The scribe
dared the sanctuary, the angry goddess smote him cold in death, the
high-priestess wailed and mourned, the Queen of Love relented, and gave
him back his life again. Then came that last glorious burst when, lifted
up to heaven, the two lovers, forgiven, purged, chanted their triumph to
the stars, and, by slow degrees, the music throbbed itself to silence.
Look! white-faced, trembling, Rames clung to a pillar in his chamber,
while Tua sank back upon her chair, and the harp she held slipped from
her hand down upon the floor.
"Whence came that harp?" he gasped. "Surely there are not two such in
the world? Woman, you have stolen it. Nay, how can you have stolen the
music, and the voice as well? Lady, forgive me, I have no thought of
evil, but oh! grant me a boon. Why, I will tell you afterwards. Grant me
a boon--let me look upon your face."
Tua lifted her hands, and undid the fastening of her veil, which slipped
from her to her feet, showing her in the rich array of a prince of
Egypt.
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