"Indeed. I trust that the good god, our divine parent, is well to-night
as you leave him so early."

"I leave him because he sent me with a message to you." She paused,
looking at me sharply, then asked, "Who is that man? I do not know him."

"It is your misfortune, Userti, but one which can be mended. He is named
Ana the Scribe, who writes strange stories of great interest which you
would do well to read who dwell too much upon the outside of life. He
is from Memphis and his father's name was--I forget what. Ana, what was
your father's name?"

"One too humble for royal ears, Prince," I answered, "but my grandfather
was Pentaur the poet who wrote of the deeds of the mighty Rameses."

"Is it so? Why did you not tell me that before? The descent should earn
you a pension from the Court if you can extract it from Nehesi. Well,
Userti, his grandfather's name was Pentaur whose immortal verses you
have doubtless read upon temple walls, where our grandfather was careful
to publish them."

"I have--to my sorrow--and thought them poor, boastful stuff," she
answered coldly.

"To be honest, if Ana will forgive me, so do I. I can assure you that
his stories are a great improvement on them. Friend Ana, this is my
sister, Userti, my father's daughter though our mothers were not the
same."