The eye of the sorcerer fell on the young man's dress.

"A runner among the n.o.bility?" he commented suspiciously.

"Is a man less likely to be a patriot because he is of blood, or less fleet of foot because he is n.o.ble?"

"Nay; nor less useful because he is sharp of tongue. Come with me!"

Jambres seized his arm and, hurrying him out of the shed, went through the ragged street to the shrine at the upper end of the village.

From the tunnel-like entrance between the dwarf pylons a light was diffused as though it came through thin hangings. The pair entered the porch and pa.s.sed into the sanctuary.

Entering his study, Jambres made his way to the heavy table and, fumbling about the compartments under it, drew forth a wrapped and addressed roll. Taking up a lighted lamp, he scrutinized the messenger sharply.

While he gazed, Kenkenes took the opportunity of inspecting the priest.

He had been a familiar figure about the palaces of two monarchs. For thirty years he had read the stars for the great Rameses, six for Meneptah, but he had measured rods with Moses and had fallen. From the pinnacle of power he had declined precipitately to the obscurest office in the priesthood. This bird-cote shrine was his.

"Art thou seasoned? Canst thou endure? Nay, no need to ask that," he answered himself, surveying the strong figure before him. "But who art thou?"

"I am the son of Mentu, the murket."

"The son of Mentu? Enough. If a drop of that man's blood runneth in thy veins, thou art as steadfast as death. Surely the G.o.ds are with me."

He opened a second compartment in the end of the table, but before he found what he sought he raised himself, suddenly.

"If thou art that son of the murket," he asked, "how is it thou art not dead?"

Kenkenes looked at him, wondering if the news of his supposed death had penetrated even to this little hamlet.

"Art thou not thy father's eldest born?" the priest asked further.

"His only child."

"What sheltered thee in last night's harvest of death?"

"Thou speakest in riddles, holy Father."

"Knowest thou not that every first-born in Egypt died last night at the Hebrew's sending?" the sorcerer demanded.

"The first-born of Egypt," Kenkenes repeated slowly. "At the Hebrew's sending?"

"Aye, by the sorcery of Mesu. Save for the eldest of Israel, there is no living first-born in Egypt to-day. From that most imperial Prince Rameses to the firstling of the cowherd, they are dead!"

The young man heard him first with a chill of horror, half-unbelieving, barely comprehending. He was not of Israel and yet he had been spared.

Then he remembered the dread presence above him in the night,--the chill from its noiseless wing. A light, instant and brilliant as a revelation, broke over him. Unconsciously, he raised his eyes and clasped his hands against his breast. He knew that his G.o.d had acknowledged him.

When his thoughts returned to earth, he found the glittering eyes of the sorcerer fixed upon him.

"Seeing that thou dost live, tell me what sheltered thee in this harvest of death?" Jambres repeated.

"The Lord G.o.d of Israel, who reaped it."

The answer was direct and fearless. To the astonished priest who heard it, it seemed triumphant.

Each of the many emotions the sorcerer experienced, displayed itself, in turn, on his face,--amazement, anger, censure, irresolution, distrust. After a silence, he took up the scroll and made as if to return it to its hiding-place in the compartments under the table.

"Stay," Kenkenes said, laying his hand on the sorcerer's. "Put it not away, for I shall carry it. Shall I, being a believer in Israel's G.o.d, be willing for the Pharaoh to pursue Israel?"

"Nay," Jambres replied bluntly; "but thou wouldst stay him for Israel's sake; I would prevent him for his own."

"So the same end is accomplished, wherefore quarrel over the motive?

But when thou speakest of Israel's sake, which, by the testimony of past events, is now the more imperiled, Egypt or Israel?"

"Egypt! But it shall not be wholly overthrown through mine incautious trust of a messenger."

The young man still retained his hold on the sorcerer's hand.

"Thou dost impugn my fidelity. Now, consider this. I could have defeated thee and accomplished the Pharaoh's undoing by refusing to carry the message, by keeping silence in yonder shed of image-makers.

Is it not so?"

Jambres a.s.sented.

"Even so. Instead, I offered and now I insist. Now, if thou deniest me, there is none to carry the warning and thou, thyself, hast undone the Pharaoh."

The sorcerer put away the hand and showed no sign of softening.

"Nay, then," Kenkenes said, "there is no need of the writing. I shall warn the king by word of mouth." He turned away and walked swiftly toward the portals of the shrine. Jambres beheld him recede into the dusk and wavered.

"Stay!" he called.

Kenkenes stopped.

"Wilt thou swear fidelity by the holy Name?"

"Aye, and by that holier Name of Jehovah, also."

He returned and faced the priest. "Thou art mystic, Father Jambres,"

he said persuasively; "what does thy heart tell thee of me?"

"The supplication of the need indorses thee, as it indorses any desperate chance. If thou art false, thou art the instrument of Set, whom the Hathors have given to overthrow Egypt. If thou art true, the Pharaoh shall return safe to his capital in Memphis. The grat.i.tude of Egypt will be sufficient reward."

"And I take the message?"

Jambres nodded. "Art thou armed?" he asked, bending again to look into the compartment he had opened.

"Except for my dagger, nay."

The sorcerer brought forth a falchion of that wondrous metal that could carve syenite granite and bite into porphyry; also, a pair of horse-hide sandals and a flat water-bottle.

"Put on these."