Nothing could have been more childlike than
the pleased smile on her face.
"Nay, nay, he would not have me," she protested. "But he hath a son."
Har-hat moved forward a pace. She noted the movement and playfully
waved him back. "Encroach not. This hour is mine." Har-hat's face
wore a dubious smile.
"He hath a son," she repeated.
"He had a son, but he is dead," the king answered.
"Not so! He is in prison where thy counselor, the wicked, unfeeling,
jealous, rapacious Har-hat hath entombed him!"
Har-hat sprang forward as the king lifted an amazed and angry face.
"Back!" she cried, motioning at him with her full arm. "It is time the
Hathors overtook thee, thou ineffable knave!"
"I protest!" the fan-bearer cried, losing his temper.
"Enough of this play," Meneptah said sternly. "Go on with thy tale,
Ta-user. I would know the truth of this."
"Thou wilt not learn it from the princess," Har-hat exclaimed.
"Ah!" Ta-user ejaculated, a world of innocence, surprise and wounded
feeling in the word.
"Thy words do not become thee, Har-hat," Meneptah said. The fan-bearer
closed his lips and gazed fixedly at the princess.
She drooped her head and went on in a voice low with hurt.
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