At last Setchem spoke.

"There is something else," she said, "which disturbs my mind.

I cannot forget the poet who spoke at the festival to-day, young Pentaur.

His figure, his face, his movements, nay his very voice, are exactly like those of your father at the time when he was young, and courted me.

It is as if the Gods were fain to see the best man that they ever took to themselves, walk before them a second time upon earth." "Yes, my lady," said the black slave; "no mortal eye ever saw such a likeness.