In chariots or carrying-chairs members of the Court were hurrying to the Palace, to assist at the feast planned to honor, at one and the same time, Belur, the newly arrived Hittite Ambassador, and the victorious Egyptian general, Ramses, but now returned from Nubia.

According to precedent Ramses would present himself before Pharaoh and the Court in order to receive the customary favors bestowed upon a victorious Egyptian leader, those “favors which the King bestows” and “the gold order of valor.”

Throughout the long day the excitable Theban populace had yelled itself hoarse, as one after another the war-barges swung around the great bend of the river, south of Thebes.

Each boat was marked by its standard-of-cognizance, and no sooner was its mooring-stake driven into the bank than a yelling, gesticulating and joyfully-weeping hoard of relatives and friends of the crew burst upon its decks.

From that moment, all signs of discipline utterly vanished. Men, women and children entered upon one of those inevitable carouses which, in Egypt, ever followed such a home-coming.

Everyone was coming up to Thebes in order to witness the great celebration in honor of victory. It being festival time even the indigent passengers at the western bank were to-day allowed to work their way across the river by bailing the leaky ferryboats.

Thi, the Queen-Mother, in company with the weak but pretty young queen, left the Women’s Apartments early, on her way to the Banquet-hall. As she passed the various courts and columned porticos the watchful eunuchs, guards and servants, hurled themselves prostrate at sight of her. On knees and elbows they groveled, prayers for “health” and “long life” upon their trembling lips.

To the dreaded Thi, as to Pharaoh himself, honors were rendered as to the gods.

And she whom Egypt feared, and Enana the Magician dared; she who had been called by her friends Thi the Beautiful, by her enemies Thi the Foreigner, Thi the Commoner, how shall we best describe her?

The Queen-Mother’s head was small, her low forehead slightly retreated. Her nose was of the delicate Syrian type, the tip somewhat rounded, the nostrils well opened. From beneath artificially prolonged eyebrows, eyebrows shaved close and lightly penciled with black antimony paste, glowed two large and lustrous eyes. Thi’s lips were full, but well-cut. Cruelty showed in the drooping corners.

At this moment Thi was clad in one of the richest costumes of the extravagant New Empire, a pale-green robe minutely plaited and studded at intervals with lotus-flowers in beaten gold. Gold plumes, which rose above a gem-encrusted headdress of vulture form, seemed to give height and dignity to one who was in reality a short and slender woman.

About the great Queen’s throat, wrist and ankles were broad bands of alternate gold bars and minute cylinders of beryl and amethyst. The names of Aton, the Syrian sun-god, stamped in rich blue fayence, hung from a long chain well down upon her high bosom.

Though now no longer in the dazzling beauty of her youth, Thi still possessed many a charm of face and form. Yet, had she been devoid of such, her voice had served to win for her the great and powerful empire that was hers. At the sound of it, one knew at once why in Akhmin, where first her parents had settled, men had called her Nightingale; why, at a later date, poets and singers of the Theban court had vied with one another to do her honor.

No mere doll-faced beauty had caused the former monarch to set aside Queen Hanit, an exalted lady of the line of Egypt’s royal house and a lineal descendant of Ra the sun-god, yes, and to cause the death of the unhappy Prince Wazmes whom she had borne him.

Thi’s face and form had been enough to set kings and princes warring. Yet, to those prized gifts of Hathor, Beauty’s Goddess, had Ptah of Memphis added the voice of a ten-stringed lute, and Khnum, Fashioner of Mankind, an intellect that had quickly won to her by far the greater number of the nobles of the court.

Thus had Thi, a foreigner, a woman sprung, by descent at least, from common Syrian stock, usurped the rightful place of the great Queen Hanit, descendant of kings and a king’s wife.

At the foot of a short flight of steps leading to the festival hall, Thi and Menna met. They exchanged the customary string of effusive greetings and honorifics.

As the Queen-Mother swept on she found her way blocked by the crooked form of Enana. The wizened old Magician stood leaning upon his jackal-headed staff immediately in the center of the narrow passage.

Enana’s sole garment consisted of a long kilt or tunic fastened at the waist by a jeweled belt, and faced in front with squares of fine gold. This was an affectation of a fashion long since forgotten.

At Thi’s cold greeting the puckered and heavily-lined face of this animated mummy trembled with what might equally well have answered for a smile or a grimace. Yet, beneath his shaven eyebrows, his half-veiled eyes glittered ominously, as they lifted for a second to those of the frowning queen. Enana ignored her greeting.

Involuntarily Thi shuddered, yet inwardly cursed herself for a fool. It was only Enana, a fellow who lived, nay, had lived for centuries, ’twas said, upon the credulity and superstition of the Thebans!

Thi swept past him and out upon the balcony overlooking the long hall. There she found Noferith, her son’s wife, the Princess Sesen, and others of the maids of honor, awaiting her.

As Thi seated herself, Menna passed below her balcony. He bowed to the two queens, yet his eyes sought those of the Princess Sesen.

Menna, the King’s Overseer, had again yielded himself to the spell of a pair of lustrous eyes and dimpled cheeks. He loved the little Princess, as he had never loved before.

For the past few weeks, Menna had wooed the Princess assiduously. Thi, the Queen-Mother, for reasons of her own, had sought to aid him in his suit.

All in vain.

The little Princess would have none of him. Thi knew well, as in fact did Menna, that Sesen’s heart was filled with thoughts of Ramses, with hopes of his speedy return. Menna’s servant, Bar, called by many “Menna’s shadow,” as lean and hungry looking as a neglected ka, sought to convince his master that her indifference was due to a present lover, some favorite among the courtiers. Menna knew better, yet affected to believe him. Meanwhile, unused to failure in such enterprises, he continued to besiege the Princess with well-turned couplets, rich and ever-varied presents, and courtly flatteries.

At this moment, his restless black eyes sought to attract those of the all-unconscious object of his affections. His glance dwelt with delight upon her spotless white gala robes. He noted the graceful wig confined by a rose-colored fillet from which drooped fragrant white lotus-flowers; the huge circular gold earrings, and the flashing pectoral ornament—a glitter of jeweled inlays—which rose and fell at every breath.

Sesen’s cheeks and lips were artificially reddened, her eyebrows shaved and lightly penciled with kohl, like those of the Queen and Queen-Mother. Yet, unlike them, her tongue was silent, her smiles had vanished. Sesen’s somber eyes evinced little interest in the bustle and joyful preparations about her. Twice did Noferith the Queen touch her with the dainty little scent-tube she carried, in an effort to recall her to her laughter-loving self.

Finally, after the sweet-scented lotus which each lady carried had been changed but once, the Princess Sesen rose, pleading faintness. The sympathetic Queen whom she served, allowed her to retire without exacting the formal prostration.

At her withdrawal Menna’s disappointment was intense. He sank back deep into his painted cedar chair. For Menna the feast was at an end.

But not for the noisy revelers about him. Even the haughty members of the Hittite ambassador’s suite forgot for a moment their lofty attitude of detachment.

For the corpulent Mentu, son of the Vizier Kena, had whetted the appetites of these Asiatics. Through the somewhat hesitating medium of a sibilant Canaanitic dialect, the garrulous Mentu had somehow managed to make them understand that the entire kitchen forces of the governor of Thinis and of Hotepra, Prince of On, had been brought upstream to assist the royal cooks.

“Indeed,” said Mentu, “though whirling sandstorms bury us; though drought and pestilence stalk the blistered banks of Hapi, yet shall we enjoy the choicest viands, the rarest wines,” he clicked his purple tongue; “wines whose seals have stood intact since good King Ahmes’ time! But, wait until thou seest Nofert-ari! Breath of Ra! Then shalt thou say, ‘Baal forgive me! Our country is afar off! Between us lies the raging sea! Egypt is a land of pleasure and delight! Here let us tarry!’”

And so it proved. For marvel followed marvel with almost bewildering rapidity.

A dish that won the plaudits of all was an enormous platter of Syrian craftsmanship. Upon this gold dish, in the midst of gold reeds and papyrus, swam ducks, plover, and other aquatic birds. In a miniature skiff, a diminutive Egyptian boatman propelled his silver craft over perfumed water. An Egyptian noble, standing upright in the bow, aimed a jeweled throw-stick at a flock of egrets which, with wings outspread, quivered upon gold wires high above a thicket of feathery papyrus.

The realistic little figures were of pastry, the birds cooked with all their feathers on!

Dishes of this sort were countless in number, the design of the last more astonishing than that of the first, since each jealous cook had sought to outshine his rival, both in originality of design and richness of material.

But now, at a signal from Pennut the Usher, Pharaoh rose from the throne and advanced to the edge of the dais. To his feet the Usher led the youthful Ramses.

And there, to the accompaniment of a deepening roar of applause from the onlookers, Pharaoh slipped about his victorious general’s neck that coveted distinction of the Egyptian military, the necklace of gold lions and flies.

In a brief lull the words of Pharaoh echoed through the resplendent hall:

“Welcome, thrice welcome, Ramses! Let the praises of thy lord expand thy heart! Mei has recounted the story of thy skill and energy in the conducting of this most bitterly fought campaign. Where now are the chieftains of Nubia? They have been ground down as the seed of the date beneath the crusher, as eye-paint upon the palette. Yea, they have become as grain which the mill has crushed! Now are the chieftains of Wawat forced to sulk in the caves of the hyena. As a fly hast thou worried them, as a lion hast thou destroyed them! We place these precious orders about thy throat. From this day thy renown is fragrant as the perfume of the Incense Country. Arise! Take thy place beside us as ‘Fan-bearer-on-the-right-of-Pharaoh, thy Lord!’”

At his elevation to this coveted position, renewed applause seemed to shake the painted roof.

Friends pressed forward to kiss the jeweled chains and ornaments that had but now left the hand of the god-king. Some hurled themselves prostrate before these rewards which only Pharaohs might bestow.

The King shot a covert glance in the direction of the Balcony reserved for the royal harem. The Queen-Mother shook her jeweled menat in company with the other ladies. Yet, in Thi’s case, the action represented far more than mere applause or acclamation.

The tactful Belur, Prince of the Hittites, in turn, rose and added a few well chosen words of praise for a difficult task so promptly and bloodlessly accomplished.

Pharaoh, watching him from beneath his richly painted canopy, doubted the sincerity of the smile that played about the handsome lips of the Hittite. Again he resolved in his mind the probable cause of the Hittite’s inopportune visit.

A space was cleared in the center of the hall. The tables, still groaning under the burden of their barely glanced at dainties, disappeared as if by magic. The well-woven mats and glossy panther-skins were lifted from the stucco floor, and out upon the space so made sprang a troupe of lotus-wreathed girls, naked save for the beaded cincture of maidenhood which encircled their slender hips.

Scattering Syrian crocuses and the pure white petals of the lotus, these coffee-colored little maids, the very embodiment of childish grace, pelted one another with the perfumed shower until their little ankles were well-nigh hidden.

As if this had been a signal, the bright blue warbonnet of Pharaoh was lifted from his head; an Asiatic slave-boy bathed the royal fingers and Pharaoh, with a nervous twitch to his long, thin features, leaned back wearily against the embroidered cushions placed at his back by the attentive Dedu.

The last scene of what had proved a veritable feast of marvels was about to commence.

The sudden entrance of the merry little children had been the prelude to “the King’s dance.”

This dance was a far different performance from that series of posturing and tumbling commonly provided by the acrobats of old.

And it was thought that “the King’s dance” could only be performed by Nofert-ari, claimed as daughter by the blind Tutiya, though known to the irreverent youth of Thebes as the child of Hathor, of the Goddess of Beauty, sprung from the head of Ra.

At one end of the flowery carpet left by the little children knelt three heavily-cloaked women. Behind them squatted eight shaven-headed harpers, clutching to their naked breasts the gilded frames of their ten-stringed instruments. Back of these again were flute-players, players on the hand drum, players on the ivory castanets, and a group of men and women whose duty it was to mark the syncopated time by clapping their hands, agitating menats of jeweled beads, or shaking sistra of silver or gold.

Suddenly, like the blood-curdling cry of a savage desert-dweller, the high-pitched call of Tutiya thrilled the heated frames of the expectant onlookers.

Instantly the harpers, in a soft and minor key, commenced an air at once slow in measure, plaintive and sad, an air that sounded distant amid the confused murmur of a thousand voices, the clatter of dishes and the distant tap-tap of the butlers’ hurrying sandals.

The shrill cry of Tutiya had brought two of the three women to their feet. Dropping the cloaks that had enveloped them, they took their places at some distance in front of the third figure.

Turning toward the royal dais the two dancers sank down in a slowly executed courtesy, until the nodding lotus-flowers that wreathed their curling wigs swept the flower-strewn floor below him.

Then, in answer to Pharaoh’s scarcely perceptible acknowledgment, slowly they rose upon their slender feet and, with a “life and health, lords” placed themselves once more beside the still motionless central figure.

All eyes were centered upon this well-cloaked figure. It, too, now rose.

Was it motionless? It called to mind the birth of some glorious butterfly or moth. The undulating movement that one sees in the soon to be discarded shell best described the bursting of Nofert-ari upon the delighted vision of her audience as, shivering with the peculiar motion seen but in those creatures of a day, she suddenly dropped the dull-brown cloak that enveloped her, and appeared fresh and smiling to their view.

In the dancer Nofert-ari we see a slim, though willowy form, a form and countenance that represented the very arch-type of all that an Egyptian held beautiful in women. A pair of sparkling eyes, elongated, obliquely set, gleamed in frames of blue-black antimony, which served to accentuate the striking whiteness in which swam their fathomless pupils.

On Nofert-ari’s head was set a dark brown wig which, covered thickly as it was with a myriad little knots and curls, dropped in well-regulated layers until it grazed the tips of her thin and high-set shoulders. This dainty perruque, fringing with its line of dancing curls a forehead that rivaled polished jasper, and touching as it did at every move and gesture the outer pencilings of her shaven and thickly kohl-stained eyebrows, seemed to soften the rather prominent cheekbones and perhaps too pointed chin. The quiver of her wide though delicate nostrils, bespoke a passionate nature, which the faintest of dimples and the ivory flash of small though regular teeth, did their best to contradict. The dancer’s full round throat, her arms, wrists, and well-formed bust, were ablaze with jewels, amid which pale green beryl, dew-like crystal, rose carnelian, gold, electrum and silver, gleamed in opulent splendor, as her bosom rose and fell.

As she stood, a pale blue lotus drooping above each hidden ear, a jeweled menat in one hand, her coffee-colored and well oiled skin agleam with the reflected light of innumerable prismatic colors, she seemed less an animated human form than a figure carved, by Ptah the god of sculptors himself, from a block of glowing opal.

With her first perceptible motions the music rose to the major key. The time-beaters accentuated the broken rhythm more and more, while Tutiya, her heavy though sightless eyes glowing in their painted depths—she too had once been hailed a Theban favorite—burst ever and anon into the “Nubian cry,” that blood-stirring cry which acted as an incentive to her now posturing daughter.

In the center of the flowery carpet stood Nofert-ari, languidly shaking her jeweled menat. Slowly she turned upon herself, the muscles of her lithe little body seeming to quiver in measure with the vibrant thrumming of the many stringed harps.

When again she faced the Egyptian monarch’s dais, unlike the impassive gaze of Pharaoh, her features seemed to have become transformed. The “King’s dance,” into which she now threw all her fascination, all her mesmeric charm and unrivaled ability, portrayed by movement of the body and gesture alone the meeting and stolen tryst of a pair of lovers.

At first she affected the love-smitten beauty, a coy beauty, mindful of her many charms.

Suddenly with a start, a pigeon-like coo of delight, she appeared to throw herself into her lover’s arms.

Again, with all the abandon of an artless coquetry, she stretched out her long arms and supple fingered hands as if to push him from her.

Finally, with one or two graceful little steps, accompanied by an arch glance over her shoulder, Nofert-ari advanced to the very edge of the royal dais and commenced that portion of the dance for which she was so famed.

Into this every muscle of her supple body was forced to move in unison or singly as she willed. Her lustrous eyes gleamed beneath their darkened eyebrows, her expanded nostrils quivered, her full vermilioned lips were parted, the very veins in her forehead throbbed in measure with the refrain. As her supple arms, wrists, and hands played about her body with a wavelike—an indescribable motion—her jeweled bust and firm, yet flexible hips, swayed to the spasmodic movements natural to the dance.

The music ever increased in volume and, as if to add contrast to the grace and beauty of the peerless dancer, a hideous naked pigmy, beating a tiny onoga-skin drum, leaped out upon the floor beside her, and grotesquely imitated her every move and gesture.

Thus, to a chorus of wild staccato yells from Tutiya and the excited time-beaters, Nofert-ari, her form seeming to undulate in fierce spasmodic waves from breast to hip, with arms thrown high above her head, fingers clenched and eyes fast closed, sank slowly to the stucco floor.

Presently, as she rose, still trembling, and while the echoes of that clamorous applause still reverberated amid the flaring lotus-capitals, a royal usher hurried to her side, and in the name of Pharaoh, presented her with a blue fayence goblet of lotiform design. Inlaid in green, white and red about the foot was an inscription revealing her euphonious and happily—chosen name, Nofert-ari, “She who is made of beauty.”

Following the dance, Pharaoh had retired within himself. He had assumed an air of studied abstraction and aloofness.

Yet, Dedu remarked signs of nervousness in the twitching of the jaw. Dedu had been born in the palace, in the self-same year as his exalted master. Dedu might well have been called, as indeed at times he was, his master’s “double,” his other self.

In Pharaoh’s slightly twitching hands and in the covert glances which from time to time he directed toward the haughty leader of the Hittites, Dedu spelled expectancy and, withal, a nameless fear.

Then it was the Hittite, not Enana the Magician, his royal master feared! Dedu knew there had been much speculation as to the true meaning of Belur’s sudden and quite unexpected visit to the Egyptian capital.

So far, oriental courtesy—coupled with the Egyptian’s inherent regard for the rights of hospitality—had forbidden any outward evidences of impatience on the part of Pharaoh or his august Mother.

And Pharaoh did well to distrust the wily Hittite. With the pause that had followed the withdrawal of Nofert-ari and her assistants, the Asiatic prince rose to his feet, slowly lifting his jeweled hand to command attention. His keen glance swept the heads of the swaying crowd which craned its neck the better to see him and to hear his words.

The Prince of Charchemish bowed to Pharaoh. Slowly he arranged the sash which served to hold in place his fringed robes and the little ivory-handled dagger which rested in its folds.

Silence fell upon the noisy revelers, an ominous silence. It seemed as if Pharaoh’s nervousness had somehow mysteriously communicated itself to the various groups of Egyptian nobles gathered about him.

Belur the Hittite began to speak. He dwelt at length upon the many occasions during which Egyptian ships had brought grain and other food to famine-stricken Asia. He thanked Great Pharaoh for his present hospitality and the courteous consideration which had been shown him since first he landed upon the fertile soil of Egypt. He dwelt upon the power for good exerted by Egypt, not only in Asia, but among the savage tribes of Nubia, as witness the victorious campaign just brought to a close, and which they were at that moment celebrating.

Knowing the might of Pharaoh, lord of Egypt, Rimur, King of Charchemish, his brother, had sent him down into Egypt, that he might effect an alliance with the throne of Egypt, an alliance which he was sure would eventually prove of mutual benefit to Thebes and Charchemish alike.

In token of his fraternal esteem Rimur had sent to Egypt a full shipload of the treasure of his country and of the countries adjacent thereto. Its hold was filled with the gold and silver vessels of Zahi, with swords and daggers cunningly damascened with gold, the work of Megiddan craftsmen. Inlaid corselets were there, jeweled quivers, gauntlets worked with gold and silver threads, and shawls for the ladies of the courts, so finely woven that they might be passed with ease through Pharaoh’s golden signet-ring. To the Queen, the Hittite King had sent a covered carrying-chair, of stamped leather richly gilded; to the august Queen-Mother, a golden goblet from the hands of Ilg of Kadesh; and lastly, to Pharaoh, his kingly brother, three fully equipped chariots, together with nine Syrian horses, swifter than the north-wind, to draw them! In the name of King Rimur, his brother, he asked for the hand of the eldest daughter of Pharaoh his brother, the Princess Aten-merit, in marriage!

During this speech Pharaoh’s nervous fears had gradually given place to astonishment and finally to anger. This new-found arrogance and assurance among the “little people” was an entirely new departure.

As he rose to his feet to reply there was a look upon his face which neither Belur nor his own courtiers had expected to see. Before that look even Belur’s assumed effrontery slowly dissolved.

“Son of Rabatta, it is now less than a year since a Hittite embassy stood within this very hall! Like thee, it came freighted With the rarest and richest products of the Asiatics! If we remember rightly its offerings included one hundred logs of Lebanus cedar, five hundred pounds of Cilician silver, three hundred pounds of the true lapis-lazuli of Babylon, two hundred gold and electrum goblets, with choice silver vases of the workmanship of Zahi! In comparison with this, thy meager offerings seem to prove that Charchemish hath lost its hold upon the Lebanus, upon the Cilician mines, upon the princes of Zahi, of Kadesh and Megiddo? Or perhaps thy brother hath forgotten the circumstances which prompted his father’s princely gift! Not with gifts for favors to be received came Rabatta thy father! Nay, with tribute, with the tribute of a vassal did he come! With tribute exacted through fear of Egypt’s might.

“Take back this message to Rimur thy brother! Thus saith Pharaoh of Egypt: ‘’Tis but a breath of time since Rabatta knelt at Pharaoh’s knee, swearing fealty! Wherefore hath Rimur, his son, failed to do the like?’

“As to thy insolent proposal, when hath a Daughter of the Sun left the land of Egypt at the beck and call of rebel princelings? ’Tis in our mind to hold thee hostage for thy brother’s quick return to reason. Yet, go! And with thee take thy gifts, fit only to dazzle some savage Amu!”

At Pharaoh’s words Belur the Hittite took a step nearer to the royal dais. A covert sneer played about his well-cut lips, though his eyes were hard, his cheek pale. Raising his hand with a gesture almost threatening once again he addressed the trembling monarch:

“Hear me, Pharaoh! One other word my august brother sends to Pharaoh, king of Egypt. The Hittite army is to-day one hundred thousand strong. The princes of Zahi and Naharin, the kings of Kadesh, Gezer and Megiddo, have joined their forces unto his! Of thy Syrian vassals half have left thee! The Khabiri are up! Ribaddi alone stands true to thee and, even he by now doubtless has fed a vulture’s maw.

“Hearken to the words of Rimur, my brother! Thy present state is well known to us! Thy plague-stricken land stands on the brink of a great religious war! In Nubia to the south, as in thy Asiatic possessions to the north, thy vassal-states have risen in revolt against thee! Nay, Pharaoh, heed the words of Rimur my brother, or thy Asiatic possessions are lost to thee! Great Kheta, the combined armies of all the Asiatic principalities, stand at thy very gates ready to devour thee! Thus saith Rimur, Lord of lords, King of kings, Lion that Devoureth Lions!”

Pharaoh’s face was terrible to see. His jaws worked, the veins upon his forehead stood out like knotted ropes, his large eyes flashed with fires of wrath. He quickly raised his golden scepter as if he would have felled the audacious Hittite at his feet. The wand of sard and gold snapped between his clenched fingers.

Controlling himself by a mighty effort Pharaoh pointed to the door and somehow managed to articulate the one word: “Begone!”