Oneday，however，along-beardedoldman，withagold-tippedwandofoffice，whohadabull’sheadembroideredonhisrobe，stoppedinfrontofmeand，callingmeawhite-headedcrow，askedmewhatIwasdoinghoppingdaybydayaboutthechambersofthepalace。Itoldhimmynameandbusinessandhetoldmehis，whichitseemedwasPambasa，oneofthePrince’schamberlains。WhenIaskedhimtotakemetothePrince，helaughedinmyfaceandsaiddarklythattheroadtohisHighness’spresencewaspavedwithgold。Iunderstoodwhathemeantandgavehimagiftwhichhetookasreadilyasacockpickscorn，sayingthathewouldspeakofmetohismasterandthatImustcomebackagain。
Icamethriceandeachtimethatoldcockpickedmorecorn。AtlastI
grewenragedand，forgettingwhereIwas，begantoshoutathimandcallhimathief，sothatfolksgatheredroundtolisten。Thisseemedtofrightenhim。Atfirsthelookedtowardsthedoorasthoughtosummontheguardtothrustmeout；thenchangedhismind，andinagrumblingvoicebademefollowhim。Wewentdownlongpassages，pastsoldierswhostoodatwatchinthemstillasmummiesintheircoffins，tillatlengthwecametosomebroideredcurtains。HerePambasawhisperedtometowait，andpassedthroughthecurtainswhichheleftnotquiteclosed，sothatIcouldseetheroombeyondandhearallthattookplacethere。
Itwasasmallroomliketothatofanyscribe，foronthetableswerepalettes，pensofreed，inkinalabastervases，andsheetsofpapyruspinneduponboards。Thewallswerepainted，notasIwaswonttopainttheBooksoftheDead，butafterthefashionofanearliertime，suchasIhaveseenincertainancienttombs，withpicturesofwildfowlrisingfromtheswampsandoftreesandplantsastheygrow。Againstthewallshungracksinwhichwerepapyrusrolls，andonthehearthburnedafireofcedar-wood。
BythisfirestoodthePrince，whomIknewfromhisstatues。Hisyearsappearedfewerthanminealthoughwewerebornuponthesameday，andhewastallandthin，veryfairalsoforoneofourpeople，perhapsbecauseoftheSyrianbloodthatraninhisveins。HishairwasstraightandbrownliketothatofnorthernfolkwhocometotradeinthemarketsofEgypt，andhiseyesweregreyratherthanblack，setbeneathsomewhatprominentbrowssuchasthoseofhisfather，Meneptah。Hisfacewassweetasawoman’s，butmadecuriousbycertainwrinkleswhichranfromthecornersoftheeyestowardstheears。I