Now the terror was increased tenfold, and it seemed to me that all the hundreds of thousands of Memphis were gathered outside our walls, so that they might look upon the light, such as it was, if they could do no more. Seti would have admitted as many as the place would hold, but Ki bade him not, saying, that if he did so the darkness would flow in with them. Only Merapi did admit some of the Israelitish women who were married to Egyptians in the city, though for her pains they only cursed her as a witch. For now most of the inhabitants of Memphis were certain that it was Merapi who, keeping herself safe, had brought these woes upon them because she was a worshipper of an alien god. “If she who is the love of Egypt’s heir would but sacrifice to Egypt’s gods, these horrors would pass from us,” said they, having, as I think, learned their lesson from the lips of Ki. Or perhaps the emissaries of Userti had taught them. Once more we stood by the gate watching the people flitting to and fro in the gloom without, for this sight fascinated Merapi, as a snake fascinates a bird. Then it was that Laban appeared. I knew his hooked nose and hawk-like eyes at once, and she knew him also. “Come away with me, Moon of Israel,” he cried, “and all shall yet be forgiven you. But if you will not come, then fearful things shall overtake you.” She stood staring at him, answering never a word, and just then the Prince Seti reached us and saw him. “Take that man,” he commanded, flushing with anger, and guards sprang into the darkness to do his bidding. But Laban was gone. On the second day of the darkness the tumult was great, on the third it was terrible. A crowd thrust the guard aside, broke down the gates and burst into the palace, humbly demanding that the lady Merapi would come to pray for them, yet showing by their mien that if she would not come they meant to take her. “What is to be done?” asked Seti of Ki and Bakenkhonsu. “That is for the Prince to judge,” said Ki, “though I do not see how it can harm the lady Merapi to pray for us in the open square of Memphis.” “Let her go,” said Bakenkhonsu, “lest presently we should all go further than we would.” “I do not wish to go,” cried Merapi, “not knowing for whom I am to pray or how.” “Be it as you will, Lady,” said Seti in his grave and gentle voice. “Only, hearken to the roar of the mob. If you refuse, I think that very soon every one of us will have reached a land where perhaps it is not needful to pray at all,” and he looked at the infant in her arms. “I will go,” she said.