For a moment Kenkenes sat, transfixed, and in that moment the sound
came nearer. He remembered the injunction of the old keeper. Human or
supernatural, the new-comer must not find him there. He leaped behind
the altar of Shaemus, extinguishing the light as he did so. He flung
the corner of his kamis over the reeking wick that the odor might not
escape, but his fear in that direction was materially lessened when he
saw that the stranger bore a fuming torch.
On one end of the short pole of the torch was a knot of flaming pitch,
on the other was a bronze ring fitted with sprawling claws. The
stranger set the light on the floor and the device kept the torch
upright. He crossed the room and stood at the altar of Neferari
Thermuthis.
By the deeply fringed and voluminous draperies, and by the venerable
beard, rippling and streaked with gray, the young sculptor took the
stranger to be an Israelite. As Kenkenes looked upon him, he was
minded of his father, the magnificent Mentu. There was the bearing of
the courtier, with the same wondrous stature, the same massive frame.
But the delicate features of the Egyptian, the long, slim fingers, the
narrow foot, were absent. In this man's countenance there was majesty
instead of grace; in his figure, might, instead of elegance.
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