Parents who had received the news of the death of their son fell on each
other's neck weeping; old men plucked out their grey hair and beard;
young women beat their forehead and breast, or implored the scribes who
read out the lists to let them see for themselves the name of the beloved
one who was for ever torn from them.

The passionate stirring of a soul, whether it be the result of joy or of
sorrow, among us moderns covers its features with a veil, which it had no
need of among the ancients.

Where the loudest laments sounded, a restless little being might be seen
hurrying from group to group; it was Nemu, Katuti's dwarf, whom we know.

Now he stood near a woman of the better class, dissolved in tears because
her husband had fallen in the last battle.

"Can you read?" he asked her; "up there on the architrave is the name of
Rameses, with all his titles. Dispenser of life,' he is called. Aye
indeed; he can create--widows; for he has all the husbands killed."

Before the astonished woman could reply, he stood by a man sunk in woe,
and pulling his robe, said "Finer fellows than your son have never been
seen in Thebes. Let your youngest starve, or beat him to a cripple, else
he also will be dragged off to Syria; for Rameses needs much good
Egyptian meat for the Syrian vultures."

The old man, who had hitherto stood there in silent despair, clenched his
fist. The dwarf pointed to the Regent, and said: "If he there wielded
the sceptre, there would be fewer orphans and beggars by the Nile.
To-day its sacred waters are still sweet, but soon it will taste as salt