As he was leaving her he commended her most solemnly to the gods.
"Death hath wrenched a scepter from the gods and ruled the world this
night," he said. "We may not delude ourselves that we have escaped, my
Lady. As sure as there is a first-born in thy father's house and in
mine, that one is dead. And think of those others whom we love, the
eldest born of other houses! Do thou pray for us, thou perfect spirit.
I can not, for there is little reverence for my gods in me this night."
He turned away and disappeared down the corridor.
Within her chamber Masanath knelt and dutifully strove to pray, but her
petition resolved itself into a repeated cry for help. In that hour
she did not think of the relief to her and to many that the death of
Rameses had brought about, for in her heart she counted it sin to be
glad of benefit wrought by the death of any man.
Through the fingers across her face she knew that dawn was breaking,
but quiet had not settled on the city. Surging murmurs of unanimous
sorrow rose and fell as if blown by the chill wind to and fro over
Egypt. The nation crouched with her face in the dust. There was no
perfunctory sorrow in her abasement. She was bowed down with her own
woe, not Meneptah's.
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