I looked at the man clad in mean garments and foul from his labour in the brickfield, marvelling at his insolence. There was no doubt but that he believed what he said; I could see it in his proud eye and bearing. He thought that his tribe was of more import in the world than our great and ancient nation, and that he, an unknown youth, equalled or surpassed Pharaoh himself. Then, being enraged by these insults, I answered: “You say so, but let us put it to the proof. I am but a scribe, yet I have seen war. Linger a little that we may learn whether a lord of Israel is better than a scribe of Egypt.” “Gladly would I chastise you, Writer,” he answered, “did I not see your plot. You wish to delay me here, and perhaps to murder me by some foul means, while your master basks in the smiles of the Moon of Israel. Therefore I will not stay, but another time it shall be as you wish, and perhaps ere long.” Now I think that I should have struck him in the face, though I am not one of those who love brawling. But at this moment there appeared a company of Egyptian horse led by none other than the Count Amenmeses. Seeing the Prince in the Chariot, they halted and gave the salute. Amenmeses leapt to the ground. “We are come out to search for your Highness,” he said, “fearing lest some hurt had befallen you.” “I thank you, Cousin,” answered the Prince, “but the hurt has befallen another, not me.” “That is well, your Highness,” said the Count, studying Merapi with a smile. “Where is the lady wounded? Not in the breast, I trust.” “No, Cousin, in the foot, which is why she travels with me in this chariot.” “Your Highness was ever kind to the unfortunate. I pray you let me take your place, or suffer me to set this girl upon a horse.” “Drive on,” said Seti. So, escorted by the soldiers, whom I heard making jests to each other about the Prince and the lady, as I think did the Hebrew Laban also, for he glared about him and ground his teeth, we came at last to the town. Here, guided by Merapi, the chariot was halted at the house of Jabez her uncle, a white-bearded old Hebrew with a cunning eye, who rushed from the door of his mud-roofed dwelling crying he had done no harm that soldiers should come to take him. “It is not you whom the Egyptians wish to capture, it is your niece and my betrothed,” shouted Laban, whereat the soldiers laughed, as did some women who had gathered round. Meanwhile the Prince was helping Merapi to descend out of the chariot, from which indeed he lifted her. The sight seemed to madden Laban, who rushed forward to tear her from his arms, and in the attempt jostled his Highness. The captain of the soldiers—he was an officer of Pharaoh’s bodyguard—lifted his sword in a fury and struck Laban such a blow upon the head with the flat of the blade that he fell upon his face and lay there groaning. “Away with that Hebrew dog and scourge him!” cried the captain. “Is the royal blood of Egypt to be handled by such as he?”