question. In the five years since he had left the Viceroy's court there could have been many changes.
The shrine light in the temple was larger and brighter than the lamp of the mortuary chapel. But the shadowy interior seemed as deserted to Rahotep as he staggered up the steps with Kheti's support, to waver over the pavement of the main aisle.
In the chapel he fronted the graven image of the Watcher. Here he faced a more than life-size crowned king, the Double Crown on His head, the staff with the sun disc in His hand. And to that representation the captain made homage wealdy, his knees on the cold stone, pushing the jar before him into the full beam of the light from the altar.
"Who are you who bring gifts with bloody hands into the sacred places of the Great One?" What Rahotep had taken for a second statue moved forward with a slow sway of priest's shoulder shawl.
"Khephren!" He identified the priest almost stupidly.
"Aye, Khephren. And you, who steal through the night secretly, what do you here?"
Rahotep answered with the sullenness of complete despair. He had made his cast and the sticks had fallen against him. The Voice of Amon was Khephren, a man of austerity, of great and noted learning, but also one who of old had divorced himself from all connection with the rule of Nubia, who visited the Viceroy's court only upon the demands of ceremony, and who had never been known to take a hand in any internal dispute.
"I am Rahotep, son to Ptahhotep."
"And by this evidence a despoiler of tombs." The Voice of Amon indicated the canopic jar, the remoteness of his voice chill with disgust.
"Not so," Kheti replied when Rahotep found it hard to summon the words. "The Lord Rahotep but went to reclaim the Pharaoh's message that our Lord's call for service might be known. Lie robbed no tombs, though there will be those who will raise that cry against him. And he has taken a hurt that must be cared for—"
"It seems that there is some strange tale in this," Khephren returned. "Let this robber of tombs speak in his own defense."
Somehow Rahotep found words enough to give a bald account of the night's happenings. Perhaps the very baldness of his tale was convincing, for Khephren heard him to the end without any interruption.
"And you came here then—why?" he asked at the end.
"Because He-Who-Travels-the-Sky overwatches Thebes, and Pharaoh is His son. Should a father turn against a son?" Something put those words into his mouth. Then the walls of the shrine tilted in a queer fashion, and he slipped sideways until Kheti caught him.
"Priest," spat the Nubian, "my lord dies if he is not given aid. And then perhaps others shall die also—"
Khephren's rigid features did not change. He stood above Rahotep now, more merciless in judgment than the statue of the god behind him. For a very long moment he looked down at the wounded man. Then he clapped his hands, the sharp sound echoing thinly through the temple. Men came out of the shadows and Rahotep struggled in Kheti's hold. They would be thrown forth from the shrine now, abandoned to the hunters.
"See to the youth's wound," Khephren ordered. "And"— he stooped to pick up the blood-stained jar, handing it to a subordinate—"place this on the high altar under the protection of the Great One, not to be taken from His care until I so will it."
Rahotep relaxed in the Nubian's hold. For the time he had won his gamble. They had been granted sanctuary under Amon-Re.
Some time later he lay on a high, narrow couch, clenching his fists, as the temple healer searched the slash and used the fiery palm spirit on it liberally before he bound it up. Rahotep was refusing the sleep drink of poppy seeds the other prescribed, intent upon keeping his full senses, when Khephren entered the small room. The captain levered himself up on his elbow.
"What is your will with us, Voice of Amon?" His uncertainty made his tone harsh and demanding.
"Say rather, boy, what is Amon-Re's will with all of