Rameses, solitary and
luxurious, was stretched upon a cushioned divan in the shadow of a
canopy over the hypostyle.
"The gods keep thee, Son of the Sun," Hotep said.
"So it is thou, Hotep. Nay, but I am glad to see thee. Methought
Ta-user meant to visit me just now. Is there a taboret near?"
"Aye, but I shall not sit, my Prince."
"Go to! It makes me weary to see thee stand. Sit, I tell thee!"
Hotep drew up the taboret and sat.
"I come to thee with news and a petition," he began. "It is more
fitting that I should kneel."
"Perchance. But exertion offends mine eyes in such delicious hours as
these, and I will forego the homage for the sake of mine own sinews.
Out with thy tidings."
"Thou dost remember thy friend and mine, that gentle genius, Kenkenes."
"I am not like to forget him so long as a bird sings or the Nile
ripples make music. Osiris pillow him most softly."
"He is not dead, my Prince."
"Nay!" Rameses cried, sitting up. "The knave should be bastinadoed for
the tears he wrung from us!"
"Thou wouldst deny my petition. I am come to implore thee to intercede
for him."
Rameses bade him proceed.
"Thou art acquainted with the nature of Kenkenes, O Prince.
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