Her love-lorn heart was stirred. She spoke to Rachel softly.
"Come hither and lie down by me," she said. "I am afraid and thou art
unhappy. Give me some of thy courage and I will sorrow with thee."
The Israelite smiled sadly and obeyed.
It was dawn when the fan-bearer's daughter awoke again.
The door had been set aside, and on the rock threshold a squat copper
lamp was sending up periodic eruptions of dense white vapor. Rachel
was feeding the ember of the cotton wick with bits of chopped root.
The breeze from the river blew the fumes back into the cave, filling
the dark recesses with a fresh and pungent odor.
Masanath, wondering and remembering, raised her head to look through
the opening. Day was broad over Egypt, and the turmoil had subsided.
The silence was heavy. But the Nile was still a wallowing torrent of
red.
She sank back and drew the wide sleeves of her dress over her face.
Rachel put the lamp aside, set the door in place and came to her.
"Thou art better for thy long sleep," she said. "Now, if thou canst
bear, as well, with the meager food this house affords, the plague will
not vex thee sorely." Then, in obedience to the Israelite's offer,
Masanath sat up and suffered Rachel to dress her hair and bathe her
tiny hands and face with a solution of weak white wine.
Pages:
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451