The doors opened to receive the invitees, both men and women, whose masses came from the families of the army officers and commanders, as well as the graduates and high officials.
After midday, there came the great men of state, led by the priests and ministers. At their head were His Holiness Hemiunu, the Military High Commander under Arbu, plus many of the other leading civil servants, scribes, and artists. They all assembled there in order to receive His Royal Highness Prince Khafra, the heir apparent, whom His Majesty the King had appointed to preside over the celebration in his name.
When the time of the prince's arrival drew nigh, the elite men of office hastened to the academy's gateway and stood waiting amidst lines of soldiers. Before long there appeared in the broad, level square in front of the school the crown prince's procession, led by a troop of chariots from the Great House Guards. The music played in salute as the masses stood in tribute, their cheers rising for Khufu and the crown prince.
When Khafra's retinue reached the building's entrance, the academy's director approached, bearing in his hands a silken cushion stuffed with ostrich feathers upon which His Royal Highness would rest his feet. With Khafra came his sister, Her Royal Highness Princess Meresankh, as well as his brothers, the princes Baufra, Hordjedef, Horsadef, Kawab, Sedjedef, Khufukhaf, Hata, and Meryb.
The notables bowed before the crown prince, — who walked with a hardened face and square build that the maturity of age made seem even harsher and more vainglorious. As he took his seat in the center, the princess and the other princes sat at his right, while to his left were Hemiunu, the ministers, the commanders, and the chief civil officials. After the prince's arrival, the cheering quieted down as the guests were seated, and the festivities began. The horn sounded, the music was played, and from the direction of the barracks there appeared a group of graduating officers marching four abreast, headed by the commander of the trainees, holding the school's standard. For the first time they were dressed in officers’ uniform with its green shirt, loincloth, and leopard-skin cape.
When they reached a point parallel to the throne upon which His Royal Highness reposed, they drew out their swords and raised them with arms outstretched like pillars, their tips pointed skyward, offering their salute. Khafra, standing, returned it.
The great competition commenced with a horse race. The officers mounted colorfully adorned steeds and lined up in formation. When the horn sounded, they plunged forward like arrows shot from giant bows, the legs of the chargers shaking the ground like a powerful earthquake. Their pace was so fast that the onlookers almost lost sight of them, while the brave riders clung to them as though nailed to their backs. At first there was a single row, then the violent pace began to pull them apart. Suddenly, one horseman bolted free of the others as though riding a mad wind, beating them back to the starting place. The trainer announced the name of this rider — “Djedef son of Bisharu” — as the winner. If, amidst the thunderous applause, he had been able to hear his father cheering, “Go, son of Bisharu!” he would not have been able to control his laughter.
A short time later, the chariot race began. The officers mounted their vehicles and waited in formation. Then the horn blew as they burst out like giants, sending terror out before them, leaving a roar behind them like the breaking of boulders and the sundering of mountains. They swayed in their vehicles without wavering, like firmly rooted palm trunks buffeted by winds determined to upend them — winds that were forced to give up in — wailing frustration.
Suddenly there raced out from among them a rider who sped past them all — with preternatural power, — who moved so quickly that they seemed to be standing still. He was headed for victory right until the end, when the trainer again announced the name of the winner — “Djedef son of Bisharu.” Again, the cheers rose for him, and this time the clapping was even stronger.
Next the crier proclaimed that it was time for the steeplechase. Once more the officers mounted their horses, as wooden benches, whose height gradually increased one after another, were set up in the midst of the long field. With the blast of the horn, the horses bounded forward abruptly, flying over the first obstacle like attacking eagles. They leapt over the second like the waves of a ferocious waterfall, clear victory seeming to crown them as they progressed. But fortune betrayed most of them. The horses of some could not hear their commands; others stumbled amidst piteous cries. Only one horseman cleared all the hurdles as though he were an inexorable Fate, the embodiment of conquest. The crier called out his name, “Djedef son of Bisharu,” to the crowd's huge praise and applause.
Victory was his ally in all of the trials. He hit the target most accurately with lances and in archery. He humbled all comers with swords and with axes. The gods made his an absolute triumph. He was the hero of that day without any equal, the academy's prodigy without any peer, winning a place of wonder and appreciation in every heart there.
The winners were expected to approach the heir apparent so that he might congratulate them on their abilities. That day, Djedef went alone to offer the prince the military salute, and the heir apparent put his hand in his, saying, “I congratulate you, fearless Officer: first, for your superiority over all in the field; and second, for my selecting you to be an officer in my special guard.”
The young man's face was flooded with joy as he saluted the prince and returned to his place. Along the way he heard the crier announce to those in attendance that the prince had congratulated him and had chosen him to be a member of his guard. His heart fluttered as he thought of his family's excitement — Bisharu, Zaya, Kheny, and Nafa — who — were listening to the crier's speech, and — who — were experiencing the same indescribable delirium.
After that, the troop of new officers marched up to the crown prince's throne so that he might address them, saying in his gruff” voice: “O valiant officers, I hereby declare my full satisfaction with your courage, your talent, your enthusiasm, and your noble soldierly character. I hope that you will continue to be, like your brethren who have come before you, an ensign of glory for your homeland and for Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands.”
The soldiers cheered for the homeland and for Pharaoh. Thence came the announcement that the celebration was finished. As the invited guests departed, the heir apparent left the academy and his official procession returned to the royal palace.
During all this, Djedef was in a kind of daze that insulated him from what was going on around him. This was not the euphoria of victory — rather, it was a more serious and engrossing concern. For while he was listening to the prince's speech with his classmates, his eyes drifted from the speaker, only to find them settling on Princess Meresankh. Thunderstruck, he nearly fell on his face. By the gods in heaven, what did he see but the face of the peasant girl whose portrait he carried next to his heart! He wanted to look at it longer, but he feared that would cause a scandal, so he stared straight ahead without paying attention to anything. And when the gala ended and he recovered from his sudden surprise, he made his way back to the barracks like one touched by madness.
Could it be that his beautiful farmer's daughter is really Her Royal Highness Princess Meresankh? That seemed beyond belief— impossible even to imagine!
On the other hand, could one easily accept that there existed two faces with this same bewitching beauty? And had he forgotten the arrogance that the one in the picture showed him — a behavior not found among peasant girls? Yet all of these things together could not support this bizarre conjecture: if only he could carry out further inquiries in the features of her face!