenge or even make reproaches. The priestess had not left the goddess, but evil spirits had borne her off; for this they would be punished.
That same day the worthy Hiram visited Rameses and gave him in a gold tube a parchment furnished with a number of seals of priests and signatures of Phœnician notables.
That was the decision of the spiritual court of Astaroth, which released Kama from her vows and freed her from the curse if she would renounce the name which she had borne while priestess.
The prince took this document and went after sundown to a certain lone villa in his garden. He opened the door in some unknown way and ascended one story to a room of medium dimensions, where by light from a carved lamp in which fragrant olive oil was burning, he saw Kama.
“At last!” cried he, giving her the gold tube. “Thou hast everything according to thy wishes.”
The Phœnician woman was feverish; her eyes flashed. She snatched the tube, looked at it, and threw it on the floor.
“Dost think this gold?” asked she. “I will bet my necklace that that tube is copper, and only covered on both sides with thin strips of gold.”
“Is that thy way of greeting me?” inquired the astonished Rameses.
“Yes, for I know my brethren,” said she. “They counterfeit not only gold, but rubies and sapphires.”
“Woman,” said the heir, “in this tube is thy safety.”
“What is safety to me? I am wearied in this place, and I am afraid. I have sat here four days as in prison.”
“Dost thou lack anything?”
“I lack air, amusement, laughter, songs, people. O vengeful goddess, how harshly thou art punishing!”
The prince listened with amazement. In that mad woman he could not recognize the Kama whom he had seen in the temple, that woman over whose person had floated the passionate song of the Greek Lykon.
“To-morrow,” said the prince, “thou canst go to the garden; and when we visit Memphis or Thebes, thou wilt amuse thyself as never in thy life before. Look at me. Do I not love thee, and is not the honor which belongs to me enough for a woman?”
“Yes,” answered she, pouting, “but thou hadst four women before me.”
“But if I love thee best?”
“If thou love me best, make me first, put me in the palace which that Jewess Sarah occupies, and give a guard to me, not to her. Before the statue of Astaroth I was first. Those who paid homage to the goddess, when kneeling before her, looked at me. But here what? Troops beat drums and sound flutes; officials cross their hands on their breasts, and incline their heads before the house of the Jewess—”
“Before my first-born son,” interrupted the prince, now impatient, “and he is no Jew.”
“He is a Jew!” screamed Kama.
Rameses sprang up.
“Art thou mad?” but quieting himself quickly, he added, “Dost thou not know that my son cannot be a Jew—”
“But I tell thee that he is a Jew!” cried Kama, beating the table with her fist. “He is a Jew, just as his grandfather is, just as his uncles are; and his name is Isaac.”
“What hast thou said, Phœnician woman? Dost wish that I should turn thee out?”
“Turn me out if a lie has gone from my lips. But if I havespoken truth, turn out that woman with her brat and give me her palace. I wish and deserve to be first in thy household. She deceives thee, reviles thee. But I, for thy sake, have deserted my goddess and exposed myself to her vengeance.”
“Give me proofs and the palace will be thine. No, that is false!” said Rameses. “Sarah would not permit such a crime. My first-born son!”
“Isaac—Isaac!” cried Kama. “Go to her, and convince thyself.”
Rameses, half unconscious, ran out from Kama’s house and turned toward Sarah’s villa. Though the night was starry, he lost his way and wandered a certain time through the garden. The cool air sobered him; he found the road to the villa and entered almost calmly.
Though the hour was late, they were awake there. Sarah with her own hands was washing swaddling-clothes for her son, and the servants were passing their time in eating, drinking, and music. When Rameses, pale from emotion, stood on the threshold, Sarah cried out, but soon calmed herself.
“Be greeted, lord,” said she, wiping her wet hands and bending to his feet.
“Sarah, what is the name of thy son?” inquired he.
She seized her head in terror.
“What is thy son’s name?” repeated he.
“But thou knowest, lord, that it is Seti,” answered she, with a voice almost inaudible.
“Look me in the eyes.”
“O Jehovah!” whispered Sarah.
“Thou seest that thou art lying. And now I will tell thee, my son, the son of the heir to the throne of Egypt, is called Isaac—and he is a Jew—a low Jew.”
“O God, O God of mercy!” cried Sarah, throwing herself at his feet.
Rameses did not raise his head for an instant, but his face was gray.
“I was forewarned,” said he, “not to take a Jewess to my house. I was disgusted when I saw thy country place filled with Jews; but I kept my disgust in subjection, for I trustedthee. But thou, with thy Jews, hast stolen my son from me, thou child thief!”
“The priests commanded that he should become a Jew,” whispered Sarah, sobbing at the feet of Rameses.
“The priests! What priests?”
“The most worthy Herhor, the most worthy Mefres. They said that it must be so,—that thy son would become the first king of the Jews.”
“The priests? Mefres?” repeated the prince. “King of the Jews? But I have told thee that thy son would become the chief of my archers, my secretary. I told thee this, and thou, wretched woman, didst think that the title of king of the Jews was equal to that of my secretary and archer. Mefres—Herhor! Thanks to the gods that at last I understand those dignitaries and know what fate they are preparing for my descendants.”
He thought awhile, gnawing his lips. Suddenly he called with a powerful voice,—
“Hei, servants, warriors!”
The room was filled in the twinkle of an eye. Sarah’s serving-women came in, the scribe and manager of the house, then the slaves; finally, a few warriors with an officer.
“Death!” cried Sarah, with a piercing voice.
She rushed to the cradle, seized her son, and, standing in the corner of the room, called out,—
“Kill me; but I will not yield my son!”
Rameses smiled.
“Centurion,” said he to the officer, “take that woman with her child and conduct her to the building where my household slaves dwell. That Jewess will not be mistress here; she is to be the servant of her who takes this place.
“And thou, steward,” said he, turning to the official, “see that the Jewess does not forget, to-morrow morning, to wash the feet of her mistress, who will come hither directly. If this serving-woman should prove stubborn, she is to receive stripes at command of her mistress. Conduct the woman to the servants’ quarters.”
The officer and steward approached Sarah, but stopped, as they dared not touch her; but there was no need to do so.Sarah wound a garment around the puling child, and left the room, whispering,—
“O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have mercy on us!”
She bowed low before the prince, and from her eyes tears flowed in silence.
While she was still in the antechamber, Rameses heard her sweet voice,—
“God of Abraham—Isa—”
When all was quiet, the viceroy called the officer and steward.
“Go with torches to the house among the fig-trees.”
“I understand,” replied the steward.
“And conduct hither, immediately, the woman who dwells there.”
“It will be done.”
“Thenceforth that woman will be thy mistress and the mistress of Sarah; the Jewess must wash the feet of her mistress every morning, pour water to her, and hold a mirror before her. That is my will, my command.”
“It shall be accomplished,” said the steward.
“And to-morrow morning thou wilt tell me if the new servant is stubborn.”
When he had given these commands, he returned home; but he did not sleep that night. He felt that without raising his voice for a moment he had crushed Sarah, the wretched Jewess, who had dared to deceive him. He had punished her as a king who with one movement of the eye dashes people down from heights into the abyss of servitude. But Sarah was merely an instrument of the priests, and the heir had too great a feeling of justice to forgive the real authors when he had broken the instrument.
His rage was intensified all the more because the priests were unassailable. He might send out Sarah with her child in the middle of the night to the servants’ house, but he could not deprive Herhor of his power, nor Mefres of the high priesthood. Sarah had fallen at his feet, like a trampled worm; but Herhor and Mefres, who had snatched his first-born from him, towered above Egypt, and, oh, shame! above him, the coming pharaoh, like pyramids.
And he could not tell how often in that year he had recalledthe wrongs which priests had inflicted. At school they had beaten him with sticks till his back was swollen, or had tortured him with hunger till his stomach and spine had grown together. At the manœuvres of the year past, Herhor spoiled his whole plan, then put the blame on him, and took away the command of an army corps. That same Herhor drew on him the displeasure of his holiness because he had taken Sarah to his house, and did not restore him to honor till the humiliated prince had passed a couple of months in a voluntary exile.
It would seem that when he had been leader of a corps and was viceroy the priests would cease tormenting him with their guardianship. But just then they appeared with redoubled energy. They had made him viceroy; for what purpose?—to remove him from the pharaoh, and conclude a shameful treaty with Assyria. They had used force in such form that he betook himself to the temple as a penitent to obtain information concerning the condition of the state; there they deceived him through miracles and terrors, and gave thoroughly false explanations.
Next they interfered with his amusements, his women, his relations with the pharaoh, his debts, and, finally, to humiliate and render him ridiculous in the eyes of Egyptians, they made his first-born a Hebrew.
Where was the laborer, where the slave, where an Egyptian convict in the quarries who had not the right to say, “I am better than thou, the viceroy, for no son of mine is a Hebrew.”
Feeling the weight of the insult, Rameses understood at the same time that he could not avenge himself immediately. Hence he determined to defer that affair to the future. In the school of the priests he had learned self-command, in the court he had learned deceit and patience; those qualities became a weapon and a shield to him in his battle with the priesthood. Till he was ready he would lead them into error, and when the moment came he would strike so hard that they would never rise again.
It began to dawn. The heir fell asleep, and when he woke the first person he saw was the steward of Sarah’s villa.
“What of the Jewess?” asked the prince.
“According to thy command, worthiness, she washed the feet of her new mistress,” answered the official.
“Was she stubborn?”
“She was full of humility, but not adroit enough; so the angry lady struck the Jewess with her foot between the eyebrows.”
The prince sprang up.
“And what did Sarah do?” inquired he, quickly.
“She fell to the pavement. And when the new mistress commanded her to go, she went out, weeping noiselessly.”
The prince walked up and down in the chamber.
“How did she pass the night?”
“The new lady?”
“No! I ask about Sarah.”
“According to command, Sarah went with her child to the servants’ house. The women, from compassion, yielded a fresh mat to her, but she did not lie down to sleep; she sat the whole night with her child on her knees.”
“But how is the child?” asked Rameses.
“The child is well. This morning, when the Jewess went to serve her new mistress, the other women bathed the little one in warm water, and the shepherd’s wife, who also has an infant, gave her breast to it.”
The prince stopped before the steward.
“It is wrong,” said he, “when a cow instead of suckling its calf goes to the plough and is beaten. Though this Jewess has committed a great offence, I do not wish that her innocent child should be a sufferer. Therefore Sarah will not wash the feet of the new lady again, and will not be kicked between the eyes by her a second time. Thou wilt set aside for her use in the servants’ house a room with food and furniture such as are proper for a woman recovered recently from childbirth. And let her nourish her infant in peace there.”
“Live thou through eternity, our ruler!” answered the steward: and he ran quickly to carry out the commands of the viceroy.
All the servants loved Sarah, and in a few days they had occasion to hate the angry and turbulent Kama.