"Yes, and my friend. His grandsire was Pentaur the poet."

"Indeed. I knew Pentaur well. Often has he read me to sleep with his
long poems, rank stuff that grew like coarse grass upon a deep but
half-drained soil. Are you sure, young man, that Pentaur was your
grandfather? You are not like him. Quite a different kind of herbage,
and you know that it is a matter upon which we must take a woman's
word."

Seti burst out laughing and I looked at the old priest angrily, though
now that I came to think of it my father always said that his mother was
one of the biggest liars in Egypt.

"Well, let it be," went on Bakenkhonsu, "till we find out the truth
before Thoth. Ki was speaking of you, young man. I did not pay much
attention to him, but it was something about a sudden vow of friendship
between you and the Prince here. There was a cup in the story too, an
alabaster cup that seemed familiar to me. Ki said it was broken."

Seti started and I began angrily:

"What do you know of that cup? Where were you hid, O Priest?"

"Oh, in your souls, I suppose," he answered dreamily, "or rather Ki was.
But I know nothing, and am not curious. If you had broken the cup with
a woman now, it would have been more interesting, even to an old man.
Be so good as to answer the Prince's question as to whether he or his
cousin Amenmeses will triumph at the last, for on that matter both Ki
and I are curious."