In the museum at Cairo there is the mummy of “the lady Amanit, priestess of Hathor.” She lies there upon her back, with her thin body slightly turned toward the left side, as if in an effort to change her position. Her head is completely turned to the same side. Her mouth is wide open, showing all the teeth. The tongue is lolling out. Upon the head the thin, brown hair makes a line above the little ear, and is mingled at the back of the head with false tresses. Round the neck is a mass of ornaments, of amulets and beads. The right arm and hand lie along the body. The expression of “the lady Amanit” is very strange, and very subtle; for it combines horror--which implies activity--with a profound, an impenetrable repose, far beyond the reach of all disturbance. In the temple of Denderah I fancied the lady Amanit ministering sadly, even terribly, to a lonely goddess, moving in fear through an eternal gloom, dying at last there, overwhelmed by tasks too heavy for that tiny body, the ultra-sensitive spirit that inhabited it. And now she sleeps--one feels that, as one gazes at the mummy--very profoundly, though not yet very calmly, the lady Amanit. But her goddess--still she wakes upon her column. When I came out at last into the sunlight of the growing day, I circled the temple, skirting its gigantic, corniced walls, from which at intervals the heads and paws of resting lions protrude, to see another woman whose fame for loveliness and seduction is almost as legendary as Aphrodite’s. It is fitting enough that Cleopatra’s form should be graven upon the temple of Hathor; fitting, also, that though I found her in the presence of deities, and in the company of her son, Cæsarion, her face, which is in profile, should have nothing of Hathor’s sad impressiveness. This, no doubt, is not the real Cleopatra. Nevertheless, this face suggests a certain self-complacent cruelty and sensuality essentially human, and utterly detached from all divinity, whereas in the face of the goddess there is a something remote, and even distantly intellectual, which calls the imagination to “the fields beyond.” As I rode back toward the river, I saw again the boy clad in the rope of plaited grass, and again he said, less shyly, “May your day be happy!” It was a kindly wish. In the dawn I had felt it to be almost a prophecy. But now I was haunted by the face of the goddess of Denderah, and I remembered the legend of the lovely Laïs, who, when she began to age, covered herself from the eyes of men with a veil, and went every day at evening to look upon her statue, in which the genius of Praxiteles had rendered permanent the beauty the woman could not keep. One evening, hanging to the statue’s pedestal by a garland of red roses, the sculptor found a mirror, upon the polished disk of which were traced these words: “Laïs, O Goddess, consecrates to thee her mirror: no longer able to see there what she was, she will not see there what she has become.”