"But who art thou?"
"Kenkenes, the son of Mentu, thy murket."
"It can not be," the king declared with suspicion in his eye. "The
murket had but one son and he must be dead with the first-born."
"Nay; I was in the land of Goshen, the night of death, and the God of
Israel spared me."
Meneptah continued to gaze at him stubbornly. Then a conclusive proof
suggested itself to Kenkenes, which, under the stress of an austere
purpose and a soul-trying suspense, he had no heart to use. But the
need pressed him; he choked back his unwillingness, and submitted.
Coming very close to Meneptah, he began to sing, with infinite
softness, the song that the Pharaoh had heard at the Nile-side that
sunrise, now as far away as his childhood seemed. How strange his own
voice sounded to him--how out of place!
At first, the expression of surprise in the king's face was mingled
with perplexity. But the dim records of memory spoke at the urging of
association. After a few bars, the Pharaoh's countenance had become
reassured. Kenkenes ceased at once.
"Enough!" Meneptah declared. "The gods have most melodiously
distinguished thee from all others. Thou art he whom I heard one dawn,
and mine heir in Osiris, my Rameses, told me it was the son of Mentu.
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