Rameses had not seen Mena since his struggle with Paaker, but he listened
anxiously to the news which was brought him of the progress of his sorely
wounded officer.

The cheerful, decided, and practical nature of Rameses was averse to
every kind of dreaminess or self-absorption, and no one had ever seen
him, even in hours of extreme weariness, give himself up to vague and
melancholy brooding; but now he would often sit gazing at the ground in
wrapt meditation, and start like an awakened sleeper when his reverie was
disturbed by the requirements of the outer world around him. A hundred
times before he had looked death in the face, and defied it as he would
any other enemy, but now it seemed as though he felt the cold hand of
the mighty adversary on his heart. He could not forget the oppressive
sense of helplessness which had seized him when he had felt himself at
the mercy of the unrestrained horses, like a leaf driven by the wind, and
then suddenly saved by a miracle.

A miracle? Was it really Amon who had appeared in human form at his
call? Was he indeed a son of the Gods, and did their blood flow in his
veins?

The Immortals had shown him peculiar favor, but still he was but a man;
that he realized from the pain in his wound, and the treason to which he
had been a victim. He felt as if he had been respited on the very
scaffold. Yes; he was a man like all other men, and so he would still
be. He rejoiced in the obscurity that veiled his future, in the many
weaknesses which he had in common with those whom he loved, and even in
the feeling that he, under the same conditions of life as his
contemporaries, had more responsibilities than they.