“Welcome, thrice welcome, Ramses! Let the praises of thy lord expand thy heart! Mei has recounted the story of thy skill and energy in the conducting of this most bitterly fought campaign. Where now are the chieftains of Nubia? They have been ground down as the seed of the date beneath the crusher, as eye-paint upon the palette. Yea, they have become as grain which the mill has crushed! Now are the chieftains of Wawat forced to sulk in the caves of the hyena. As a fly hast thou worried them, as a lion hast thou destroyed them! We place these precious orders about thy throat. From this day thy renown is fragrant as the perfume of the Incense Country. Arise! Take thy place beside us as ‘Fan-bearer-on-the-right-of-Pharaoh, thy Lord!’” At his elevation to this coveted position, renewed applause seemed to shake the painted roof. Friends pressed forward to kiss the jeweled chains and ornaments that had but now left the hand of the god-king. Some hurled themselves prostrate before these rewards which only Pharaohs might bestow. The King shot a covert glance in the direction of the Balcony reserved for the royal harem. The Queen-Mother shook her jeweled _menat_ in company with the other ladies. Yet, in Thi’s case, the action represented far more than mere applause or acclamation. The tactful Belur, Prince of the Hittites, in turn, rose and added a few well chosen words of praise for a difficult task so promptly and bloodlessly accomplished. Pharaoh, watching him from beneath his richly painted canopy, doubted the sincerity of the smile that played about the handsome lips of the Hittite. Again he resolved in his mind the probable cause of the Hittite’s inopportune visit. A space was cleared in the center of the hall. The tables, still groaning under the burden of their barely glanced at dainties, disappeared as if by magic. The well-woven mats and glossy panther-skins were lifted from the stucco floor, and out upon the space so made sprang a troupe of lotus-wreathed girls, naked save for the beaded cincture of maidenhood which encircled their slender hips. Scattering Syrian crocuses and the pure white petals of the lotus, these coffee-colored little maids, the very embodiment of childish grace, pelted one another with the perfumed shower until their little ankles were well-nigh hidden. As if this had been a signal, the bright blue warbonnet of Pharaoh was lifted from his head; an Asiatic slave-boy bathed the royal fingers and Pharaoh, with a nervous twitch to his long, thin features, leaned back wearily against the embroidered cushions placed at his back by the attentive Dedu. The last scene of what had proved a veritable feast of marvels was about to commence. The sudden entrance of the merry little children had been the prelude to “the King’s dance.” This dance was a far different performance from that series of posturing and tumbling commonly provided by the acrobats of old.