I were dead."

And the child began to cry bitterly.

Uarda, whose cheeks had turned pale, patted him affectionately; but
Rameri exclaimed:

"It is frightful! unheard of! But who was the steward? did you not hear
his name? Collect yourself, little man, and stop crying. It is a case
of life and death. Who was the scoundrel? Did she not name him? Try to
remember."

Scherau bit his red lips, and tried for composure. His tears ceased, and
suddenly he exclaimed, as he put his hand into the breast of his ragged
little garment: "Stay, perhaps you will know him again--I made him!"

"You did what?" asked the prince.

"I made him," repeated the little artist, and he carefully brought out an
object wrapped up in a scrap of rag, "I could just see his head quite
clearly from one side all the time he was speaking, and my clay lay by
me. I always must model something when my mind is excited, and this time
I quickly made his face, and as the image was successful, I kept it about
me to show to the master when Hekt was out."

While he spoke he had carefully unwrapped the figure with trembling
fingers, and had given it to Uarda.

"Ani!" cried the prince. "He, and no other! Who could have thought it!
What spite has he against Pentaur? What is the priest to him?"