"Rameses, how far wilt thou go in this trifling with the Lady Masanath?"
"To the marrying priests." Without looking at her, he loosed her
hands, swung them idly and let them go.
"She does not love thee," she said after a little silence.
"Thy news is old. She told me that not a moment since."
Ta-user drew a freer breath. "Thou wilt not wed her, then."
"That I will. I have vowed it. Go, Ta-user, the hour is late. Have
thy woman stir a potion for thee, and sleep. I would to mine own
dreams. They yield me what the day denies."
"Stay, Rameses," she urged, catching at his robes once more. "I would
have thee know something. But am I to tell thee in words what I would
have thee know? Surely I have not let slip a single chance to show
thee by token. Art thou stubborn or blind, that thou dost not pity me
and spare me the avowal?"
Rameses looked down at her upturned face without a softening line on
his pallid countenance.
"Ta-user," he said deliberately, "had I been mummied and entombed I
should have known thine intent. I marvel that thou couldst think I had
not seen. Now, hast thou not guessed my mind by this? Have I not been
sufficiently explicit? Must I, too, lay bare my heart in words?"
She did not speak for a moment.
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