a threatening gesture.

The door opened at this instant, and his mother entered the room; the
raging of the storm had drowned the sound of her steps, and as she
approached her revengeful son, she called his name in horror at the mad
wrath which was depicted in his countenance. Paaker started, and then
said with apparent composure:

"Is it you, mother? It is near morning, and it is better to be asleep
than awake in such an hour."

"I could not rest in my rooms," answered Setchem. "The storm howled so
wildly, and I am so anxious, so frightfully unhappy--as I was before your
father died."

Then stay with me," said Paaker affectionately, and lie down on my
couch."

"I did not come here to sleep," replied Setchem. "I am too unhappy at
all that happened to you on the larding-steps, it is frightful! No, no,
my son, it is not about your smashed hand, though it grieves me to see
you in pain; it is about the king, and his anger when he hears of the
quarrel. He favors you less than he did your lost father, I know it
well. But how wildly you smile, how wild you looked when I carne in!
It went through my bones and marrow."

Both were silent for a time, and listened to the furious raging of the
storm. 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