Above me, on the
roof, there was a gleam of palest blue, like the blue I have sometimes
seen at morning on the Ionian sea just where it meets the shore. The
double rows of gigantic columns stretched away, tall almost as forest
trees, to right of me and to left, and were shut in by massive walls,
strong as the walls of a fortress. And on these columns, and on these
walls, dead painters and gravers had breathed the sweet breath of life.
Here in the sun, for me alone, as it seemed, a population followed their
occupations. Men walked, and kneeled, and stood, some white and clothed,
some nude, some red as the red man's child that leaped beyond the
sea. And here was the lotus-flower held in reverent hands, not the
rose-lotus, but the blossom that typified the rising again of the sun,
and that, worn as an amulet, signified the gift of eternal youth. And
here was hawk-faced Horus, and here a priest offering sacrifice to a
god, belief in whom has long since passed away. A king revealed himself
to me, adoring Ptah, "Father of the beginnings," who established upon
earth, my figures thought, the everlasting justice, and again at the
knees of Amen burning incense in his honor. Isis and Osiris stood
together, and sacrifice was made before their sacred bark. And Seti
worshipped them, and Seshta, goddess of learning, wrote in the book of
eternity the name of the king.
The great bees hummed, moving slowly in the golden air among the mighty
columns, passing slowly among these records of lives long over, but
which seemed still to be.
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