A low shed, the first building Kenkenes came upon,
showed a flickering red light. A spare figure darted into it, just
ahead of the young man.
From the threshold, the whole of the small interior was visible.
The light came from a small annealing oven. At a table, overlaid with
a thin slab of stone, a man was modeling a cat in clay. On the
opposite side of the room was a younger man, painting an image,
preparatory to burning it in the oven. The walls were black with
smoke, the floor strewn with broken images and dried crumbs of clay.
In the center of the room was the spare figure, in white robes.
Kenkenes had opened his lips to speak when the conversation among the
trio stopped him.
"Cowards! Dastards!" the spare man vociferated. "Is there not a
patriot in Egypt? The Pharaoh in danger and not a man in the hamlet
who will raise a heel to save him!"
"Holy Father," the short man protested, "the way is long, the horses
have been required at our hands by the Pharaoh and were taken from us,
and if there be evil omens, the king's sorcerers will discover them."
"King's sorcerers!" the spare man repeated indignantly. "There is not
one of them who can tell a star from a fire-fly or read the events of
yesterday! Horses! Must ye go mounted, in litters, in chariots,
afraid of the harsh earth and a rough mile? In my youth, the young men
went barefoot and traveled the desert for the joy of effort.
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