It was Athor,
eternally young, eternally in love, eternally unsatisfied, receiving
the setting sun as she had done since the world began. None of the
rapturous impatience and uncertainty of the moment had been lost since
the first sunset after chaos. And yet, with all the pulse and fervor,
here was womanhood, immaculate and ineffable.
Never did face so command men to worship.
"Holy Amen!" the scribe exclaimed, his voice barely audible in its
earnestness. "What consummate loveliness! But what--what unspeakable
impiety!"
"Hast thou seen Athor? She is before thee."
"Athor! The golden goddess in the image of a mortal! Kenkenes, the
wrath of the priests awaits thee and thereafter the doom of the
insulted Pantheon!" The scribe shuddered and plucked at his friend's
robe as if to drag him away from the sight of his own creation.
Firmly fixed were the young artist's convictions to resist the
impelling force of Hotep's consternation.
"Nay, nay, Hotep," he answered soothingly. "The wrath of the gods for
an offense thus flagrant is exceedingly slow, if it is to fall. Lo!
they have propitiated me at great length if they mean to accomplish
mine undoing at last. Thus far, and the statue is well-nigh complete,
I have met no form of obstacle.
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