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16, 1863.] heart is true. You have heard of the Egyptian priesthood, and their wiles; not long ago one of your nation, a Centurion like yourself, fell into their hands, and they hold him captive in the neighbourhood. If you would deliver him, come here to-morrow night, and come alone; I will tell you then what must be done, but I cannot now—meanwhile, farewell.”

And ere the Centurion could utter a word he had vanished behind the rocks.

“By Castor and Pollux,” muttered Septimius, “was ever a decent fellow—not that I am a particularly decent fellow—in such a fix before? It may be a trap set for me; yet surely they dare not touch a soldier of the Emperor’s—a Centurion too,” he said. “Ay, poor Claudius vanished a month ago, they said it was a crocodile, but none saw it; yes, it must be Claudius; go I will, let Lepidus say what he likes; but stay, if I tell Lepidus, he will have my steps dogged, or some such nonsense. I’ll keep my own counsel; I’ll go, and go alone.” With a brisk step he turned on his heel, and wended his way back to his quarters.

The beggar stood behind the rock, his keen black eyes glittering with the light of triumph; his long white beard fell off, and the rags dropped from his shoulders, as he joined his companion, who was lying perdue behind the rock. He drew himself up to his full stature, and his haughty step and proud port marked Petamon, the son of Osorkon, and grandson of Petamon, the high priest of Isis at Philæ.

“Hey, Sheshonk,” he laughed to his subordinate, with a snort of scorn, “I have baited the trap for my eagle right daintily, and the noble bird shall have his wings clipped ere long. He mocks the divine Apis does he, and blasphemes the Apes of Thoth! He thinks to come here and lord it over us all, with his licentious soldiery, and his cursed Roman pride. We have been slaves before, but we have never been slaves for long; and, as the Shepherds and the Persians have passed away to nothingness, and we remain, so these Romans shall have their day and perish too. The vengeance of Heaven fell heavily on Cambyses for the blood of the murdered Apis, and shall this son of the Italian wolf escape? By Him that sleeps in Philæ, he shall bow the knee to the gods, and swear to betray his country and his emperor, or die!” And his pale face, in which, worn though it was with care, and distorted by passion, might still be traced the majestic lineaments of the great Rameses himself, spoke his unchangeable resolve.

“Well done, Petamon,” quoth Sheshonk, the assistant-priest, whose low forehead, heavy brow, and sensual lips, were in strange contrast to his companion’s face, “what a pity there is nobody here to listen to you; and that such eloquence should be thrown away upon me, who know, as well as you do yourself, if the truth were told, that Apis is only a bull after all, and Thoth’s ape is a very dirty troublesome ape; at least the one I had charge of at Hermopolis was.”

“Peace, fool,” replied Petamon, with an angry glare of his eye, “the beasts are but beasts, that I know as well as you: but the beast is only the type of the divinity, whom the vulgar may not know. Enough.”

The rest of their conversation was lost in the distance, as they slowly wended their way to the south.

Next day Septimius was somewhat thoughtful; he retired early to his tent on the pretence of weariness, and when all was still he stole out of the town as before. The hour was the same, but how different this night was from the last. A tornado had been blowing from the south all day, raising the sand in huge clouds, which obscured everything, and nearly choked man and beast with a penetrating and impalpable dust. Even now the air was hot and depressing, the sand felt heavy under foot, and the Centurion’s heart was so full of foreboding that more than once he had almost turned back.

At last he reached the granite boulder, and crouching in its shade, as before, sat the beggar. He rose as the Centurion approached, and beckoned him silently to proceed. Somewhat puzzled, Septimius obeyed, and followed in silence, plodding wearily through the deep sand. At last the beggar turned.

“Sir Centurion,” he said, “the night is hot, and the way heavy; let me ease you of your sword;” and before Septimius could remonstrate or resist, his nimble hands had unstrapped the belt, and slung the sword over his own shoulder. “What men you Romans are!” he continued, slightly raising his voice, as they passed along a narrow track between high rocks on either side. “You fear nothing in heaven or on earth. I verily believe you would make beefsteaks of the Divine Apis;” and he halted full in the way, and seemed absolutely to grow before the Centurion’s eyes, he loomed so large and majestic in the moonlight, while his eyes glared like blazing coals with hatred and revenge.

The Centurion recoiled, and at the same moment two from each side, four strange white figures, each with the head of a hawk, surmounted by the disk of the sun, glided forth and laid hands on him. Septimius struggled like a snared lion, but it was of no avail; he threatened them with the wrath of the Emperor, and they answered with a low mocking laugh. He made one furious rush at the ci devant beggar who had betrayed him, and clutched him by the robe. Petamon quietly threw the sword far away over the sand, and crossed his arms, while his ghostly allies advanced to the rescue. In another moment the prisoner was torn away, but not before he had rent off a fragment of the priest’s robes, which fell upon the sand. His good sword was gone far beyond his reach, and after a few frantic plunges he was bound hand and foot, and lashed to a rude litter which was brought from behind the rock. The four mysterious phantoms silently raised the litter and bore it swiftly across the sands, while Petamon, with a vigour remarkable in one so far advanced in years, led the way.

They had advanced along the sandy track for some distance, when suddenly the eye of Septimius, who could just raise his head and look forward by straining painfully against his bonds, caught the glimmer of the moonlight on the water, and before him rose perhaps the most