The man was Siptah.
"Choke before thou utterest that name again," the captain said in a
whisper, "else thou wilt have Rameses abusing Har-hat before his
daughter."
"What matters it to me, his temper or her hurt?" Siptah snarled.
"Churl!" responded Menes, amiably.
"What is amiss between the heir and the fan-bearer?" Kenkenes asked.
"Everything! Rameses fairly suffocates in the presence of the new
adviser. The Pharaoh is sadly torn between the twain. He worships
Rameses and, body of Osiris! how he loves Har-hat! But sometime the
council chamber with the trio therein will fall--the walls outward, the
roof, up--mark me!"
Again, clear and with offensive emphasis, Siptah's voice was heard
disputing, in the general babble.
"Magnify the cowardice of the Rebu if you will, but it was Har-hat who
made them afraid," he was saying.
The slow eyes of Rameses turned in the direction of the tacit
challenge. Menes' black brows knitted at Siptah, but Kenkenes came to
the rescue. A lyre, the inevitable instrument of ancient revels, was
near him and he caught it up, sweeping his fingers strongly across the
strings.
A momentary silence fell, broken at once by the applause of the
peace-loving, who cried, "Sing for us, Kenkenes!"
He shook his head, smiling.
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