Georg Ebers - Premium Collection: Historical Novels, Stories & Autobiography. Georg Ebers

cry of lamentation from the Ethiopian slave, for the dog which he had trained for Paaker’s father, and which he had loved.

      The pioneer threw himself on a seat, and ordered some water to be brought, that he might cool his aching hand in it, according to the prescription of Nebsecht.

      As soon as the old man saw the broken fingers, he gave another yell of woe, and when Paaker ordered him to cease he asked:

      “And is the man still alive who did that, and who killed Descher?”

      Paaker nodded, and while he held his hand in the cooling water he looked sullenly at the ground. He felt miserable, and he asked himself why the storm had not swamped the boat, and the Nile had not swallowed him. Bitterness and rage filled his breast, and he wished he were a child, and might cry. But his mood soon changed, his breath came quickly, his breast heaved, and an ominous light glowed in his eyes. He was not thinking of his love, but of the revenge that was even dearer to him.

      “That brood of Rameses!” he muttered. “I will sweep them all away together—the king, and Mena, and those haughty princes, and many more—I know how. Only wait, only wait!” and he flung up his right fist with 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 came 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 his very voice, are exactly like those of your father at the time when he was young, and courted me. It is as if the Gods were fain to see the best man that they ever took to themselves, walk before them a second time upon earth.”

      “Yes, my lady,” said the black slave; “no mortal eye ever saw such a likeness. I saw him fighting in front of the paraschites’ cottage, and he was more like my dead master than ever. He swung the tent-post over his head, as my lord used to swing his battle-axe.”

      “Be silent,” cried Paaker, “and get out-idiot! The priest is like my father; I grant it, mother; but he is an insolent fellow, who offended me grossly, and with whom I have to reckon—as with many others.”

      “How violent you are!” interrupted his mother, “and how full of bitterness and hatred. Your father was so sweet-tempered, and kind to everybody.”

      “Perhaps they are kind to me?” retorted Paaker with a short laugh. “Even the Immortals spite me, and throw thorns in my path. But I will push them aside with my own hand, and will attain what I desire without the help of the Gods and overthrow all that oppose me.”

      “We cannot blow away a feather without the help of the Immortals,” answered Setchem. “So your father used to say, who was a very different man both in body and mind from you! I tremble before you this evening, and at the curses you have uttered against the children of your lord and sovereign, your father’s best friend.”

      “But my enemy,” shouted Paaker. “You will get nothing from me but curses. And the brood of Rameses shall learn whether your husband’s son will let himself be ill-used and scorned without revenging him self. I will fling them into an abyss, and I will laugh when I see them writhing in the sand at my feet!”

      “Fool!” cried Setchem, beside herself. “I am but a woman, and have often blamed myself for being soft and weak; but as sure as I am faithful to your dead father—who you are no more like than a bramble is like a palm-tree—so surely will I tear my love for you out of my heart if you—if you—Now I see! now I know! Answer me-murderer! Where are the seven arrows with the wicked words which used to hang here? Where are the arrows on which you had scrawled ‘Death to Mena?’ ”

      With these words Setchem breathlessly started forward, but the pioneer drew back as she confronted him, as in his youthful days when she threatened to punish him for some misdemeanor. She followed him up, caught him by the girdle, and in a hoarse voice repeated her question. He stood still, snatched her hand angrily from his belt, and said defiantly:

      “I have put them in my quiver—and not for mere play. Now you know.”

      Incapable of words, the maddened woman once more raised her hand against her degenerate son, but he put back her arm.

      “I am no longer a child,” he said, “and I am master of this house. I will do what I will, if a hundred women hindered me!” and with these words he pointed to the door. Setchem broke into loud sobs, and turned her back upon him; but at the door once more she turned to look at him. He had seated himself, and was resting his forehead on the table on which the bowl of cold water stood.

      Setchem fought a hard battle. At last once more through her choking tears she called his name, opened her arms wide and exclaimed:

      “Here I am—here I am! Come to my heart, only give up these hideous thoughts of revenge.”

      But Paaker did not move, he did not look up at her, he did not speak, he only shook his head in negation. Setchem’s hands fell, and she said softly:

      “What did your father teach you out of the scriptures? ‘Your highest praise consists in this, to reward your mother for what she has done for you, in bringing you up, so that she may not raise her hands to God, nor He hear her lamentation.’ ”

      At these words, Paaker sobbed aloud, but he did not look at his mother. She called him tenderly by his name; then her eyes fell on his quiver, which lay on a bench with other arms. Her heart shrunk within her, and with a trembling voice she exclaimed:

      “I forbid this mad vengeance—do you hear? Will you give it up? You do not move? No! you will not! Ye Gods, what can I do?”

      She wrung her hands in despair; then she hastily crossed the room, snatched out one of the arrows, and strove to break it. Paaker sprang from his seat, and wrenched the weapon from her hand; the sharp point slightly scratched the skin, and dark drops of blood flowed from it, and dropped upon the floor.

      The Mohar would have taken the wounded hand, for Setchem, who had the weakness of never being able to see blood flow—neither her own nor anybody’s else—had turned as pale as death; but she pushed him from her, and as she spoke her gentle voice had a dull estranged tone.

      “This hand,” she said—“a mother’s hand wounded by her son—shall never again grasp yours till you have sworn a solemn oath to put away from you all thoughts of revenge and murder, and not to disgrace your father’s name. I have said it, and may his glorified spirit be my witness, and give me strength to keep my word!”

      Paaker had fallen on his knees, and was engaged in a terrible mental struggle, while his mother slowly went towards the door. There again she stood still for a moment; she did not speak, but her eyes appealed to him once more.

      In vain. At last she left the room, and the wind slammed the door violently behind her. Paaker groaned, and pressed his hand over his eyes.

      “Mother, mother!” he cried. “I cannot go back—I