The older a civilization, the smoother its speech. Age refines the
vowels and makes the consonants suave. They spoke easily, not hastily,
but as oil flows, continuously and without ripple. The younger voice
was deep, soft enough to have been wooing and as musical as a chant.

"Would that the work were as probable as thou art hopeful," the young
man said with a sigh.

"Out upon thee, idler!" was the warm reply. "Art thou come to vex me
with thy doubts and scout thy sovereign's pious intentions?" The young
man smiled.

"Hath the sun shone on architecture or sculpture since Meneptah
succeeded to the throne?" he asked.

Mentu's eyes brightened wrathfully but the young man laid a soothing
palm over the hand that gripped the reed.

"I do not mock thee, father. Rather am I full of sympathy for thee.
Thou mindest me of a war-horse, stabled, with his battle-love
unsatisfied, hearing in every whimper of the wind a trumpet call. Nay,
I would to Osiris that the Pharaoh's intents were permanent."

Somewhat mollified, Mentu put away the detaining hand and went on with
his work. Presently the young man spoke again.

"I came to speak further of the signet," he said.

"Aye, but what signet, Kenkenes?"