Pentaur knelt and kissed the hand of the prelate, who gave him his blessing, and in a clear sweet voice, and rather formal and unfamiliar language--as if he were reading rather than speaking, said: “Rise, my son; your visit will save me a walk at this untimely hour, since you can inform me of what disturbs the disciples in our temple. Speak.” “Little of consequence has occurred, holy father,” replied Pentaur. “Nor would I have disturbed thee at this hour, but that a quite unnecessary tumult has been raised by the youths; and that the princess Bent-Anat appeared in person to request the aid of a physician. The unusual hour and the retinue that followed her--” “Is the daughter of Pharaoh sick?” asked the prelate. “No, father. She is well--even to wantonness, since--wishing to prove the swiftness of her horses--she ran over the daughter of the paraschites Pinem. Noble-hearted as she is, she herself carried the sorely-wounded girl to her house.” “She entered the dwelling of the unclean.” “Thou hast said.” “And she now asks to be purified?” “I thought I might venture to absolve her, father, for the purest humanity led her to the act, which was no doubt a breach of discipline, but--” “But,” asked the high-priest in a grave voice and he raised his eyes which he had hitherto on the ground. “But,” said the young priest, and now his eyes fell, “which can surely be no crime. When Ra--[The Egyptian Sun-god.]--in his golden bark sails across the heavens, his light falls as freely and as bountifully on the hut of the despised poor as on the Palace of the Pharaohs; and shall the tender human heart withhold its pure light--which is benevolence--from the wretched, only because they are base?”