CHAPTER XXIII
THE CRIME
As I expected, the holy Pharaoh proved more exacting, more arbitrary than ever. He was really so weak and ill that I had not the heart to leave him. His mind seemed to wander at times, and he would babble of Neit-akrit, of the throne of Kamt, of his mother, and of the stranger who was usurping the crown. He seemed to have vowed special hatred against his mother, more so even than against Hugh; and his screams of rage, whenever he mentioned her name, were terrible to hear, and all day, with half-articulate words, he would make weird plans as to how best he could destroy her happiness.
Once he took my hand feverishly in both his own and asked with eagerness:
"Dost think she knows that the stranger hath no love for her?"
I tried to soothe him, but he persisted:
"If she only knew how he loves Neit-akrit!"
"Thou dost him wrong, oh, mighty Pharaoh!" I retorted. "The beloved of the gods will plight his troth to Queen Maat-kha. And he never breaks his word."
The invalid laughed his nasty, sarcastic laugh, and muttered several times to himself:
"If she only knew how he loves Neit-akrit … she would suffer … ay! and I think I would make him suffer, too."
Late in the evening, at last, he dropped into a troubled sleep; and I, feeling momentary peace and
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