I woke, the faint lights of dawn were creeping from the opening in the roof. Ghastly they lay upon the shadowy sculptured walls and ghastly upon the dead face and white beard of my father, the gathered to Osiris. I started up, remembering all things, and wondering in my heart what I should do, and as I rose I heard a faint footfall creeping down the passage of the names of the Pharaohs. “_La! La! La!_” mumbled a voice that I knew for the voice of the old wife, Atoua. “Why, ‘tis dark as the House of the Dead! The Holy Ones who built this Temple loved not the blessed sun, however much they worshipped him. Now, where’s the curtain?” Presently it was drawn, and Atoua entered, a stick in one hand and a basket in the other. Her face was somewhat more wrinkled, and her scanty locks were somewhat whiter than aforetime, but for the rest she was as she had ever been. She stood and peered around with her sharp black eyes, for as yet she could see nothing because of the shadows. “Now where is he?” she muttered. “Osiris--glory to His name--send that he has not wandered in the night, and he blind! Alack! that I could not return before the dark. Alack! and alack! what times have we fallen on, when the Holy High Priest and the Governor, by descent, of Abouthis, is left with one aged crone to minister to his infirmity! O Harmachis, my poor boy, thou hast laid trouble at our doors! Why, what’s this? Surely he sleeps not, there upon the ground?--‘twill be his death! Prince! Holy Father! Amenemhat! awake, arise!” and she hobbled towards the corpse. “Why, how is it! By Him who sleeps, he’s dead! untended and alone--_dead! dead!_” and she sent her long wail of grief ringing up the sculptured walls. “Hush! woman, be still!” I said, gliding from the shadows. “Oh, what art thou?” she cried, casting down her basket. “Wicked man, hast thou murdered this Holy One, the only Holy One in Egypt? Surely the curse will fall on thee, for though the Gods do seem to have forsaken us now in our hour of trial, yet is their arm long, and certainly they will be avenged on him who hath slain their anointed!” “Look on me, Atoua,” I cried. “Look! ay, I look--thou wicked wanderer who hast dared this cruel deed! Harmachis is a traitor and lost far away, and Amenemhat his holy father is murdered, and now I’m all alone without kith or kin. I gave them for him. I gave them for Harmachis, the traitor! Come, slay me also, thou wicked one!” I took a step toward her, and she, thinking that I was about to smite her, cried out in fear: “Nay, good Sir, spare me! Eighty and six, by the Holy Ones, eighty and six, come next flood of Nile, and yet I would not die, though Osiris is merciful to the old who served him! Come no nearer--help! help!” “Thou fool, be silent,” I said; “knowest thou me not?”