“I take this, my heritage,” and he touched the double crown, “not because I desire it but because it is my duty, as I swore that I would to one who has departed. Blow upon blow have smitten Egypt which, I think, had my voice been listened to, would never have fallen. Egypt lies bleeding and well-nigh dead. Let it be your work and mine to try to nurse her back to life. For no long while am I with you, who also have been smitten, how it matters not, yet while I am here, I who seem to reign will be your servant and that of Egypt. It is my decree that no feasts or ceremonials shall mark this my accession, and that the wealth which would have been scattered upon them shall be distributed among the widows and children of those who perished in the Sea of Reeds. Depart!” They went, humble yet happy, since here was a Pharaoh who knew the needs of Egypt, one too who loved her and who alone had shown himself wise of heart while others were filled with madness. Then her Highness entered, splendidly apparelled, crowned and followed by her household, and made obeisance. “Greeting to Pharaoh,” she cried. “Greeting to the Royal Princess of Egypt,” he answered. “Nay, Pharaoh, the Queen of Egypt.” By Seti’s side there was another throne, that in which he had set dead Merapi with a crown upon her head. He turned and looked at it a while. Then, he said: “I see that this seat is empty. Let the Queen of Egypt take her place there if so she wills.” She stared at him as if she thought that he was mad, though doubtless she had heard something of that story, then swept up the steps and sat herself down in the royal chair. “Your Majesty has been long absent,” said Seti. “Yes,” she answered, “but as my Majesty promised she would do, she has returned to her lawful place at the side of Pharaoh—never to leave it more.” “Pharaoh thanks her Majesty,” said Seti, bowing low. Some six years had gone by, when one night I was seated with the Pharaoh Seti Meneptah in his palace at Memphis, for there he always chose to dwell when matters of State allowed. It was on the anniversary of the Death of the Firstborn, and of this matter it pleased him to talk to me. Up and down the chamber he walked and, watching him by the lamplight, I noted that of a sudden he seemed to have grown much older, and that his face had become sweeter even than it was before. He was more thin also, and his eyes had in them a look of one who stares at distances. “You remember that night, Friend, do you not,” he said; “perhaps the most terrible night the world has ever seen, at least in the little piece of it called Egypt.” He ceased, lifted a curtain, and pointed to a spot on the pillared portico without. “There she sat,” he went on; “there you stood; there lay the boy and there crouched his nurse—by the way, I grieve to hear that she is ill. You are caring for her, are you not, Ana? Say to her that Pharaoh will come to visit her—when he may, when he may.” “I remember it all, Pharaoh.”