she whom they call Neit-akrit, built herself a palace more gorgeous and beautiful than aught the people of Kamt had ever seen, and hearing of the fame of Amen-het she bade him come and carve beautiful sculptures on the terraces of her garden, and upon the steps of her palace."
She paused, and in her eyes I saw that same look of deadly hatred which I had seen on the first day distorting the regal face of Maat-kha.
"Oh, beloved of the gods ! thou does not know yet—how couldst thou? since thou art so fair—what it is to love and see thy love become a weariness to the beloved! Thou hast not craved for a look, a smile, a touch, and found nothing but an aching cold which chills the heart, and makes the brain dizzy with evil and jealous thoughts. Oh, Mother Isis! she has all that thou and the gods could give! She has beauty beyond the praise of song, she is great and rich above us all, while the land of Kamt lies prostrate at her feet. I had but him in all the world, but his love to me was more priceless than all the emeralds of Te-bu and all the rubies of Se-ven-neh, and yet, though Amen-het was humble and an artisan, she smiled on him and he forgot."
We were strangely impressed by this simple yet pathetic little story—so old and yet ever new—which the dainty little ivory carving with the dripping, child-like shoulders was whispering to us in the moonlight. She told it all in the peculiar, monotonous, sing-song way which is the characteristic of these people, and we both listened, for we both felt that there was something more to come, something that would explain why this demure little maiden stood half naked before us in order to tell us her life's tragedy.
"Didst thou know that she is proud? and in her
