There in the sacred place, lit only by a single lamp which burned from
age to age, they told the story of their grief, whilst high above them
the cold, calm countenance of the god seemed to stare through the gloom,
as for a thousand years, in joy or sorrow, it had stared at those that
went before them. They told of the mocking words of Abi who had demanded
to see their children, the children that were not; they told of their
terror of the people who demanded that an heir should be declared; they
told of the doom that threatened their ancient house, which from Pharaoh
to Pharaoh, all of one blood, for generations had worshipped in this
place. They promised gifts and offerings, stately temples and wide
lands, if only their desire might be fulfilled.

"Let me no more be made a mock among men," cried the beautiful queen,
beating her forehead upon the stone feet of the god. "Let me bear a
child to fill the seat of my lord the King, and then if thou wilt, take
my life in payment."

But the god made no answer, and wearied out at length they rose and
departed. At the door of the sanctuary they found the high-priest
awaiting them, a wizened, aged man.

"The god gave no sign, O High-priest," said Pharaoh sadly; "no voice
spoke to us."

The old priest looked at the weeping queen, and a light of pity crept
into his eyes.

"To me, watching without," he said, "a voice seemed to speak, though
what it said I may not reveal. Go to your palace now, O Pharaoh, and O