We have already alluded to the violent sandstorm which had raged over Thebes. As Kham-hat had truthfully said, such a storm had not been known since that memorable day when Thi the Beautiful, had been brought up-river to Egypt’s capital, there to become the favorite wife of the late Pharaoh.

The storm had been especially severe in the immediate vicinity of the capital, or so at least, it had seemed to the disgusted Thebans. Their loud complaints as to the hideous damage done were not unduly emphasized, since the baleful effects of this storm, both in and about the resident city, were apparent on every hand.

Many of the famous palms and giant sycamores in Pharaoh’s palace garden had been uprooted or despoiled of their finest branches. Many of the Abyssinian trees and Lebanus cedars, that lined the causeway leading to Hatshepsut’s ivory-toned chapel, now lay prone across its well-paved incline, or, loosened at the roots, hung shriveled, torn and dejected, far out across its brightly painted parapets.

Dust, a foot or more in depth, had drifted against the gates of the villas, many of which seemed as if they might rather have opened upon some gloomy mortuary-garden than upon the dainty gardens of exalted nobles, with their wealth of tamarisks, acacias, myrrh, sandalwood and stately Lebanus cedars.

Not a sign of life was visible along the sloping walls of the city, not a living thing stirred in its dark and narrow streets. Covered by the same gray pall of dust, Thebes had seemingly united herself with her immense burial-ground to the westward. Thebes appeared to have become one vast city of the dead!

A swirl of the fine impalpable Egyptian dust rose into the shimmering air, a whirling and ever-widening cone—part sand, part river-silt, part human ashes. Yes, throughout the Nile Valley, an Egyptian might be said to breathe the very ashes of his ancestors.

Suddenly the sun leaped above the Eastern Hills. The city awoke. Smoke rose upon the heavy morning air and drifted slowly, like a blue-gray streamer, up the curving shores of the Theban Valley.

Kathi, the embalmer, on his way to the landing stage leading to the Temple of Karnak, paused to watch the maneuvers of the war-vessels, as they sought their berths along the western bank.

At this moment, one vessel’s huge square sail, a picturesque checker-board of green and white, flapped madly, as its head flew up suddenly in the wind. It seemed that Duadmochef, the Wind-god, was not to be cheated out of a few parting puffs from his lusty lungs!

The look-out-man, standing in the prow, pole in hand, shouted a hasty warning to the captain aft, but, before his raucous order could be understood, the heavy boat had buried its nose, with the ghastly trophies it bore, deep in a hidden sand-bar. For a time it seemed that the stiffly swaying forms of the wretched foreign chieftains lashed to the prow would break the thongs which held them in place. It availed nothing that Ranuf, the captain, cursed the look-out-man, his father and his forebears since Egypt emerged from the primordial Nu! And the unhappy Ameni suffered the irate captain’s curses in silence, as it was the sixth mishap of the kind since leaving the sandstone quays of Enet, sacred to the Goddess Hathor.

As Ranuf hurled at the bent head of his look-out-man a last fearful hekau, a potent spell intended to consign the soul of his discomfited assistant to the voracious maw of Osiris’s hound, he noticed a dark patch floating upon the water below. A white face gazed up into his:

“Abdi, quick! A drowning man; a countryman of thine; if I mistake not.”

The Syrian addressed strode quickly to the captain’s side, took one look at the slowly drifting body and, casting aside his sandals and loin-cloth, disappeared headlong into the river. Cautiously the captain extended a long pole in the direction of the swimming sailor. In another moment, Abdi was drawn safely to the deck, and, with him, the apparently lifeless figure of the man he had attempted to save.

Abdi rose to his feet, seemingly none the worse for his adventure. He clasped the captain’s hand: “Adon! I thought a devil had me by the heels! Truly the eddies hereabouts have a deadly grip! Dost know the lad? A fellow countryman by those blue eyes of his! See, they open! Breath of Adon, ’tis an ugly crack he hath! Cut the thongs that bind him! Verily, ’tis dangerous work to meddle with Syrians, as they who planned this treacherous attack will find, should Thi get wind of it! Thou knowest in such a case, even the ‘tried, judged, found his bitter doom!’ is omitted from the records, since ‘thus we save the government’s ink,’ says that wag Thethi!”

The captain bent over the still motionless form of the unknown. He tried to recall the face but failed.

At this moment the Syrian presented a most woeful appearance. The long, slim form lay inert; the eyes from time to time opened and closed wearily. Blood still trickled slowly from a slight cut along one side of his forehead.

By now he was surrounded by half a score of curious, yet sympathetic sailors. One bound up his wound, another provided him with a striped headcloth, another placed a dry robe about his shoulders.

As he once more fluttered back to consciousness, a sailor addressed him in the Egyptian tongue:

“Stranger, how comest thou in such a strait? Verily had it not been for that patch of reeds, the crocodiles that swarm about the temple quay had sighted thy bobbing form, or the gripping whirlpools around the Southern Bend had drawn thee to the river’s slimiest depths? Breath of Sebek! Thy pendant did indeed protect thee!”

The question was understood, as was evident from the color that rushed to the pale face, and the intelligence that lit up the bright blue eyes.

No doubt the question recalled to the Syrian’s brain the memory of the attack which had so nearly cost him his life. He struggled to his feet. A draught of wine, and, in a few moments, he seemed little the worse for his experience.

“Friends, ’tis a tale of jealousy. I am named Renny, a Syrian, a sculptor attached to the house of the Lord Menna, son of Menna, Overseer of Pharaoh (health to him). I know not who hath planned this murderous attack upon me. No enemies have I to my knowledge.”

He turned to Abdi: “Fellow countryman, I thank thee that thou dids’t so opportunely go to my rescue. May this bar requite thee!” Renny slipped from his arm a broad band of gold and handed it to Abdi.

Whether the excitement of the rescue and rush of all hands to the side had had anything to do with it or not no one could say, but at this moment the clumsy barge suddenly yielded itself to the renewed efforts of the chanting polers, and swung around into mid-stream.

As it drew alongside the western landing-stage, Renny leaped ashore. With a wave of the hand to his rescuers, he abruptly disappeared among the bales of hides and serried ranks of great empty water jars, which were piled up high along the shore, awaiting shipment to the north.

Renny had seen a company of Royal Guardsmen drawn up before the colonnaded portico of the royal landing-stage.

He had nothing to fear from the soldiers. These, he well knew, waited to escort the victorious General Ramses into Pharaoh’s presence.

Yet, at their head, idly swinging a jeweled scarab which hung upon a long gold chain, stood Bar, a spy in the service of Menna, the King’s Overseer, Renny’s powerful patron.

Renny had his reasons for seeking to avoid the Prince’s servant at this juncture. He could not shake off the feeling that Bar, the spy, was concerned, in some way, with the attack that had so nearly cost him his life.