of the world, and thought that it had been given to them to hearken, not
to a royal maiden, but to a goddess of the skies.

Quiet they sat as though sleep had smitten them, only every man of their
number stared at the sweet pale face and at those radiant eyes. Drunk
with passion and with wine, Amathel, Prince of Kesh, leaned his heavy
head upon his hand and stared like the rest. But those eyes did not stay
on him. Had he been a stone they could not have noted him less; they
passed over him seeking something beyond.

Slowly he turned to see what it might be at which the Morning Star of
Amen gazed, and perceived that the young captain who waited on him, he
who was said to be of a race more ancient and purer than his own, he
whose house had reigned in the Southern Land when his ancestors were but
traffickers in gold, was also gazing at this royal singer. Yes, he bent
forward to gaze as though a spell drew him, a spell, or the eyes of
the Queen, and there was that upon his face which even a drunken Nubian
could not fail to understand.

In the hands of Rames was the tall, golden vase of wine, and as Amathel
thrust back his chair its topmost ivory bar struck the foot of the
vase and tilted it, so that the red wine poured in a torrent over the
Prince's head and gorgeous robes, staining him from his crest of plumes
to his feet as though with blood. Up sprang the Prince of Kesh roaring
with fury.

"Dog-descended slave!" he shouted. "Hog-headed brother of swine, is it
thus that you wait upon my Royalty?" and with the cup in his hand he
smote Rames on the face, then drew the sword at his side to kill him.