returning the great god to his shrine, beat the multitude back from the
dromos and once again Kenkenes was imprisoned by the hosts. And once
again after the procession had passed, he did fruitless battle with a
tossing human sea. But when the street had become freer, he stood
before the closed portal of the great temple. The solemn porter
scrutinized the young sculptor sharply, but the display of the
linen-wrapped roll was an efficient passport. In a little space he was
conducted across the ringing pavements, under the vaulted shadows, into
the presence of Loi, high priest to Amen.

The ancient prelate had just returned from installing the god in his
shrine and was yet invested in his sacerdotal robes. At one time this
splendid raiment had swathed an imposing figure, but now the frame was
bowed, its whilom comfortable padding fallen away, its parchment-like
skin folded and wrinkled and brown. He was trembling with the long
fatigue of the spectacle.

He spelled the hieratic writings upon the outer covering of the roll
which the young man presented to him, and asked with some eagerness in
his voice:

"Hast thou traveled with all speed?"

"Scarce eight days have I been on the way. Only have I been delayed a
few hours by the crowds of the festival."

"It is well," replied the pontiff. "Wait here while I see what says my
brother at On."

He motioned Kenkenes to a seat of inlaid ebony and retired into a