“Why seek that from Ana which Ki himself is eager to give? Ana is learned, but is his heart the heart of Ki? Above all, why tell him that Ki, the humblest of your servants, is your enemy?” Now Merapi straightened herself, looked into his eyes, and answered: “Have I told Ana aught that he did not know? Did not Ana hear the last words you said to me in the temple of Amon at Tanis?” “Doubtless he heard them, Lady, and therefore I am glad that he is here to hear their meaning. Lady Merapi, at that moment, I, the Sacrificer to Amon, was filled—not with my own spirit, but with the angry spirit of the god whom you had humbled as never before had befallen him in Egypt. The god through me demanded of you the secret of your magic, and promised you his hate, if you refused. Lady, you have his hate, but mine you have not, since I also have his hate because I, and he through me, have been worsted by your prophets. Lady, we are fellow-travellers in the Valley of Trouble.” She gazed at him steadily, and I could see that of all that passed his lips she believed no one word. Making no answer to him and his talk of Amon, she asked only: “Why do you come here to do me ill who have done you none?” “You are mistaken, Lady,” he replied. “I come here to refuge from Amon, and from his servant Pharaoh, whom Amon drives on to ruin. I know well that, if you will it, you can whisper in the ear of the Prince and presently he will put me forth. Only then——” and he looked over her head to where the nurse stood rocking the sleeping child. “Then what, Magician?” Giving no answer, he turned to me. “Learned Ana, do you remember meeting me at Tanis one night?” I shook my head, though I guessed well enough what night he meant. “Your memory weakens, learned Ana, or rather is confused, for we met often, did we not?” Then he stared at the staff in his hand. I stared also, because I could not help it, and saw, or thought I saw, the dead wood begin to swell and curve. This was enough for me and I said hastily: “If you mean the night of the Coronation, I do recall——” “Ah! I thought you would. You, learned Ana, who like all scribes observe so closely, will have noted how little things—such as the scent of a flower, or the passing of a bird, or even the writhing of a snake in the dust—often bring back to the mind events or words it has forgotten long ago.” “Well—what of our meeting?” I broke in hastily. “Nothing at all—or only this. Just before it you were talking with the Hebrew Jabez, the lady Merapi’s uncle, were you not?” “Yes, I was talking with him in an open place, alone.” “Not so, learned Scribe, for you know we are never alone—quite. Could you but see it, every grain of sand has an ear.” “Be pleased to explain, O Ki.” “Nay, Ana, it would be too long, and short jests are ever the best. As I have told you, you were not alone, for though there were some words that I did not catch, _I_ heard much of what passed between you and Jabez.”