While he gazed, Kenkenes took the opportunity of inspecting the priest.
He had been a familiar figure about the palaces of two monarchs. For
thirty years he had read the stars for the great Rameses, six for
Meneptah, but he had measured rods with Moses and had fallen. From the
pinnacle of power he had declined precipitately to the obscurest office
in the priesthood. This bird-cote shrine was his.
"Art thou seasoned? Canst thou endure? Nay, no need to ask that," he
answered himself, surveying the strong figure before him. "But who art
thou?"
"I am the son of Mentu, the murket."
"The son of Mentu? Enough. If a drop of that man's blood runneth in
thy veins, thou art as steadfast as death. Surely the gods are with
me."
He opened a second compartment in the end of the table, but before he
found what he sought he raised himself, suddenly.
"If thou art that son of the murket," he asked, "how is it thou art not
dead?"
Kenkenes looked at him, wondering if the news of his supposed death had
penetrated even to this little hamlet.
"Art thou not thy father's eldest born?" the priest asked further.
"His only child."
"What sheltered thee in last night's harvest of death?"
"Thou speakest in riddles, holy Father.
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