declared himself willing to take the old man's guilt upon himself before
Osiris and the judges of the dead.

When he had finished, Pentaur held out his hand for the paper, but
Nebsecht folded it together, placed it in a little bag in which lay an
amulet that his dying mother had hung round his neck, and said, breathing
deeply:

"That is done. Farewell, Pentaur."

But the poet held the physician back; he spoke to him with the warmest
words, and conjured him to abandon his enterprise. His prayers, however,
had no power to touch Nebsecht, who only strove forcibly to disengage his
finger from Pentaur's strong hand, which held him as in a clasp of iron.
The excited poet did not remark that he was hurting his friend, until
after a new and vain attempt at freeing himself, Nebsecht cried out in
pain, "You are crushing my finger!"

A smile passed over the poet's face, he loosened his hold on the
physician, and stroked the reddened hand like a mother who strives to
divert her child from pain.

"Don't be angry with me, Nebsecht," he said, "you know my unlucky fists,
and to-day they really ought to hold you fast, for you have too mad a
purpose on hand."

"Mad?" said the physician, whilst he smiled in his turn. "It may be so;
but do you not know that we Egyptians all have a peculiar tenderness for
our follies, and are ready to sacrifice house and land to them?"