Kenkenes obeyed willingly. He drew off
his coif and tossed it aside.
"Thou seest I am come in the garb of labor," he confessed.
"I see," she answered severely. "Am I no longer worthy the robe of
festivity?"
"Ah, Ta-meri, thou dost wrong me," he said. "Chide me, but impugn me
not. Nay, I am on my way to Tape. I was summoned hurriedly and am
already dismissed upon mine errand, but I could not use myself so ill
as to postpone my visit for eighteen days."
She jeered at him prettily.
"To hear thee one would think thou hadst been coming as often as
Nechutes."
"How often does Nechutes come?"
"Every day."
"Of late?" he asked, with a laugh in his eyes.
"Nay," she answered sulkily. "Not since the day--that day!"
Kenkenes was silent for a moment. Then he put his elbow on the arm of
her chair and leaned his head against his hand. The attitude brought
him close to her.
"All these days," he said at length, "he has been unhappy among the
happy and the unhappiest among the sad. He has summoned the shuddering
Pantheon, to hear him vow eternal unfealty to thee, Ta-meri--and lo!
while they listened he begged their most potent charm to hold thee to
him still. Poor Nechutes!"
"Thou dost treat it lightly," she reproached him, her eyes veiled, "but
it is of serious import to--to Nechutes.
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