had become very pale, and a dark frown appeared between her eyes.
"Thou hast not yet promised," she whispered hurriedly. "Promise, my beloved, promise."
"Make way for the messenger of Princess Neit-akrit!"
The sound of the trumpets, the repeated cries, drowned the words in Hugh's mouth.
"Promise thou wilt not go," she entreated for the last time; "promise thou wilt not leave my side!"
But it was too late, for the trumpets now sounded quite close in the garden, and preceded by some of the Queen's servants, a messenger, in shining tunic and silver helmet, with winged sandals on his feet—an emblem of his speed—was rapidly approaching towards us. Impatiently Maat-kha turned to him.
"What dost thou want?" she said imperiously. "Who has given thee leave to intrude on the presence of thy Queen? Thou deservedst a whipping at the hands of my slaves for thy daring impudence."
The messenger, however, seemed well accustomed to this inhospitable greeting, or in any case was very indifferent to it, for he knelt down and kissed the ground, then rising again, he quietly waited until the flood of the lady's wrath had passed over his head. Then he began, solemnly:
"From the Most High the Princess Neit-akrit, of the house of Memmoun-ra, to the beloved of the gods, greeting."
And again he knelt and presented Hugh with a dainty tablet, on which a few words had been engraved upon a sheet of wax. I thought for one moment that the Queen would snatch it out of his hand, but evidently, mindful of her own dignity, she thought better of it and stood a little on one side, pale and frowning, while a slave
