"What ails your Majesty?" asked the Pharaoh.

"Oh, naught," she answered. "Yet does this earth-dweller remind you of
anyone?"

"Yes, he does," answered the Pharaoh. "He reminds me very much of that
accursed sculptor about whom we had words."

"Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court artist; he who worked the image
that was buried with me, and whom you sent to carve your statues in the
deserts of Kush, until he died of fevers--or was it poison?"

"Aye; Horu and no other, may Set take and keep him!" growled the
Pharaoh.

Then Smith passed on and heard no more. Now he stood before the
venerable Menes. Some instinct caused him to bow to this Pharaoh, who
bowed back to him. Then he turned and bowed to the royal company, and
they also bowed back to him, coldly, but very gravely and courteously.

"Dweller on the world where once we had our place, and therefore brother
of us, the dead," began Menes, "this divine priest and magician"--and
he pointed to Khaemuas--"declares that you are one of those who foully
violate our sepulchres and desecrate our ashes. He declares, moreover,
that at this very moment you have with you a portion of the mortal flesh
of a certain Majesty whose spirit is present here. Say, now, are these
things true?"

To his astonishment Smith found that he had not the slightest difficulty
in answering in the same sweet tongue.