It was about the third hour of the auspicious sixteenth day of Athyr. On the river a high-prowed galley of foreign cut could be seen attempting to gain the western landing under her own sail. This great sail, picturesquely marked with broad stripes of green and dull red, spread itself to the fitful breeze with but little effect.

Suddenly a raucous command rang out. At once, as if the command had been momentarily expected, twenty oars were thrust out from the vessel’s sides, twenty lusty throats called aloud upon the name of some god or beneficent demon, and at each shout the great blades took the water and the vessel sprang shoreward, a line of bubbles and swirling eddies in her wake.

A pilot stood at prow and stern. The bow pilot held a mooring-stake and mallet ready in his hand. A pair of buffers already hung over the vessel’s sides. It was often a dangerous matter to pick a path through the many barges, war-galleys, sea-going vessels and lesser river craft which were strung out as far as the eye could see along the western bank of the Nile.

“By Hathor,” said Nakht, a fieldhand, as he fixed his tired eyes upon the oncoming galley, “a man who can scull, row, and swim as can I, should have a place upon some such vessel. Think of the life those dirty Amu lead!” All foreigners were Amu to Nakht, sand-dwellers and loathed for their filthy habits and the lice that covered them.

“Aye, Nakht! Thou mayest well envy them. Think of the days and nights in port, ever with gold uten to spend. Think of Thethi’s wine, Aua’s dancing girls, a brawl with the city watchmen—more damned foreigners!

“Ai, ai! Once I knew it well! See this scar. ’Twas Thethi himself gave it me. We were young men then, both as quick as southern panthers.

“Breath of Ra! How many maidens and hapless youths think you Baltu brings to Thebes this trip?”

A sharp blow from the staff of the overseer cut short this soliloquy. Once again began the splashing of waters mingled with the droning song of the irrigation worker: “Life to this seed, O Waters, Breath of Osiris, Blood of Isis! Life to these our seedlings that we may eat and live to sing thy praises.”

The galley drifted slowly to the bank. The oars were drawn in; the great steering-oars alone guided her.

The emblem at the prow of the vessel showed her to hail from Tyre. Her freight, as Nakht had hinted, consisted in the main of hapless youths and maidens torn from the arms of their murdered parents, enveigled from their homes by false promises or bought outright in foreign slave-marts.

Among the jostling crowds gathered upon the embankment and overlooking the clustered vessels, stood Renny, the Syrian. His gaze was fixed upon the forms of two little children busily occupied in modeling dolls from the plastic Nile mud of the river bank. The children’s occupation had interested him since Renny, the Syrian, was a sculptor.

Renny was startled out of his state of artistic introspection by the harsh voices of a number of the foreign sailors. They had jumped ashore from the Tyrian galley and now sought to jostle their way up the steep and crowded bank.

While these swarthy adventurers drove in the mooring-stake, Renny’s eyes roamed along the deck of the galley itself. As he gazed at the ordered cases of merchandise, which had but recently been brought up on deck preparatory to their unloading, three figures emerged from a cabin door placed toward the stern of the vessel.

Renny instantly decided that the first of the three, a huge man heavily bearded and with a commanding eye and voice of thunder, was the master and probable owner of the vessel. The second was a dainty youth, of a nation unknown to Renny; the third a woman, by her robes a Syrian like himself.

The merchant made some remark in a tongue unknown to Renny and, at the same time, pointed shoreward. The trembling youth replied by throwing the long sleeve of his rich robe over his head, a gesture indicative of grief or despair.

But Renny was far more interested in the figure of the Syrian, his countrywoman.

What heartless parent had sold that drooping figure into harsh captivity? What disastrous war had resulted in her present plight? Or had this hook-nosed Semite filched her from her nest high up above some gentle Syrian valley?

The sculptor’s heart ached for her. Thoughts of his own beloved vineyard flashed through his mind. For an instant he visualized the purple hills which encircled Ribba, his native village, the clear blue sky, the sparkling stream, his father’s white-walled house and the little temple which stood, well nigh hidden, near the edge of an ancient grove.

Poor little exile! Never had Renny so longed for power, for heavy golden uten, as he did at that moment. Instinctively he gripped the single bar that encircled his left wrist. He smiled sadly. Fifty, nay, a hundred such, might not buy her freedom, and this single golden bar represented the fruits of two years’ untiring labor under the patronage of a great, if capricious, noble.

Suddenly his gaze riveted itself more intently upon the drooping figure of the Syrian woman. It could not be! Yes! He knew her! ’Twas Bhanar, a maid of Ribba, of Ribba itself, his dear Syrian village!

Could his eyes have played him false? He sauntered carelessly toward the Phoenician vessel. Yes! It was Bhanar, playmate of his boyhood, Bhanar whom his dead sister had loved so devotedly.

In vain he sought to attract her attention. Finally, through an inspiration, Renny turned towards the east and gave the shrill cry of the Syrian hillmen when danger threatened.

The effect was instantaneous. Bhanar’s drooping form slowly raised itself. Astonishment, joy and instant recognition passed rapidly over her beautiful face.

She had seen him; she knew him! With a warning gesture Renny slowly reclimbed the embankment.

How to save her? To whom could he turn for help?

His master—the noble Menna? Small hope there! The Queen-Mother, herself a Syrian? Yes, he would attempt to reach the ear of the powerful Queen-Mother herself!

To do so, he must act quickly. Yakab, her Syrian chancellor, should be seen and quickly. Yakab was an importation of the Queen-Mother, and a favorite of hers.

Renny found Yakab seated beside the pool in his garden. He affected to be absorbed in a game of draughts with his youngest daughter.

In a few hurried words Renny acquainted him with the plight of their countrywoman and begged his instant help. He drew the golden bracelet from his wrist but Yakab, smiling, stopped him.

The latter rose and in a few short words set Renny’s mind at rest.

In fact, within the minute, they had parted at Yakab’s stucco gate, Yakab to take a short cut to the palace, Renny to take his way along the river bank toward the vast estates of Menna, the Royal Superintendent, his exalted protector.