Now he was on his feet and walking down the flight of steps opposite to those on which Menes stood far away. Now he was among all that throng of ghosts, which parted to let him pass, looking at him as he went with cold and wondering eyes. They were very majestic ghosts; the ages that had gone by since they laid down their sceptres had taken nothing from their royal dignity. Moreover, save one, none of them seemed to have any pity for his plight. She was a little princess who stood by her mother, that same little princess whose mummy he had seen and pitied in the Director’s room with a lotus flower thrust beneath her bandages. As he passed Smith heard her say: “This Vile One is frightened. Be brave, Vile One!” Smith understood, and pride came to his aid. He, a gentleman of the modern world, would not show the white feather before a crowd of ancient Egyptian ghosts. Turning to the child, he smiled at her, then drew himself to his full height and walked on quietly. Here it may be stated that Smith was a tall man, still comparatively young, and very good-looking, straight and spare in frame, with dark, pleasant eyes and a little black beard. “At least he is a well-favoured thief,” said one of the queens to another. “Yes,” answered she who had been addressed. “I wonder that a man with such a noble air should find pleasure in disturbing graves and stealing the offerings of the dead,” words that gave Smith much cause for thought. He had never considered the matter in this light. Now he came to the place where Ma-Mee stood, the black-browed Pharaoh who had been her husband at her side. On his left hand which held the cigar-box was the gold Bes ring, and that box he felt constrained to carry pressed against him just over his heart. As he went by he turned his head, and his eyes met those of Ma-Mee. She started violently. Then she saw the ring upon his hand and again started still more violently. “What ails your Majesty?” asked the Pharaoh. “Oh, naught,” she answered. “Yet does this earth-dweller remind you of anyone?” “Yes, he does,” answered the Pharaoh. “He reminds me very much of that accursed sculptor about whom we had words.” “Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court artist; he who worked the image that was buried with me, and whom you sent to carve your statues in the deserts of Kush, until he died of fevers—or was it poison?” “Aye; Horu and no other, may Set take and keep him!” growled the Pharaoh. Then Smith passed on and heard no more. Now he stood before the venerable Menes. Some instinct caused him to bow to this Pharaoh, who bowed back to him. Then he turned and bowed to the royal company, and they also bowed back to him, coldly, but very gravely and courteously.