“Sirs, I am Merapi, the daughter of Nathan the Levite, he whom the accursed Egyptian captain, Khuaka, murdered at Tanis.” “How do you dare to call the Egyptians accursed?” asked Seti in tones made gruff to hide his laughter. “Oh! Sirs, because they are—I mean because I thought you were Arabs who hate them, as we do. At least this Egyptian was accursed, for the high Prince Seti, Pharaoh’s heir, caused him to be beheaded for that crime.” “And do you hate the high Prince Seti, Pharaoh’s heir, and call him accursed?” She hesitated, then in a doubtful voice said: “No, I do not hate him.” “Why not, seeing that you hate the Egyptians of whom he is one of the first and therefore twice worthy of hatred, being the son of your oppressor, Pharaoh?” “Because, although I have tried my best, I cannot. Also,” she added with the joy of one who has found a good reason, “he avenged my father.” “This is no cause, girl, seeing that he only did what the law forced him to do. They say that this dog of a Pharaoh’s son is here in Goshen upon some mission. Is it true, and have you seen him? Answer, for we of the desert folk desire to know.” “I believe it is true, Sir, but I have not seen him.” “Why not, if he is here?” “Because I do not wish to, Sir. Why should a daughter of Israel desire to look upon the face of a prince of Egypt?” “In truth I do not know,” replied Seti forgetting his feigned voice. Then, seeing that she glanced at him sharply, he added in gruff tones: “Brother, either this woman lies or she is none other than the maid they call Moon of Israel who dwells with old Jabez the Levite, her uncle. What think you?” “I think, Brother, that she lies, and for three reasons,” I answered, falling into the jest. “First, she is too fair to be of the black Hebrew blood.” “Oh! Sir,” moaned Merapi, “my mother was a Syrian lady of the mountains, with a skin as white as milk, and eyes blue as the heavens.” “Secondly,” I went on without heeding her, “if the great Prince Seti is really in Goshen and she dwells there, it is unnatural that she should not have gone to look upon him. Being a woman only two things would have kept her away, one—that she feared and hated him, which she denies, and the other—that she liked him too well, and, being prudent, thought it wisest not to look upon him more.” When she heard the first of these words, Merapi glanced up with her lips parted as though to answer. Instead, she dropped her eyes and suddenly seemed to choke, while even in the moonlight I saw the red blood pour to her brow and along her white arms. “Sir,” she gasped, “why should you affront me? I swear that never till this moment did I think such a thing. Surely it would be treason.” “Without doubt,” interrupted Seti, “yet one of a sort that kings might pardon.”