Pambasa went, and presently through the curtain appeared a royal-looking lady splendidly apparelled. She was accompanied by four waiting women who fell back on the threshold and were no more seen. The Prince stepped forward, took both her hands in his and kissed her on the brow, then drew back again, after which they stood a moment looking at each other. While they remained thus I studied her who was known throughout the land as the “Beautiful Royal Daughter,” but whom till now I had never seen. In truth I did not think her beautiful, although even had she been clad in a peasant’s robe I should have been sure that she was royal. Her face was too hard for beauty and her black eyes, with a tinge of grey in them, were too small. Also her nose was too sharp and her lips were too thin. Indeed, had it not been for the delicately and finely-shaped woman’s form beneath, I might have thought that a prince and not a princess stood before me. For the rest in most ways she resembled her half-brother Seti, though her countenance lacked the kindliness of his; or rather both of them resembled their father, Meneptah. “Greeting, Sister,” he said, eyeing her with a smile in which I caught a gleam of mockery. “Purple-bordered robes, emerald necklace and enamelled crown of gold, rings and pectoral, everything except a sceptre—why are you so royally arrayed to visit one so humble as your loving brother? You come like sunlight into the darkness of the hermit’s cell and dazzle the poor hermit, or rather hermits,” and he pointed to me. “Cease your jests, Seti,” she replied in a full, strong voice. “I wear these ornaments because they please me. Also I have supped with our father, and those who sit at Pharaoh’s table must be suitably arrayed, though I have noted that sometimes you think otherwise.” “Indeed. I trust that the good god, our divine parent, is well to-night as you leave him so early.” “I leave him because he sent me with a message to you.” She paused, looking at me sharply, then asked, “Who is that man? I do not know him.” “It is your misfortune, Userti, but one which can be mended. He is named Ana the Scribe, who writes strange stories of great interest which you would do well to read who dwell too much upon the outside of life. He is from Memphis and his father’s name was—I forget what. Ana, what was your father’s name?” “One too humble for royal ears, Prince,” I answered, “but my grandfather was Pentaur the poet who wrote of the deeds of the mighty Rameses.” “Is it so? Why did you not tell me that before? The descent should earn you a pension from the Court if you can extract it from Nehesi. Well, Userti, his grandfather’s name was Pentaur whose immortal verses you have doubtless read upon temple walls, where our grandfather was careful to publish them.” “I have—to my sorrow—and thought them poor, boastful stuff,” she answered coldly.