He did not
care to know which one of the butterflies was the fluttering object of
Kenkenes' bounteous love, for Hotep knew that those high-born Memphian
women, who were openly partial to the handsome young sculptor, loved
him for his comeliness and his silken tongue alone. It would take a
profounder soul than any they had displayed to understand and
sympathize with the restive genius hidden under the smooth exterior
they saw.
Therefore, with some impatience, Hotep conceded that his friend was in
love, and presumably throwing himself away. So the scribe purposed,
even though the attempt were inevitably fruitless, to win Kenkenes out
of his dream.
One faint dawn he entered the temple to pray for his own cause at the
shrine of the lovers' goddess.
In the half-night of the vast interior, at the foot of the sumptuous
pedestal of Athor, he distinguished another supplicant, kneeling. But
there was a hopelessness in the droop of the bowed head and a tenseness
in the interlaced fingers of the clasped hands, which proved that
Athor's answer had not been propitious.
Hotep knew at once who besought the goddess. Setting his offering of
silver and crystal on the altar, the scribe departed with silent step.
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