 CHAPTER XXVIII. When Anthony says that he will find things out, he seldom fails. Perhaps nobody but a green-turbaned haji could so speedily have screwed information out of secretive Arabs, paid to be silent. And he had to fit deductions into spaces of the puzzle left empty by fibs and glib self-excusings. What he did learn was this. A dregelman had come, in a small boat, from a steam-dahabiyah to the enchantress Isis while we were away at Cusser Ebram. He presented credentials written out for him in Cairo by Miss Rachel Guest, and dated a few weeks ago. Hearing for her he seemed sorry to hear that she had gone on the excursion. The dregelman refused to disturb Antonofendi on hearing that the haji was riding in his cabin. His errand was not of enough importance to trouble so illustrious a man. All he wanted was permission to type one or two letters for his employers on the neighboring dahabiyah which possessed no machine. In the absence of Mr. Kruger, who had gone on shore for exercise, the dregelman was given this privilege. Possibly he had taken some of the boat's letter paper. Who could be certain of these trifles? Possibly also he had walked about with one of the cabin-stewards to see the luxury appointments of the enchantress Isis. As for paying money for these small favors, who could tell? And nobody knew if the steam-dahabiyah had hurried on before us to anchor out of sight round the oblique façade of Abu Simbel. In any case, when we went to look for the suspicious craft seen near Qasar Ibram, she was not among the two or three small private dahabiyahs of artists and others, moored within a mile of the great temple. Notwithstanding her absence, however, Anthony and I, suddenly confidential friends again, thought it likely that the shadows in the sanctuary had not been its only tenets when we entered there. The invaluable better knew enough of the Nile temples to know that the sun's first light strikes only the altar and the statues over it, in Abu Simbel's inner shrine, that the four corners of the small cavern-room remained pitch-black unless the place is artificially illuminated, and that this is never done at sunrise. The drago-men and one or both of his employers would have had no difficulty in getting into the temple before the first streak of dawn if they had warned its guardian the night before. So far our deductions were simple, after learning how the trick of the typewritten note had been managed, but it was not so easy to guess the object of the plot. Was Monty Gilder to have been murdered in the dark sanctuary, or was she to have been kidnapped? Either seemed an impossible undertaking unless the plotters were willing to face certain detection and arrest. As it was, we had no more tangible proof against the man than we had before, at the house of the crocodile, in the desert near Medinet, at Asuit, and at Luxor, with a sly cleverness which did better, or those employing him, much credit, they had screened themselves behind others. Even if we had the names of the tourists better had served as drago-men, and if we could lay our hands on their shoulders, we had not enough evidence of what they had done to obtain a warrant of arrest, and this, of course, they knew. Our best chance, Anthony thought, lay in springing a surprise on them, as they had vainly, so far, tried to do with us, and when we got them somehow at our mercy, forced out the truth. It was almost certain that esteemed Ahabiyah could not unseen have passed the enchantress Isis at Abu Simbel in broad daylight, going back toward Aswan. Therefore, since it was not moored near the temple, if it had been in the neighborhood at all, it must have dashed on ahead of us in the direction of Wadi Halfa. With pleasure would we have given immediate chase, had not the enchantress been pledged to remain at Abu Simbel till afternoon. Even as it was, I expected to catch up with a boat so much smaller than our own, but Anthony damped my hopes, explaining the difficulties of navigation between Abu Simbel and Wadi Halfa. There were, he said, great shifting sand-makes in the water, which looked so transparently green, so treacherously clear. Without the most prudent piloting, the river was actually dangerous, as new sand-makes had a habit of forming the minute you shut your eyes or turned your back. The enchantress would have to pick her way slowly through the silver sands of the Nile, which mingled with the spilt gold dust of the desert shore. All the same these impudent rascals would find it hard to hide from us at Wadi Halfa, especially if we stopped the boat and wired from the next telegraph station to have them watched on the arrival of their Dahabiyah. Perhaps, as they're so clever there'll be clever enough not to arrive at all, was my suggestion, and Anthony could only shrug his shoulders. Wait and see had to be our policy. Happily the set wandered in and out of the two temples, big and little all the morning, ignorant of our worries, which even to us seemed small under the benign gaze of the great Colossi. The three stone romances who had faces wore expressions no one could ever forget, and there was a sense of loss in turning away from them. A crocodile swam past the enchantress as she steamed up river, a long, dark, prehistoric shape. He seemed in anachronism, but so did better, with his ploddings, yet both were real, real as this Nile dream of dark rocks, of conical black mountains shaped like ruined pyramids, and yellow sandhills whose dazzling reflections turned the blue-green river to gold. The next day at noon we came to Watihalfa, and the enchantress Isis, who had brought us eight hundred miles from Cairo, was now to be deserted by those with cartoom and view. All safe three of the party were going on through the gate of the Sudan, where the river-way ended and the desert-way began. Neal Sheridan was turning back immediately in a government steamer, and a bride and a groom who cared not where they were, if with each other, would wait on board the enchantress until the band of passengers should return from cartoom. These things had to be thought of. But I meant to let Kruger do most of the thinking when we landed at the neat, colorful town of Halfa, which lies, as Aswan lies, all pink and blue and green along the riverbank, sentineled with trees. From a distance Anthony and I caught sight of the steam dahabiyahs seen near Qasar-ebram, and we could hardly wait to get on shore. The camp was but a mile and a half away, and I had wired in Lark's name to an officer whom he was sure to know, asking as great a favor to have the passengers on board a boat if that description watched, and requesting him, if possible, to meet the enchantress on her arrival. There he is, said Fenton, standing at the rail. I mustn't seem to recognize him, of course. Can't give myself away. But you, good Lord, there's better I broke in, hardly believing my eyes, and there better was, looking as if butter would by no means melt in his mouth, better smiling from the pier, evidently there for the special purpose of meeting us. His ugly, squat figure and the tall, khaki-clad form of the officer were conspicuous among squatting blacks, male and female in gay turbans, veils and mantles, muffled babies in arms, and children dressed in exceedingly brief fringes. I'll attend to him while you pow-wow with Arenton, said Anthony, ready for the unexpected situation. And while the indispensable, if humble, Kruger showed the passengers how to get to the desert train, superintending the landing of the luggage, and made himself perspiringly useful, I thanked Major Arenton in Sir Marcus Lark's and my own name. His news was astonishing. There were no passengers on board the esteemed Ahabiyah, Mahmudye. She had arrived with none save her crew, and the Dregelmen now talking with that good-looking haji there. As I murmured yes and no, and indeed, really, to the officer who had kindly worked on our behalf, I was saying to myself, my dear duffer, what an ass you were not to think of that! For of course the men had remained at Abu Simbel, hiding till we should be out of the way, and sending their boat on to put us off the track. A cook's steamer and a Hamburg American boat were due to stop at the temple. We had passed both on the river. By this time the two men were doubtless on their way north, making for Cairo and safety. Still here was better, looking like a fat fly who had deliberately come to pay a call on the lean and hungry spider. I was impatient for the moment when the need for genuine gratitude and faked explanations was over, and Major Arenton had gone about other business. Then I could follow the haji and the Armenian, who had mounted the steps leading up from the river-level to the town. Not far off I could see the blue-windowed, white-painted desert train, round which, on the station platform, buzzed and scalded the set, demanding their hand luggage and their compartments. But Anthony and his victim, or was it by chance vice versa, were keeping out of eye-shot and ear-shot of the late passengers of the enchantress. Bridget and Monty, who must have seen better, were too tactful to hover near. Also they knew Antonefendi too well to think it necessary. Better gave me no time to speak. He rushed forward to greet me with effusion as if I were a long-lost and well-loved patron. I've been so glad to see you after these days, my lord. Sure, he began. Antonefendi, he tell you I come here on purpose to do you good. I find out those gentlemen's very wicked men, so I leave them quick. They want to pay me for go back with them, but no money big enough now I know they try to do harm to my nice young lady. She wasn't so good to me as the other nice young lady, but that makes no matter. I not stand for any hurt to her, sure I will not, my lord. The meaning of this rigamarole, Anthony Cunham's short, speaking in German, which he knew I understood and trusted better didn't, is that the fellow wants us to buy information from him. He pretends to have broken with his employers on our account, though his explanation of getting here to Halpha on their Dahabia is ridiculous, and that, having come for our benefit against their wishes, he's without pay, penniless, and stranded. Alive, of course, I took for granted, also in German. The part about being broke, certainly, but it's certain, too, that he must know some things we'd like to know. Could we trust a word he says? No, as far as his moral sense is concerned, but my idea is to bargain with him. We, to pay according to value received. That might be bait for a fish worth hooking. Yes, that's our line. We haven't much time to hear and digest his story, though. The train will start in less than an hour. We shot waste a minute. Without waiting for you, I began to bargain on the line I've just suggested. How far did you get? A good way, for I was able to scare him a bit. You see, he earns his living in Cairo, and I've persuaded him that I have some influence there in quarters that can make or break him. He hasn't much more time to spare than we have if it's true he wants to start back on the government boat. You know they take natives third class. My suggestion, subject to your approval, is this. In any case, we give a thousand piestras, ten pounds. But if what he can tell us is of real use or even interest, we rise to the extent of ten times that sum. It's a good deal for a beastly baboon like him. Remember, he has been doing services lately for which he probably got high pay. All right, whatever you say goes, I agreed. I trust to your honors, my gentlemen's, remarked the beastly baboon in question, in a manner so apropos that I guessed him not entirely ignorant of German, after all. Thanks for the compliment, I responded gratefully. We shall have to talk here. There is no time to find a more convenient place, said Fenton, returning to Arabic as a medium of communication. Fire away better, but don't start your story in the middle. Begin where you took service with those Irish-American gentlemen. Was the gentleman's Irish? I never know that, perred, the guile is better, but Fenton brought him to his bearings. All questions were to be from us to him. So better fired away, and there within a stone's throw of the train getting up steam for cartoon, we listened to a strange tale, as strange and as great in anachronism as that dark crocodile shape we had seen, except in the Nile Country, where live crocodiles and many other dark things can easily happen any day. Blount's name, according to Better, was not Blount, but something else well known in America. It was a name already associated with that of O'Brien, which inclined us to hope for some grains of truth in the chaff of lies we expected. Better said that in New York, years ago, he had known the man Blount. He was related to the American family who took Better from Cairo. Later, when the Armenians had returned to Egypt, Blount had come with them for a rest cure. He had engaged Better as Dregelman, and, on leaving, had asked for Better's card. That was years ago, and nothing had been heard from him since. But before the Laconia was due to arrive, Better had received a telegram from Blount instructing him to meet the ship, and wire to Paris whether Miss Gilder of New York and a Mrs. Jones were on board with a party. Blount knew that Better had seen Miss Gilder as a child, and might now be able to recognize her. On the day in New York, when a block in traffic had given a glimpse of the little girl in a motor-car with her father, Better and Blount had been together. As soon as possible after Better's reply, Blount and another man, who called himself Hannah, had arrived in Cairo. Better knew that they had a fixed theory in regard to the young lady who passed as Miss Gilder. Who they supposed her to be he could not tell, but once he had happened to be near when they were not aware of his presence and had heard one of them mention a woman's name, which sounded like Esnie. They accepted his word that he had been able to identify the so-called Miss Guest as Rosamund Gilder, and in her they appeared to take no further interest. Their attention was concentrated on Mrs. Jones and the lady who, according to their belief, was but posing as Miss Gilder. Apparently they imagined her to be quite another person, one whom they had taken a great deal of trouble to reach. Also they had an idea that Mrs. Jones possessed something of which they were anxious to get hold. It was a something which ought to be theirs, and they had been after it for years, but she had contrived to hide herself in it until lately. Why he had been told to guide the two younger ladies to the house of crocodiles, better pretended not to know. Perhaps, only perhaps, Blount and his companion, Hannah, wished to kidnap the one we call Miss Gilder, and they called Esnie. But good, kind, better had never dreamed that they meant any real harm. There had been a plan of some sort for that night. Blount and Hannah were to arrive at the house of the crocodile for a close look at the young ladies, when the latter had gone to sleep under the influence of the hashish they intended to smoke. But the two gentlemen had not kept the appointment. At first, better had not understood why, and had not known what to do. And afterward, of course, when he had heard of the row in the street, which had caused the closing of the house for many tedious hours, he had guessed. And later when he learned that poor Mr. Blount lay wounded in a hospital, it had all become clear. Mr. Hannah, who seemed to work under Mr. Blount's orders, had not been able to act alone. Then, as to all the traveling up the Nile, better had never been told why his gentlemen made the journey. Every one who came to Egypt went up the Nile. Only he had been instructed to find out, always, where we were, and to arrange their arrival at about the same time. At Madenot they had not camped or gone to a hotel, but had stayed in the house of a friend of better's. It was convenient, though not as comfortable as he could wish for his clients. The advantage was that from the roof it was possible to see into our camp. Better had made friends with one of the camel-boys who went to the market to buy the black lamb, and while we were away, had found out which was the tent where Mrs. Jones and Miss Gilder, or Esney, slept. What happened in the night he could not say. He had stayed at his friend's house while the two gentlemen went out. He had done nothing at all for them in Madenot except to discover the lady's tent and also to buy a bottle of olive oil. When the gentlemen came home in the middle of the night they were angry with him because they said he had shown them the wrong tent. But that was unjust. It was the only time they had been unkind. Except for that they had been good and had given him plenty of money for a while. At Asuat and Luxor they had been pleased with him. All they wanted at Rashid Bey's house was to get the thing Mrs. Jones had which ought to be theirs. They had not told him this, but he heard them talk sometimes. He knew more languages than they thought. If they wanted to steal the young lady they had never said so. When the plan failed they did not blame better. It was not his fault. They saw that. The Montmoudier had been engaged as long ago as just after Madenot when the thing the gentlemen wanted to do there could not be done. But better thought that if the Luxor plan had been a success the steam to Habia would have gone north from there instead of south. It was because of that failure the boat had followed us up the Nile. At Abu Zimbal better had quarreled with the gentlemen. Because he had began to suspect that they meant to harm the ladies, or to one of them, he had been clever and got on board the enchantress as they told him to do. He had obtained writing paper and typed a copy of a letter. In America he had learned to do typing. Often he could make better money in an engagement now because he knew how to use a machine. And when the steward showed him over the boat he left the letter in the state room which the Arab boy said was Miss Guilders. In spite of all these good services which no other Dregelman in Egypt could have given those gentlemen would not listen to a word of advice. Better heard them speak with the Guardian of the Temple about going in before anyone else came to see the sunrise. And afterward they talked of hiding in the sanctuary. First they had asked him if it were always dark there, as the guidebook said. After hearing this he had put two and two together, and when he remembered what was in the note he typed for Miss Guilder, better feared for her and Mrs. Jones. He begged the gentleman not to do anything rash, and they were so angry at his interference that they sent him off with no more pay. Nothing at all since Luxor. Oh no, they were not afraid of him and what he could tell because they said nobody would believe a Dregelman's word against rich white gentleman. People would say he lied for spite. But better thought maybe we should believe because we knew already that something strange had been going on. The gentleman paid off the men on the Mahmudia and ordered her to go on to Wadi Halfa. They did not know that better had slipped on board and hidden there on purpose to find us and tell his story. A part of this tale carried truth on its face. But Anthony and I agreed that there was a queer discrepancy at the end. If better spoke the truth, Blount and his comrade must have had a reason for wishing to get rid of the fellow, or for not caring what become of him, a reason unconnected with a quarrel. And it was certain that, if there had been a quarrel, it was not because of virtuous, plain speaking, from better. It seemed impossible that he could have got on board their hired boat to follow us without his employer's knowledge. Was his appearance at Wadi Halfa and his apparent betrayal of his clients all a part of their plan? We could not decide this question in our minds, or by cross- questioning better while the train waited, for only time could prove. But what we had heard was interesting enough to be worth the promised thousand piafsters and the fair north on the government boat just starting. To make sure that better did start, we called Kruger, put the whole summoned his hands, asking him to help the Dregelmen by buying his ticket and getting the notes changed into gold and silver. This little maneuver left the Armenians so calm, however, that we fancied his wish must really be to depart on the government boat. Such inquiries, as we had had time to make concerning the Mamudia, seemed to show that she must remain at Halfa for slight repairs to her engine, and instructions from her owner who was staying at Aswan. It was just at this last minute of grace, with the station master aduring, and the set reproaching us, that Anthony and I jumped on board the train. Strange that two rows of blue-glass windows should have the power to turn the whole world topsy-turvy, or to create a new one of entirely original color scheme. But so it was. Those people seated in their grand, traveling bed-sitting rooms had only a superficial resemblance to the passengers of the enchantress Isis. Monnie, for instance, had pale green hair, with immense purple eyes, and showed every sign of rapid transformation into a mermaid. Cleopatra's auburn waves had turned to a vivid magenta. Biddy's black tresses had a blue, grapey bloom on them, and Anthony's dark eyes were a sinister green, with red lights. Ghostly mother-of-pearl faces with opal shadows peered through the violet glass at an unreal landscape, which would instantly cease to exist if the windows were opened. But the windows could not be opened, or a rain of sand would pour in, so we gazed out on an impossible fairy-land consisting of Golden Sea, with mountainous shores carved from amethyst, through which shone the glow of pulsing fires. Always we carried with us an immense shadow, like a trailing purple banner, unfurling as we moved. Men and women and animals seen at the numbered white stations in the sand were but fantastic figures in a camera obscura. The shadow of the train was torn with fiery streaks, and when the sun had burned to death on a red funeral pyre, the moon stole out to mourn for him. Her coming was sudden. She seemed abruptly to draw aside a hyacinth curtain, and hold up a lamp over the desert when the sun's fire had died. And the lamp gave forth in an earthly light, which poured over the endless sands a sheet of primrose yellow flame. The warm sun-shadow was chilled from purple to gray, and flowed over the magic primrose fields like a river of molten silver. At Number Six Station, where we stopped for water after dinner, a hyena came glumping over the sand like a humpback dog, to stare at us as we strolled in couples away from the train into the desert. Next morning everyone was up early to see the gray hornet's nests, which were Sudanese villages, and the villagers themselves who urged us to buy straw rugs, baskets, fans, oranges, dried beans, live birds, and milk in wooden bowls, whenever the train stopped. Respectable old ladies dressed in short fringes, and small full stomached boys dressed in nothing at all. I had not told Biddy about our bargain with Sir Marcus, Anthony's and my services in exchange for the mountain of the golden pyramid. Why should she be forced to share our suspense? For she would share it if she knew, even though she didn't yet yield to me in the matter of a united future. I wanted to wait before telling her the story until Fenton and I had made sure if there were anything golden about the mountain except its name. If we were doomed to disappointment I could then give the tale a humorous turn, easier to do in retrospect than anticipation. Now when in blinding light of noon we pointed out, in an impersonal matter, to all who cared to see, the pyramid field of Marot, it seemed strange to think that no heart but Anthony's and mine beat the faster. The sun was so hot that most people, blinking daisily, retired behind their screens of blue glass almost as soon as the train stopped, close to Garstang's camp. I had informed the set, casually, that wonderful things were being found in the rocky desert, that the few neat white tents sheltered men who were going to make of Marot a world's wonder, that not only had the army of stunted black pyramids visible from the train yielded up treasures, but three tears of palaces were being unearthed, or rather, unsanded. I said nothing, however, of the more distant dark shapes, like the pyramids, yet unlike them. Among those low, conical mountains which perhaps gave inspiration to the pyramid-vilders was our mountain, and I was not sorry when the burning sun smote curiosity from eyes and brains, and sent nearly all my flock back to their places while the train had still some minutes at the station. Cleopatra had not come out. She had frankly lost interest in scenic history and did not want to be intelligent. But as Anthony and I stepped off the train we saw that Bridget and Monnie stood arm in arm in the doorway. Would you like to jump down? I asked, reluctantly. For the first time I did not wish video brine to give me her society. I hoped she would say, no, thank you, for I wanted Fenton to point out our mountain, which he had told me could be seen, and it would be inconvenient to answer questions. Yes, we should like it, they both replied together, so Anthony and I had to look delighted. It really was a pleasure to help them down. But even that we could have waited for till our arrival at Cartoon. And the first remark that Biddy made was too intelligent. What are those weird things off there in the distance that look exactly like ruined pyramids, sort of mud-pipe pyramids? Mountains, said Fenton. What, didn't anybody make them? The legend is that gins or evil spirits created them to use as tombs for themselves. But they're almost precisely like the made pyramids, only a little more tumble down. Have they names? Some have, I believe, Anthony returned, with his well-put-on air of indifference. That blackest and most ruined looking one of all, for instance, between two which are taller. There, away to the left, I mean, that is called the mountain of the golden pyramid. Our eyes met over the girls' veiled hats. After all, he had found an opportunity of telling me what I wanted to know. What a fascinating name, said Monty. It sounds as if there were some special story connected with it. Is there? Yes, Anthony was obliged to admit. There is a legend that it was used as a tomb by the first queen Candace, who lived about two hundred years B.C. after Ptolemy, Philadelphia. She used to reign over what they called the Island of Moreau. It was this once fertile kingdom between the Atbara River over there and the Blue Nile. They say she wished to be buried with all her jewels and treasure, and was afraid of her tomb being robbed, so she wouldn't trust to a man-made pyramid. She ordered a secret place to be hollowed out in the heart of a mountain, and that's the one they pretended is. What a lovely legend, but I suppose there's nothing in it, really, or clever people like those who are digging here now would have found the tomb and the treasure long ago, said Monty. I don't know. I left Anthony to answer, wondering what he would say. Only a very few have ever put enough faith in the story to search, and they have never been able to discover traces of an entrance into that mountain or any other. Of course, in trying to enter the great pyramid of Giza, they looked a long time before they succeeded. But that was different. There was never any doubt of there being something worth seeing inside, whereas this black lump may be solid rock and nothing more. It's many years since anybody has tried to get at the secret. I beg your pardon, politely said in French, an elderly man in a pith helmet, blue spectacles and khaki clothes who stood near. I couldn't help hearing your conversation, and it may interest you and these ladies to learn that at this very moment work is going on at the so-called Mountain of the Golden Pyramid. I envied Anthony the brown stain on his face, for I felt the blood rushing to mine. Indeed, I ejaculated in English, we are very much interested. Work actually going on? Yes, it was begun about four or five weeks ago by an agent of Sir Marcus Lark, the well-known financier, who got the concession for which some other party was said to be trying for. I am here, went on the helmeted man, gazing benevolently through his blue spectacles at the two pretty women. I am here with my son, who is one of Garstang's men. We have nothing to do with the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid. Luckily for Sir Marcus it was a judge to be off our pitch. Still we are interested. They are keeping their work very secret, but these things are in the air. The talk here is that they're on the point of making, if they haven't already made, some very startling discovery. All aboard, if you please, shouted the Greek guard. END OF CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. OF IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. CHAPTER XXIX. EXIT ANTUNE. If there had been no Bridget and no Monnie in the world we should have let that train go on without us and hang the set and its feelings. But there was a Bridget, there was a Monnie, and they were more to us than all the treasures Sir Marcus was apparently stealing while we slaved. What fools we had been to trust in such a man, and I had actually wasted pity on the fellow. Now, as we were born away from Mero, we saw our hopes, which had begun to seem certainties dissolving into air. They were like the mirage of the desert which lured us with siren enchantment and mystery in this never-never land which thousands of brave men had died to win, shimmering blue lakes that mirrored green trees and low purple mountains, and the gold of sand dunes so real so near it seemed we might walk to them in a few moments, only mocking dreams like our belief in a famous financier's loyalty, like our hopes of fortune. For if Sir Marcus Lark had secretly begun work at the mountain of the golden pyramid, it meant that he intended to seal everything best worth having for himself. It was maddening to realize that we might be too late to thwart him, but we had to risk this, or risk losing something dearer than the jewels of a Queen Candice. Anthony was staking the happiness of his future on the events of the following night. Now that the small cloud of misunderstanding had passed from the clear sky of our friendship, we were once again in confidence, as we had been before the filet ease-dropping, and I knew the plan he meant to carry out at the seardar's ball. It was rather a melodramatic plan, perhaps, but somehow it fitted into the circumstances of his queer courtship, and I could see why Anthony preferred it to any other more conventional. As for me, too, I counted on cartoon to give me a present of happiness. Better's story, largely false as it might be, must have a basis of truth. I'd cease to argue with Biddy. We'll leave the subject of the future alone till we get to cartoon, I had said. She thought, maybe, that she had half convinced me of her worldly wisdom. But this was far from being the case. I was only waiting to see whether my theory were right or wrong. I couldn't know until cartoon, and nothing on earth, or hidden under earth, would have induced me to put off the moment of finding out. North cartoon was standing in a mirage as we approached, and Fenton and I were superstitious enough to wonder if it were a bad omen, that lovely lake which was not there, reflecting clearly each white and ochre-colored house of the city in the sand. Only the blue glitter of the Nile was real, as the train crossed the river on a high bridge, and landed us in the surprising garden of beauty which is cartoon itself. Wide streets bordered with flowering trees, rose pink acacias and coral pendants of pepperberries, lawns green as velvet, big verandahed houses of silver gray or ruddy stone, roses climbing over hedges and wall, scent of lilies and magnolias floating on an air as clear as crystal, droning sequias spraying pearls over the warm bodies of slow-moving oxen, white sails like butterflies' wings dotting the blue Nile. This was the new city created as if by magic in sixteen years upon the sad ruins of Gordon's stronghold. On the wide veranda of the grand hotel, where pretty girls were giving tea to young officers in khaki, Fenton came up to Bridget and Monnie who were questioning me about letters. The look on his face struck the girl into silence. What is it? she asked, almost sharply. Don't let me interrupt you, he said. I can wait a few minutes. No, Monnie insisted. Please speak. I know it's something important. Important only to myself, perhaps, he answered, with a smile that was rather wistful. I have to say good-bye now. Good-bye? echoed Monnie, surprised and even frightened, more by his look and tone than the words themselves. My engagement with Sir Marcus Lark ended when our train stopped at Cartoon. I have other business to attend to here. I've just made my adduce with everybody else. I saved you till the last. Monnie was pale. Even the fresh young Rose that was her mouth had blanched. Otherwise she controlled herself perfectly. Was this part of Anthony's plan, I wondered? He had told me what he intended to do at the palace ball tomorrow night, but he had said nothing about this preliminary scene. I understood, however, why he had not maneuvered to get Monnie to himself in a deserted corner of this big ground floor balcony of the hotel. Even when, with the set, it was a question of getting their tea or looking at their rooms, eyes were always ready to observe Miss Gilder, especially since it was in the air that she really was Miss Gilder, the Miss Gilder. He did not want Miss Hacett Bean and Mrs. Harlow to be saying, Look, my dear, at the tragic, private farewell and to an offender in our American beauty are having. Since Filet there would have been no use in trying to conceal his feelings for Monnie from Bridget or me. Therefore we made useful chaperones and could be regarded as dummies. You never told me that you were leaving us at cartoom, the girl stammered. I thought—but though we knew what she thought, she could go no further before an audience. My business prevents me from staying at the hotel, Anthony explained. And, though I shall see you, never again will you see poor Ahmed Atun. I don't understand, Monnie said. I know, but that was what we agreed upon. You promised to trust me without understanding. Tomorrow night, at the Seardar's ball, you will understand. I've arranged with Lord Ernest that you and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. East and he shall write your names in the book of the palace. Then you will all receive invitations for the ball, the four of you only of the party. And you will be there? I've just told you, Anthony repeated, that Atun is saying good-bye to you forever. Yet you told me, too, that after cartoon I should be he- She cut herself short and shut her lips closely. I was angry with Fenton for what seemed cruelty to one who had very nobly confessed her love for him. Biddy's eyes protested, too, but the man and the girl cared no more for us or our criticism at that moment than if we had been harmless necessary chairs for them to sit upon. There are many paths to happiness, Fenton answered. I shall see you to-morrow night, and I shall know whether you are happy. Meanwhile, I say again, trust me and good-bye. He held out his strong, nervous hand, so browned by the sun that it needed little staining for the part he had played, and was to play no more. As if mechanically, Monty Gilder laid her hand in it. They looked into each other's eyes, which were almost on a level, so tall was she. Then Anthony Fendi turned abruptly away, forgetting apparently that he had not taken leave of Bridget or me. Let's go upstairs at once, dear, and see our rooms, Biddy said quickly. An instant later I stood alone on the veranda. But I knew well enough where to find Captain Anthony Fenton when I wanted him, although the death-knell of Antoon was sounding. I was not in the least melancholy, and despite the tense emotion of that short scene, I had never felt less sentimental in my life. My whole being concentrated itself in a desire to visit the post office and to bash Sir Marcus Lark's head. When Anthony came up for his farewell I had been asking Bridget and Monty if they expected letters at the post restaunt. Both said no, but advised by me they gave me their cards, armed with which I could ask for letters and obtain them if there were any. It's very unlikely any one will address me there, Biddy had assured me. The only letter I'm hoping for will come to the hotel. I was not jealous, because I was sure the said letter was from Esmael Bryan, now for wheel or woe Mrs. Halloran. The letter I hoped for would be from a very different person, though if it materialized it would certainly mention the Runaway Bride. And if such a letter came to Cartoon, the place to look for it, I thought, would be the post restaunt. The writer not being a personal friend of Mrs. O'Brien's, and presumably not knowing Cartoon, could not be certain at which hotel she would stop. I was hurrying away a few minutes later to prove once and for all whether I were abutting Sherlock Holmes, or merely an imaginative fool, when a servant came out from the hotel and handed me a telegram. Lark! I read the signature at the end with a snort of rage. I wonder he has the cheek to—but by that time I was getting at the meat of the message. What the de—by Jove! Here's a complication! I heard myself mutter of running accompaniment to Marcus Lark's words. This is what he had to say on two sheets of paper. Lord Ernest Burrow, Grand Hotel, Cartoon. In train leaving Aswan, met man from Marrow, told me work begun at our place. Strange news, don't understand, but sure you two haven't gone ahead of bargain. Must be foul play or else mistake. But thought matter too serious to go north. Left train, returned to Aswan, caught government steamer for Halpha, just arrived too late for train deluxe. But we'll proceed by ordinary train to camp. Better meet me there as soon as possible, leaving boat people take care of themself. Fire Kabushia Lark. His loyalty to us shamed me. We had not given him the benefit of the doubt, but had at once believed the worst. He, though not a gentleman in the opinion of Colonel Corcoran and some others, was chivalrously sure that we had not gone ahead of the bargain. A revulsion of feeling gave me a spasm of something like affection for the big fellow whom his adored Cleopatra sneered at as common. I longed to show the telegram to Anthony, but he would now be at the palace, reporting to the seardar. Later he would be at his own quarters, transforming himself from a pale brown haji in a green turban into a sunburned young British officer in uniform. Meantime I would go to the post-restaunt, and then, whatever the result of the visit, I would return, collect Bridget and Moni, and take them back to the palace to write their names in the book. I dare not think what my blood pressure must have been as I waited for a post- office official to look through a bundle of letters. Mrs. B. Jones, he murmured. No, nothing for B. Jones. Unless it's O'Brien Jones. Here is a letter addressed to Mrs. O'Brien Jones. That's it, said I, swallowing heavily. Mrs. O'Brien Jones. I think the letter must be postmarked, as one. Without further hesitation the post-office man handed me the envelope, on the strength of Mrs. B. Jones's visiting card. Going out of the office I walked on air. Charlock Holmes it is, I congratulated myself. And I ventured to be wildly happy, because it seemed to me that a letter sent to Mrs. O'Brien Jones, from Aswan, could only mean one thing, a justification of my theory. I went straight to Biddy's door and knocked. There was no answer, and I stood fuming with impatience on the upstairs balcony, upon which each bedroom opens. It seemed impossible to live another minute without putting that letter into Biddy's hand. And not for the world would I have let it come to her from anyone else. I was tempted to tear open the envelope, but before I had time to test my character, Biddy appeared on the balcony, coming round the corner from Monnie's room. Why, Duffer, you look as if the sky had fallen, she exclaimed. It has, I returned. It's lying all over the place. There's a bit of it in this letter, a bit of heaven, maybe. A letter for me? Yes, and if you aren't quick about opening it, I'll commit harry-carry. She was quick about opening it. As she read, almost literally my eyes were glued to her face. It went white, then pink. Thank heaven, I said within myself. If she had been pink first and white afterward, I should have been alarmed. For a woman's color to blossom warmly from a snow field means good news. Duffer, she breathed, do you know what's in this? I thought it would come. My voice sounded rather queer. I'd fancied I had more self-control. That's why I wanted your card for the post-restaunt. Read this, she said, and gave me the open letter. It was written on paper of a hotel at Aswan, near the railway station, and was as follows. Madam, let me explain frankly before I go further that my name is Thomas McMahen. You may remember it. If you do, you will not think it's strange that I, as a private person as well as a member of a society, whose name it is not necessary to mention, wanted certain papers you were supposed to possess. For a long time I and others almost equally interested tried to trace you after learning that you had the documents, or in any case knew where they were. Naturally we were prepared to go far in order to make you give them up. We believed that your step-daughter was with you. As the need was pressing, and as we had failed more than once, we would, if necessary, have worked upon your feelings through her. Had we questioned you, and had you replied that we were mistaken concerning the young lady in the papers, we should have been incredulous. But accident enabled us to hear from your own lips details which we could not disbelieve. As a woman we wish you no harm, therefore we rejoice in this turn of events for your sake. Your step-daughter must now be one of us, through her husband. She has nothing further to fear, much as we regret her marriage into a family so deeply injured by her father. As for you, madam, you may be at rest, where we are concerned. You said to Lord Ernest Burrow in the Temple of Abu's symbol that you could never be happy, until the organization Richard O'Brien betrayed, forgot, and forgave his daughter and yourself. Through me the organization now formally both forgives and forgets. Wishing you well in future, yours truly, T. MacMahon, alias blount. P.S., kindly acknowledge receipt of this letter in care of Better Algamaly, whose address you have at Cairo. Not hearing from you, we shall try to communicate this news in some other way. The present method has occurred to us, as you may find it useful to know the state of affairs without delay. Oh, Biddy, do you find it useful? I asked. She held out her hands to me. There was no one in the veranda just then and I kissed her. Mine, I said, what a gorgeous place cartoon would be, to be married in. Antony was very brave next day. She went to Omdurman with the rest of us. And it was the chance of a lifetime, because, through Antony, Slatenpasha himself took us to the place of his captivity. Slatenpasha, slim, soldierly, young, vital, and brilliant. It was scarcely possible to believe that this man, who looked no more than thirty-five and radiated energy, could have passed eleven years in slavery terrible beyond description. He spoke of those experiences almost lightly, as if telling the story of someone else, and it was all in the day's work that he should have triumphed over his persecutors in a way more complete, more dramatic than any author of romance would dare invent for his hero. He took us from the river-steps in front of his own big verandahed house down the Blue Nile in a fast steam-launch. It was a Nile as blue as turquoise, and after the low island of Tuley had been left behind it was strange to see the junction of the Blue and White Niles in a quarrelsome swirl of sharply divided colors. Landing on the shore at Omdurman we met carts loaded with elephant tusks and wagons piled with hides. Giant men like ebony statues walked beside pacing camels white as milk. The vegetable market was a town of little booths. The grain markets had gathered riches of green and orange gold. Farther on, in the brown shadows of the roughly-roofed labyrinth of bazaars were stores of sandalwood and spices smelling like Arabie the Blessed. Open fronted shops showing splendid leper skins, crocodile heads bristling with knives, carved tusks of elephants, shields, armor said to have been captured from crusaders, Abyssinian spears, swords and strange headgear used by the Matis and Caliphaz men. The bazaars of Cairo and even Aswan seemed tame and sophisticated compared to this wild market of the Sudan, where half the men and all the bread-selling women who were old enough had been the Caliphaz slaves. With Slatun Pasha we went to the Caliphaz Palace to gaze at the saint's carriage, the skeleton of Gordon's piano and scores of ancient guns which had cut short the lives of Christian men. Slutun's house we saw, too, and the gate once he had escaped, the Matis shattered tomb and the famous open-air mosque. Then we had run up the blue Nile as far as Gordon's tree and lunched on board the launch. In the afternoon, back at Khartoum again, there was still time to group round the statue of Gordon on his camel, holding the short stick that was his only weapon and gazing over the desert. The set were allowed to walk through the palace gardens, to behold the spot at the head of the grand staircase where Gordon fell, and to have a glimpse in the Seardar's library of the Caliphaz photograph taken after death. This was a special favor, and as they knew nothing about the four invitations to the ball, they were satisfied with their day. Dinner was in the illuminated garden of the hotel, and when it was over I smuggled Brigid and Moni in Cleopatra inconspicuously away. No one suspected, and if the lovely dresses worn by Mrs. East and Miss Gilder were commented upon, doubtless aunt and niece were merely supposed to be showing off. Never, I think, had Moni come so near to being a great beauty. In her dress of softly folding silver cloth she was a tall white lily. She wore no jewels except a string of pearls, and there was no color about her anywhere, except the deep violet her hazel eyes took on at night, and the brown gold of her hair. Even her lips were pale as they had been when Antune bad her good-bye. Hers was no gay dancing She was going to the ball because Antune Effendi had ordered, rather than asked her to go. But she was like some fair, tragic creature on trial for her life, waiting to hear what the verdict of the jury might be. CHAPTER XXXXIV of it happened in Egypt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. CHAPTER XXXXIV The Seardar's Ball Biddy, radiating joy, walked beside me with wide-open, eager eyes, taking in every detail of the historic house. She admired the immense hall whose archways opened into dim, fragrant gardens. She was entranced with the Sudanese band, ink-black giants uniformed in white, playing wild native music in the moonlight. She wanted to stop and make friends with the shoe-bill, a super-stork, apparently carved in shining metal, with a bill like an enormous slipper, eyes like the hundredth part of a second stop in a Kodak, and feet that tested each new tuft of grass on the lawn, as if it were a specimen of some hitherto undiscovered thing. No question but she was happy. I was proud of her and proud of myself because my love had power to give her happiness. What matter now if I were being robbed at the mountain of the golden pyramid by some unknown thief? Neither he nor any one could steal Biddy. Even Cleopatra seemed pleased to be coming to the Seardar's Ball, though gloom lay heavy upon her. She wanted to look her best. She wanted to be admired by the officers she was to meet, and to have as many partners as she could split dances for. To be admired by some one was essential to her just now, a soothing medicine to heal the smart of hurt Vandy. Monnie, I felt, had made herself look beautiful only because she thought that Antoun, unseen, would see her. As we entered the ballroom her eyes were wistful, searching, yet not expecting to find. He had said that she would never see Antoun again. I found friends in the ballroom, men I knew at home, and a few pretty women I had met in England or abroad, but there was no more than time to be received by the aide-de-camp, and to introduce a few officers to my three ladies, when the moment came for the formal entry of our host and hostess, the soldier's Seardar and his graceful wife, the royalties of the Sudan. We were presented, and I guessed at once that the Seardar had been prepared in advance to take a special interest in Rosamund Gilder. Anthony has told him the whole thing and has asked his help, was my thought. From the instant of his kindly greeting for the girl I found myself suddenly, excitedly assuming the attitude of a spectator in a theatre, on the night of a new play. I knew the plot of the play, but not how it would be presented, nor how it would work out. I saw that the Seardar had made up his mind to a certain line of action where Mani was concerned. And by and by, when he had time to spare from his general duties as host, I heard him ask if she would like to go on the roof, where Gordon used to stand watching for the English shoulders to come. I will take you, he said, and if you like to stay longer than I can stop away from our guests, I'll give you another guide. He turned to Bidi and me. Cleopatra was dancing with Baron Rudolph von Slatenpasha, gorgeous in medals and stars. Bridget and I had just stopped. Would you like to come, too? the Seardar asked. I answered for Bidi, knowing what she would want me to say. And still the sense of being a spectator in a wonderful theatre was dreamily upon me. Stronger and stronger the impression grew, as the Seardar led us out onto a wide loggia, white with moonlight, and up a flight of stairs to a flat roof. Overhead a sky of milk was spangled with flashing stars. Beneath our eyes lay the palace gardens, where the torches of the Sudanese band glowed like transfixed fireflies in the pale moon rays. Palms and acacias and jeweled flower beds were cut out sharply in vivid colour by the light which streamed from open windows. Beyond, past the zone of violet shadow so like a stage background, was the sheen of the river, bright as spilt mercury under the moon. And beyond again, on the other side of the Nile, the tawny flame of that desert across which came the Khalifa's fierce army. This is where Gordon used to stand, the Seardar stopped us near the parapet. Only the roof was one story lower than. He climbed up here every day, till the last, to look out across the desert, saying, The English will come. There's a black gardener I have who thinks he meets him now, on moonlight nights like this, walking in the garden. It wasn't much of a garden in his day, only palms and orange trees, but a rose-bush he planted and loved is alive still. I've just asked one of my officers, one whom I particularly want you to meet, Miss Gilder, to pluck a rose from Gordon's bush and bring it here to you. He knows where to find us and when he comes I must go back to the ballroom and leave you, all three to his guidance. Lord Ernest and he used to be friends as boys, I believe. Perhaps you've heard him speak of Captain Anthony Fenton? Perhaps I don't remember, Monty answered, apologetically. She, so self-confident and self-possessed, was charmingly shy with this great soldier who had made history in the Sudan. If you don't remember, Lord Ernest can't have done justice to the subject. Fenton's one of the finest young officers in Egypt or, indeed, in the service. We're rather proud of him. Lately he's been employed on a special mission which he has carried out extremely well. Few others could have done it, for a man of great audacity and self-restraint was needed, a combination hard to find. He has been in the Balkans, and since he has had a particularly delicate task entrusted to him to be conducted with absolute secrecy. No kudos to be got out of it in case of success, and failure would almost certainly have cost his life. It was a question of disguise and getting at the native heart. It sounds like something in a story-book, said Monty, while Bridget and I kept mum, drinking in gulps of moonlight. Yes, the Syrtar agreed, or the autobiography of Sir Richard Burton. Fenton has the same extraordinary gift of language and dialect that Burton had. The art of makeup, too, and he's been to Mecca, a great adventure I believe he had. Perhaps you can get him to talk of it, though he's not fond of talking about himself. Altogether he's what I sometimes hear the ladies call a romantic figure. His father was a famous soldier. If you were English, you would have heard of him. He broke off a brilliant career in Egypt by running away with a beautiful princess. She was practically all Greek and Italian, though her father called himself a Turk. No Egyptian blood, whatever. But there was a great row, of course, and Charles Fenton left the army. Now Anthony Fenton's grandfather, who lives in Constantinople, would like to adopt his grandson. But the young man is in every sense of the word in Englishman, devoted to his career, and doesn't want a fortune or a Turkish title. Why, that sounds—monty faltered. Like a man of character and a born soldier, doesn't it? Here he comes now. There was a sound of quick, light footsteps on the stairs. In the silence we turned to see a tall young officer in uniform walk out upon the flat roof. The moon shone straight into a face, grave, yet eager, so deeply sunburned as to be brown, even in that pale light. Long eyebrows sketched sharply as if in ink, the black lines running down toward the skulls. Large, sad eyes, a slight upward hitch of the mouth on one side, clear-cut Roman nose, aggressive chin. Miss Guilder let me introduce Captain Anthony Fenton, the Seardar said. I've brought you a rose, said Anthony. They stood looking at one another for a long moment, the sun-brown British officer and the pale girl. We, Biddy and I, stared at them both from our distance, and when the spell of the instant had broken we saw that the Seardar had gone. We, too, would have gone, though the man and the girl were between us and the stairway, and we should have had to push past them. But Anthony, seeing our hesitation, spoke quietly. Don't go, he said. I may want you. Never until to-night had Monnie Guilder heard him speak English. You see, he said to her, why I told you yesterday you would never see Antune again. I had to tell you that, to make sure you would trust me, fully through everything. You have trusted me, and so you've made it possible for me to keep my vow. A wrong and stupid vow, but it had to be kept. When I was angry, because you treated me like a servant, I swore that never, no matter how I might be tempted, would I tell you with my own lips who I was, or let borrower tell. I was going to make myself of importance in your life as Ahmed Antune, if I could, not as Anthony Fenton. But long before that night at Filet I was ashamed. I—but you said then you would forgive me. Now, when you understand what you didn't understand then, can you still say the same? I hardly know what to say, she answered. I don't know how I feel about anything. Well, I know you goose, exclaimed Biddy, rushing to the rescue, where angels who haven't learned to think with their hearts might have feared to tread. You feel so happy you're afraid that you're going to howl. Why, it's all perfectly wonderful. And only the silliest, earliest Victorian girls would sulk because they'd been deceived. If anybody deceived you, you deceived yourself. I knew who he was from the first. So did your Aunt Clara. We've kept our ears open and heard the duffer talk about his friend, Anthony Fenton, who was coming to meet us. You were mooning, I suppose, and didn't listen. We didn't give him away partly because it wasn't our business, and partly because each of us was up to another game, never mind what. Captain Fenton never tried to play you a trick. You threw yourself at his head, you know you did, from Shepard's terrace. He had his mission to think of, and you'd be very conceited if you thought he ought to have let you interfere with it. As it happened, you worked in quite well with the mission at first. Then fate stepped in, and made the band play a different dance tune. No military march, but a love waltz. That wasn't his fault. And I have to remind you of all this, because you're glaring at Captain Fenton now as if he'd done something wrong, instead of fine, and he can't praise himself. As she finished, out of breath, having dashed on without a single comma, the giant black musicians in the garden began to sing a strange African love song, in deep, rich voices, their instruments which had played with precision European airs, suddenly pouring out their primitive, passionate souls. Biddy-deer, said the girl in a small, meek voice, thank you very much, and you're just sweet. But I didn't need even you to defend him to me. I was only just stopping to breathe, for fear my heart would burst, because I was dizzy with too much joy. I worship him. And—and you can both go away now, please. We don't want you. We went. Biddy would have fallen downstairs if I hadn't caught her round the waist. Needless to say, I didn't look back, but Biddy did, and should, by rights, have been turned into a pillar of salt. My gracious, but they're beautiful, she gasped. For goodness' sake, let's dash as fast as we can, down into the garden and do the same thing. What! I floundered. Why, you duffer, kiss each other like mad. Boiling with excitement, when I met Cleopatra later in the ballroom, I told her what was going on above, in the moonlight on the roof. At last your niece knows what I think you have guessed all along, but so wisely kept to yourself, I said, not Fenton, I mean. It's all right between those two now. They will come downstairs engaged. Everybody is engaged, Cleopatra stormily retorted. That's exactly what I remarked to Bridget before I could persuade her to follow the general example. Everybody in the world is engaged except ourselves, are the words I used. And except me, added Mrs. East. You forgot me, didn't you? Never, I insisted. You can be engaged to a dozen men at any moment, if you'd wanted to. I think you're exaggerating a little, Lord Honest. Cleopatra replied modestly and unsmilingly. But her countenance brightened faintly. Of course there are a few men. There were some in New York. You don't need to tell me that, I assured her. I feel as if I'd like to tell you something else, she went on, if you can spare a few minutes. Will you sit out the next dance? I asked. It isn't a bunny hug or a tango or anything distracting for lookers on. Aren't you dancing with Bridget? No such luck. I mean, fortunately not. She has grabbed Slutton Pasha and forgotten that I exist. By Jove, there come Miss Gilder and Fenton. What a couple. They're rather gorgeous waltzing together, what? Very nice, said Cleopatra, trying with all her over-emulated heart not to be acid. But, oh, Lord Ernest, that settles it. I must be engaged myself before Manny brings him to show me, like a cat with a mouse it's caught. Otherwise I couldn't stand it, and afterward would be too late. Hastily I rushed her out into the garden, where the shoe-bill regarded her with one eye of prehistoric wisdom. If she really were a reincarnation, I'm sure he knew it, and had probably belonged to her in Alexandria, when she was queen. There's a Mr. Talmadge in New York, she went on, wildly. He said he would come to me from across the world at a moment's notice if I wired. Only it would be awkward if I announced our engagement tonight, and then found he'd changed his mind. Besides, he'd be a last resort, and Saida Sabri said I ought. Why not wire Sir Marcus, I ventured. If his telegram had not come yesterday, I would have as soon advised Cleopatra to adopt and ask. Oh, well, I was thinking of it. That's one thing I wanted to ask your advice about. I believe he does love me. Idle-ize this is the word. And then, now and then, in the night I've had a feeling it was almost like a wasting something providential to refuse a Marcus Antonius. Saida Sabri warned me to wait for a man named Anthony, whom I should meet in Egypt. That's why I—but no matter now. The Lark is a dreadful obstacle, though. How could I live with a Lark? Lady Lark has quite a musical lild. Do you think so? There's one thing, even if you're the wife of a Marquis or an Earl, you can only be called Lady This or That. You might be anything. He's taller than Anton, I mean Captain Fenton, and his eyes are just as nice in their way. They quite haunt me since Filet. But Lord Ernest, he has some horrid, common little tricks. He scratches his hair when he's worried. If you look up his coat-sleeves you catch glimpses of gray yogger—a thing I always felt I could never marry. And worst of all, when he finishes a meal and goes away from the table he walks off eating. I don't suppose, said I, that your first Marquis Antonius ever went away from a table at all, on his feet, anyhow, while you were doing him so well in Egypt. He had to be carried. I call Sir Marquis, and I stole the Seardar's epithet for the other Anthony, a romantic figure. His adoration for you is a sonnet. There's no age in his name to bother you, and he fell in love at first sight like a real sport. I mean like the hero of a book. If he has ways you don't approve, you can cure them, redecorate, and remodel him with the latest American improvements. Why, I believe, he'd go so far as to give his lark a tale if you asked him to spell it with an E. Well, I suppose you're right about what I'd better do, she sighed. A bird in the hand—oh, I'm not making a silly pun about a lark—is worth two in New York. Please tell everyone you see I'm engaged to Sir Marquis, for he is my bird in the hand, and I'll send off a telegram the first thing to-morrow morning, for fear he hears the news that he's engaged to me prematurely. Where is he, do you know? By to-morrow morning he'll be at Marrow Camp, I said, but I did not add, so shall we. CHAPTER XXXI of it happened in Egypt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Murrow Williamson. CHAPTER XXXI. The Mountain of the Golden Pyramid. There was not much room in our hearts for mountains or gold just then. Yet somehow, before we left the palace, Anthony and I had told Bridget and Monty the secret which had been the romance of our lives, until they came into it to paint dead gold with the living rows of love. Victorian women would have been grieved or angry with men who could leave them at such a time, but these two, instead of approaching us, urged us on. Naturally they wanted to go with us. They said if there were danger they wished to share it, and if there were to be a find they wished to be among the first to see what no eyes had seen for two thousand years. But when Anthony explained that there wasn't time to get tense together and make a decent camp for ladies, even if we were sure not to tumble into trouble, they said no more. This was surprising in Monty, if not in Bridget. I supposed, however, that she was being on her best behavior as a kind of thank-offering to Providence for its unexpected gift of legitimate happiness. Our secret was to be kept. Only the Seardar knew, and gave Fenton leave of absence for a few days. The set did not suspect the existence of a mountain at Marot more important than its neighbors. They did not even know what had become of Antune Effendi after he bade them farewell and good luck. From the first he had given it out that he must leave the party at Cartoon. The object of returning to Marot was to meet Sir Marcus, and I promised to be back in plenty of time to organize the return trip to Cairo. My departure, therefore, was all in the day's work, and the great sensation was Mrs. East's engagement. Even though for obvious reasons Monty's love affair was kept dark, Cleopatra could not resist parading hers the minute her wire to Sir Marcus had been safely sent. I got an invitation for all the members of the set to a tennis party in the palace gardens, at which the Sultan of Darfur and a bodyguard armed with battle-axes would be the chief attraction. Also I induced the landlord of our hotel to promise special illuminations, music, and an impromptu dance for the evening. This was to make sure that none of our friends should find time to see me off at the train. Anthony was to join me there, in Mufti, and might be recognized by sharp eyes on the lookout for mysteries. Once we got away that danger would be passed unless Cleopatra told. But I was certain that she would not to any one ever again mention the name of Antune. It was a full train that night, but no one in it who knew Antune. Many people who had been visiting friends or staying at a hotel for weeks were saying good-bye. The narrow corridors of the sleeping-cars had African spears piled up on the floor against the wall, very long and inconvenient. Ladies struggled in with rainbow-colored baskets almost too big for their compartments. Seeds were littered with snake-skins like immense, decayed apple-pairings, fearsome, crescent-shaped knives, leopard rugs in embryo, and strange headgear in many varieties. Stuffed crocodiles fell down from the racks and got underfoot. Men walked about with elephant tusks under their arms. Dregelmen solicited a last tip. A six-foot-seven dinka, black as ink and splendid as a Greek statue, brought flowers from the palace for some departing acquaintance of the seardar and his wife. Officers in evening-dress dashed up through the sand on donkey-back to see the last of friends, their mess-jackets making vivid spots of color in the electric light. All the fragrant blossoms of cartoons seem to be sending farewell messages of perfume on the cool evening air. No more fantastic scene at a railway station could be imagined. If the world in its doings is but a moving picture for the gods on Olympus, they must enjoy the film of a train departing from cartoon. Anthony did not join me until just as the train was crawling out of the station, for we had asked Bridget and Monty not to see us off, and they had been startlingly acquiescent. We had a two-birthed compartment together and talked most of the night in low voices of the mountain, of the legends concerning it, and the papers of the dead Egyptologist Ferlini, which indirectly had brought Fenton into Monty Gilder's life and given Bridget back to me. There was the out-of-doors breakfast party, too, on the terrace at Shepherd's. Had it not been for this incident, Antoon, the green turbaned Haji would never have been selected by Miss Gilder in words she might now like to forget. I'll have that. But had not a distressed artist called on me one morning in Rome some months ago with an old notebook to sell, I should not have come to Egypt for my sick leave, and none of us would have met. I had visited the artist's studio to please a friend and bought a picture to please him, not myself. Therefore he regarded me as a charitable delitant, likely to buy anything if properly approached. Bad luck had come to him. He wanted to try Pastor's new and needed money as short notice. Therefore he wished to dispose of a secret which might be the key to fortune. Why didn't he use the key himself, was the obvious question, which he answered by saying that a poor man would not be able to find the lock to fit it. The notebook he had to sell had been the property of a distinguished distant relative, long since dead. The Italian, Fellini, who about 1834 ransacked the ruins of Merot in the Kingdom of Candice. Fellini had given treasure in gold, scarabs, and jewels to Berlin, all of which he had discovered in a secret cache in the masonry of a pyramid, in the so-called Pyramid Field of Merot. But he had been blamed for unscientific work, and in some quarters it was not believed that he had found the hoard at Merot. This jealousy and injustice had prevented Fellini's obtaining a grant for further explorations he wished to make. He claimed to have proof that in a certain mountain, not far from the Merot pyramids, and much resembling them in shape, was hidden the tomb of a Candice who lived two hundred years earlier than the queen of that name mentioned in the New Testament, mistress of the eunuch baptized by St. Philip. In the notebook which had come down with other belongings of Fellini, the Egyptologist, to Fellini the artist, was a copy of a certain demotic writing of a peculiar and little-known form. The original had existed, according to the dead Fellini's notes, on the wall of an antichapel in one of the most ruinous pyramids at Merot, decorated in a peculiarly barbaric Ethiopian style. The wall writing described the making of the mountain tomb, ordered by Candice in fear that her body might be disturbed, according to a prophecy which predicted the destruction of the kingdom if the jewels of the dead were found. Fellini, a student of the demotic writings which had superseded hieroglyphics, doubted not that he had translated the revelation aright, though he admitted supplying many missing words in accordance with his own deductions. He was in disfavor at the time he tried to organize an expedition in search of the queen's hoard, and, though legends of the mountain confirmed the writings which Fellini was the first to translate, the Italian could induce no one to finance his scheme. The one person he succeeded in interesting had a relative, already excavating in Egypt, but eventually addressed on the subject this young man replied that the antichapel in question had fallen completely into ruin. It would be impossible, therefore, to find the wall writing if indeed it ever existed. This verdict had put an end to Fellini's hopes, and nothing remained of them saved the translated copy of the writing in his notebook. The missing words inserted, and the legends of the negroes who, generation after generation, since forgotten times, had told the story of the mountain of the golden pyramid. Nobody within the memory of man had ever searched for the problematical tomb, and as tales of more or less the same character are common in Egypt, I did not place much faith in the enthusiastic jottings of Fellini. However, my love of the unknown, the mysterious and romantic, made me feel that the possession of the notebook was worth the priced ass. Two thousand lira. When I had brooded over it myself, I posted it to Fenton at cartoon, and his opinion had brought me to Egypt. Thinking of the matter in this way, it seemed to me that we owed our love stories to the impecunious artist who had probably spent his eighty pounds and forgotten me by this time. In a few hours or a few days we might owe him even more. Anthony, acquainted with Mero, its pyramids and pyramidal mountains, since his first coming to the Sudan, had been able to plan out our campaign almost at an hour's notice. He knew where to wire for camels, to take us to our destination, eighteen miles from Kabushia, also for trained excavators, and he knew one who, if the white men were in ignorance, could tell us all the most hidden happenings of the desert for fifty miles around. This was the great character of the neighborhood among the blacks, the wise man of the Meroitic Desert, who claimed to be over a hundred years old, had a tribe of sons and grandsons, and practically ruled the village of Bukharawea. For countless generations his forebears had lived under the shadow of the ruined pyramids. Family tradition made them the descendants of those Egyptian warriors who revolted in the time of King Symedicus, migrating from Elephantine Island to Ethiopia. They were well received by the sovereign, given lands in Upper Nubia, and the title of Atalomi or Asmak, meaning those who stand on the left side of the king. Anthony's friend and instructor in the lore of legends rejoiced in the name of Asmak, which, he proudly said, had been bestowed on the eldest son in his family since time immemorial. If the old and wise was to meet us at Kabushia Station, with camels, one for each and one for Sir Marcus, in case he had arrived and wished to ride to the mountain of the golden pyramid. It was red-orange afternoon when our white train slowed down, to pause for a moment at Kabushia Station, and the first face we saw was that of Sir Marcus Antonius, a radiant face whose beaming smile was, I knew, not so much a welcome sign for us as a sign that he had received the telegram from Cleopatra. He hurried along the platform to the steps of our sleeping-car, and Anthony, ready to swing himself down before the train stopped, pointed out Asmak not far off, a thin, old black man who must have once have been a stately giant, but bent forward now as if searching the earth for his own grave. He had got to his feet from a squatting position in the coal- stained, alluvial clay of this strange desert, and was gazing toward us, his few rags fluttering in the warm wind. Beside him stood a mere youth of fifty or so, and two or three young men, with several sulky camels. Sir Marcus began to shake hands almost before we were on the platform, and so did he engross himself in us and absorb our attention that none of us quite knew when the train went out. My dear boys, he addressed us, nearly breaking our finger- bones. Lord Fenton, you're even better-looking as a true Britisher than a false Arab. But never mind that now. Borough, you're a Trump. I believe I owe everything to you. I mean in the matter of Mrs. East. Clara. It was always my favorite name. Fenton knows. Thanks for the congratulations. Thanks to you both. You must be my best men. What? Can't have but one? Well, it must be Borough, then, I suppose. Oh, about the mountain. Why, of course, you're anxious. You think I have not been busy? I have. Got here by special train. Cost me a lot of money, but who cares? It's worth it. I want to hurry things up and get to Cartoon. What your blessed mountain is to you? That is a certain lady to me. What have you found out? I managed at last to cut short his rhapsodies. Why, not much, I'm bound to confess. But I've only had a few hours. Someone, heaven knows who, came here, it seems, with Arabs he's engaged, heaven knows where, and pretended to be my agent, empowered by me to work at the mountain of the golden pyramid, where it was well known I'd got the right to excavate. Well the chap was armed with credentials, and had a contract signed by me, so the authorities thought that was all right, of course, and let him go on. This was more than a month ago. He pitched his camp out by the mountain, and nobody disturbed him. Fact is, from what I hear, I don't believe the excavating men from Liverpool School of Archaeology, or whatever you call it, thought much of his chances of success, with case of looking for Captain Kidd's treasure. He and his men were excavating round the mountain, and he'd engaged some more fellows from the neighborhood to make the work go faster. But a few days ago, not yet a week, he discharged the lot, paid them up, and sent them off, saying he'd abandoned hope of finding any entrance to an alleged tomb. The Arabs departed by train, but the fellows from hereabouts gossiped a bit, it seems, and the story was started that they'd been got rid of because the boss had hit on something and wanted to be left to himself. "'You haven't yet told us the name of the man,' Anthony reminded him. "'By Jove, no more I haven't. I'm so excited about everything. You won't know it, but borough will. Colonel Corcoran.' "'Anthony gave me a look. I do know the name,' he said. "'It's the man of my dream. The man of your dream? Corcoran, a dream? A dream which has kept repeating itself till I grew superstitious about it. A red-faced man with a purplish sort of mustache I saw coming between you and us, or looking at me out of a dark recess, something like a deep doorway. Borough said when I told him I was describing your man, Corcoran, whose place he took on your yacht, Candace. "'Well, I'm hanged. If that's not the rummiest go. I only hope he's not in that recess or deep doorway now if it leads into your mountain. You remember Borough, my telling you he'd been alone for a while in the sitting-room I'd used as an office at the Summiramis Hotel, and had had a good chance, if he wanted, to browse among my papers? Well, I didn't mention this to you at the time, but an unsigned contract with you for your services, in return for all my rights in the mountain of the golden pyramid, was lying on the desk. As for the contract he's showing here, it could have only been for the trip, but it showed him to be my agent right enough. And there were two confidential letters on my desk, one from a man I'd written to, an Egyptological chap, saying in his opinion there might be a tomb in the mountain, the other, an answer, not finished, telling him I meant to run the risk, and had secured the rights. You know how queer I thought it, Corcoran should throw up his job, which was paying him pretty well. But it wasn't my business, and I was jolly glad to be rid of him, as it happened. Well, here we have the mystery explained. "'Not quite yet. I wish we had,' I said, thinking of the sly old poacher on our preserves, who had perhaps by this time skimmed the cream off the secret. It was easy to guess why he had sent away his workers, if indeed he had imagined himself on the eve of a discovery. Rights to Dick are given on the understanding that the Egyptian government shall have half of everything found, worth the taking. Corcoran's scheme, to be alone, must mean that he intended annexing what treasure he could carry off, and then getting out of the bad business. Already six days had passed since the Arabs and the Nubians had left him alone in his camp, and, though it was lucky that we had learned what was going on, it might be too late to profit by the information. Even if we caught Corcoran red-handed, he might have hidden his spoil where none but he, or some messenger, could ever find it. "'You'll go with us out to the mountain, Sir Marcus,' I went on. "'We'll be ready to start, but Sir Marcus has suddenly become deaf. He had turned as if to gaze after the long ago departed train. Instead of answering me, he was stalking off toward a group of people at the far end of the platform, three ladies and two men in khaki. For a second I felt an impulse of indignation, cheek of him to march away like that, not caring much that we had been robbed, largely through his carelessness and by one of his own men. But the indignation turned to surprise, sheer, incredulous amazement. I glanced at Anthony to learn whether he had seen, but he was beckoning the old wise man of the desert. "'Fenton,' said I, "'it seems we weren't the only passengers to get off here. There are three people we know, talking to two we don't.' Anthony looked. "'Great Scott,' said he, and in another instant we were following Sir Marcus hastily along the platform to greet, or a scold we weren't sure which it ought to be. The big-headed, green-veiled khaki dressed but easily recognized figures of Brigid O'Brien, Monnie Gilder, and Mrs. East. We couldn't help it,' Monnie cried in self-defense to Anthony, before he had time to reach the group. "'We knew you wouldn't let us come, so we came, because we had to be in this with you. Even Biddy wanted to, and she's so wise. As for Aunt Clara, I believe she'd have started off without us if we hadn't been wild for the journey. So you see how it was. We did see, and we couldn't help rejoicing in their pluck, as well as in the sight of them, though it was all against our common sense. We've ordered our own camels and a tent and things to eat and drink, so we shan't be any bother to you,' Monnie went on, as Anthony rather gravely shook hands, his eager brows lifted, his eyes smiling in spite of himself. We couldn't have done it if it hadn't been for Slotan Pasha. We first went and confided everything to him, because we knew he loved adventures and would be sure to sympathize. These gentlemen from the camp are his friends, and they've organized our little expedition at his request. More than one person can use the telegraph, you know. And oh, won't it be lovely going with you out into the desert? It was not yet evening when we set forth, but it was the birth of another day when we arrived within sight of Corcoran's camp. The tents glimmered pale in the light which comes up out of the desert before dawn, as light rises from the sea, and so deep with the stillness that it might have been a ghost camp. There was not even the howling of a dog, and this silence was more eerie than the silence of sleep in a lonely place, because of the tale a grandson of Osmets had brought to the village. He was one of the Nubian men Corcoran had engaged to help his Arab workman from the north, and when the whole gang had been discharged he, suspecting that some secret thing was afoot, hid in the desert scrub that he might return by night to spy. He had wished his brothers to stay with him, but they, fearing the gins who haunt the mountain and have power at night, refused and begged him to come away lest he be struck by a terrible death. The legend was that Queen Candice, the queen who ordered the making of the tomb, had been a witch. When she died, by her magic arts learned from the lost book of thought she had turned all those aware of the tomb's existence into gins to guard the secret dwelling of her soul. Even the great men of the court, who, by her wish, hid in the mountain, her body, and jewels and treasure, became gins the moment they had closed and concealed the entrance to the tomb. They could never impart the secret to mortals, and because of the knowledge which burned within their hearts and the anguish of being parted forever from those they loved, the tortured spirits in prison grew malevolent. While the sun, still worshipped by them as Ra, was above the horizon they had no power over men, but the moment that Ra died his red death, the gins could destroy those who ventured within such a distance of the mountain as its shadow might reach. And if any man ventured nearer in the darkness of night, he heard the wailing of the spirits. Camp had been pitched beyond the shadows farthest reach, but the night after the workmen were discharged, Asmech's one brave grandson had been led by curiosity to approach the haunted mountain. When he had crept within the trench most lately dug, he had heard the wicked voice of the gins raging and quarreling together. There had been a threatening cry when they knew how a man had defied their power, and the Nubian had escaped to fate too horrible to put into words, only by running, running until his breath gave out, and the sun rose. The story gave the silent desert power even over European minds, as we came where the small camp glimmered just outside those shadows' wicked circle. Not one of Asmech's men would go with us to the tent, which was evidently that of the leader. He might be lying there dead, struck by the gins, they said, and all those who looked upon the body would be accursed. The three women would not have gone to Corcoran's tent even had we allowed them to do so, and Sir Marcus, already a slave, though a willing one, stayed with his adored lady and her friends, inside the ring which the Nubians proceeded to make with the camels. In the lighted lantern Anthony and I walked alone to the tent. The flap was down but not fastened, and the canvas moved slightly as if trembling fingers tried to hold it taut. Colonel Corcoran I called out sharply, but there was no answer. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of it happened in Egypt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. Chapter 32 The Secret Anthony lifted the flap, holding up the lantern, and we both looked in. No one was there, but the tent had the look of recent occupation. It was neatly arranged as the tent of an old soldier should be, but on the table stood a half-used candle stuck in a bottle, and beside it a book lay open, face downward. Entering the tent the first thing I did was to glance at the title of this book. It was a learned archaeological treatise. Here and there a paragraph was marked, and the leaves dog-zeered. Three other volumes of the same sort were piled one upon the other. Anthony and I had read all four during the last few months since our minds had concentrated on the subject of pyramids and rock-tunes. What do you think has become of Corcoran, I said to Anthony. I think the jins have got him, he answered, gravely. You mean—I don't know quite what I mean—but he must have hit upon something and then have been prevented from coming back. Why should he have had such luck after a few weeks' work, an unscientific fellow like him, if the secret of the mountain has been inviolate for over two thousand years? Wait and see what's happened to him before you call it luck, duffer. But you must remember that nobody except Fellini and a few superstitious blacks ever believed that the mountain had a secret. In credulity, yes, predicted it. And Corcoran had to work like a thousand devils if he hoped to get hold of anything before he was found out. I believe he has got hold of something, and that it then got hold of him, but we shall see. Yes, we shall see, I repeated, and before long if we too have luck. I hope it won't be the same kind as his, but come along out of this. We must get to work before sunrise and try for a result of some sort before the worst of the heat. If he's found anything, we ought pretty quickly to profit by his weeks of frantic labor. That maybe will be our revenge. We had to tell the party what we had found in the tent and what we meant to do next. Sir Marcus was now excused by Mrs. East, but until summoned by us the ladies were to remain where they were, under shelter of the tent which the camel-boys were getting into shape. When exhorted to be patient they received the advice in sweet silence, but we did not until later attach much importance to this unusual mood. Perhaps at that moment we were too preoccupied to notice expressions, even in the eyes we loved best. We took with us two men whom Asmak had provided as diggers, and in five minutes we were at the base of the little dark, conical mountain which for weeks had been the object of our dreams. Now, standing face to face with it, the glamour faded. The mountain of the golden pyramid was exactly like a dozen other tumbled shapes of black rock, grouped or scattered over the dull clay desert which many centuries ago had been the fertile realm of Candace. Why should a queen have selected it from among its lumpish fellows to do its secret honour? But Corcoran had had faith. Here were traces of what Fenton called his frantic labours. A parallel trench had been dug with the evident object of unearthing a buried entrance into the mountain. Down it went through hardened sand and clay to a depth of eight or ten feet, and ascending we found, as we expected to do, several low tunnels driven at right angles toward the mountain itself. Even after another we entered, crawling on hands and knees, only to come up against a solid wall of rock at the end. Each of these burrows represented just so much toil and disappointment. But Corcoran, whose undertaking could be justified even to his own mind only by success, had not been discouraged. The trench went round three sides of the mountain, as we soon discovered, and the corner of the fourth façade, not having yet been turned, it seemed to sign that Corcoran had, as Anthony said, hit upon something, or a thought that he had done so. Otherwise he would not have discharged his men before the fourth gallery was begun. We had started from the south because our camp faced the long trench on that side, and it was quicker to jump into it than to walk round and examine the excavations from ground level. On the east the plan of the work was the same as on the south, that the tunnels leading mountainward were driven at different distances, relatively to each other, and each of these also ended in a cul-de-sac. Now remained in the trench on the north side of the mountain, which was the most promising direction for a find, and, as we turned the corner which brought us into the third trench, the sun-rows, making the sky blossom like the prim-rows fields of heaven. On this side, sand driven by the northerly wind which never rests itself, had banked itself high against the mountain, and the excavation had been a more serious task. There were only two tunnels, and into both sand had fallen. One was nearly blocked up, and impossible to enter without reopening, but we took it for granted hopefully that the second had been made later. This ran toward the mountain with a northeasterly slant, and, though it was partly choked by sand, it was possible to crawl in. Anthony insisted on going first. I followed at the pace of my early ancestor the Worm, and Sir Marcus comfortably waited outside. He wanted to be a pioneer only in financial paths, and, after all, this was our mountain now. It wasn't worth his while to be killed in it. Besides, as he pointed out, if anything happened to us there must be someone to organize a rescue and break the news to the ladies. Anthony had a small electric torch and eye lantern, but, going on hands and knees, we could use the lights only now and then. When we had crept ahead, descending always, for twelve or fifteen feet, Anthony stopped. Hello, I heard him call, in a muffled, reverberating voice. Here's the reason why Corcoran sent his Arabs away. What is it, I yelled, my heart jumping. The rock's been cut back by the hands of men. His men, perhaps. No, it isn't done like that nowadays. The tunnel turns here, dips down, and goes on along this flat wall. I bet Corcoran always kept ahead of the men. When he saw this he discharged his workers, and yet it may be nothing of importance after all. Only a flat surface for some old wall inscriptions such as Romans and even Egyptian soldiers made constantly on the march. The rumbling voice ceased as Anthony crawled round the turn of the passage. I followed, literally close on his heels, the burrow descending like a rabbit-hole. Suddenly Anthony stopped again. I've come into a sort of chamber Corcoran scooped out, I heard him say. It's high enough to sit up in. No, to stand up in. This is the end of the passage, I think. By Job, look out! He had disappeared in the darkness behind a higher arch in the roof of the gallery. As he cried out, I slipped through after him, slid down a steep, abrupt slope, and by the light of my agitated lantern saw Anthony standing waist-deep in a well-like hole into which he had evidently stumbled. Let me give you a hand up, I said. No, thank you, he answered in a tense, excited voice. This is where I want to be. Look! I looked and saw, at the bottom of the scooped-out hole, a crevice in the flat wall of rock which we had been following down the passage, after its turn from the right angle to creep along the mountain side. A lot of this crevice protruded a large iron crowbar, apparently jammed into place, the first tool we had seen anywhere. The chamber in which I stood was littered and piled up with hard masses of earth which had been thrown out of the hole, and on the rough floor of the ladder I stepped on the spade which had done the work. It nearly turned my ankle as I jumped onto it, but I hardly felt the pain. Torch and lantern showed clearly that the crevice in the wall was not a natural crack, but a man-made opening. It was as if a slab of rock fitted roughly into grooves had first been lifted and had then fallen heavily onto the crowbar. I set the lantern on the earthy floor and its yellow light streamed through the crack, once the crowbar protruded, like a black pipe in a negro's mouth. It was all darkness on the other side, from behind the screen of rock set in its deep grooves came the strangest sound I ever heard, or shall ever hear. It was a voice, groaning, yet it was not like a human voice. The horrid idea jumped into my head that it was the howl of an evil spirit sitting in a dead man's skull. He's alive, then, exclaimed Anthony, pale in the sickly light. Is that you, Corcoran? He called. The only answer was another groan. I see the whole business now, don't you, Fenton said. This passage is very steep. Maybe it was far under ground level before we got to the cutting on the mountain wall, and it must have been under ground level for many centuries. They dug deep down to make the tomb, and then covered up the entrance with earth. When Corcoran got to his portcullis, he thought he'd reached the reward of his labors. Well, so he had, the punishment. Here's the heap of stone he used as a fulcrum for his lever. The heap tumbled when he was on the other side, and the slab of rock came down to trap him. We'll have to build up his fulcrum again before we can do anything ourselves. Together we forced the flat end of the crowbar into the crevice, pressed a piece of rock under it, and exerted all our strength. The slab moved upward an inch or two, grating in its rough grooves. The crack, no higher than the diameter of the crowbar plus a stone or two when we first saw it, was now twice its original height. In went another stone, and so on. We worked like demons in hell, and in an atmosphere almost as hot and breathless. Yet we could breathe. Whether all the air we got came through the long twisting passage Corcoran had made, or whether there were ventilation from the other side of the rock curtain, some opening in an unseen cave we could not tell. All we knew was that the mountain had a secret, and that the man who had tried to rob us of our rights to it was caught in the trap of the jins. Our rights! How fragile are spiderwebs! How almost laughable they seem down here! Rights we had bargained for with men, which they, not owning them, had gravely given. I suddenly realized, and I think Anthony realized, as sweating and silent we piled up the fulcrum of stone thrown down by the jins, that they alone, or the sleeping queen they guarded, had rights in this hidden place. When we had raised the slab to a height of about two feet in its grooves, and had made sure that the stones held it firmly in place, we told each other that it was time to cross the threshold. The rock door was scarcely more than a yard in width, and we crawled through in single file, Anthony going ahead as before with his torch. I passed my lantern in after him and then followed. As I crept through the narrow aperture I was conscious, among other emotions, of vague disappointment. If this is the way to a tomb, and the only way, there can't be anything very fine to discover, I said to myself, why the entrance isn't big enough to let in a decent-sized sarcophagus. It's the man of my dreams all right, and he's lying close to a deep set doorway, like the one where I've seen him so often. I told you so, Anthony was saying, in quite a commonplace voice, as I picked myself up on the other side of the rock screen. We were in a small chamber, more roughly hewn, and not so large as the inner sanctuary of Abu Simbel, which I had such good cause to remember. Exactly opposite the entrance by which we had come in was, as Anthony had said, a door, deeply set in the rock, a door of the same type as that through which we had passed, and in the shadow of the overhanging arch lay the heavy figure of Colonel Corcoran, dressed in khaki. His eyes were open, but he did not stir as we bent over him. Only his lips moved slightly as if he were making a grimace. He's trying to ask for something to eat or drink, said Fenton. What a confounded fool I am, I've nothing, not even a flask. Have you? No, I'll go back at once and get something, I answered. Strange, but I was not in the least angry with Corcoran, whom I had been execrating. Perhaps this was partly because the impression that the jins had sole rights here was growing stronger every moment. We were all interlopers, usurpers. Without stopping for more words, I turned my back to the secret still unsolved. To my surprise, however, I saw a light, stronger than our own, shining outside the partly raised screen of rock. Getting on my knees to crawl out, my face almost met the face of Monnie Gilder, about to crawl in. Involuntarily I gave way, and in she crept like a big baby, bitty coming after. Then we laughed, though I had seldom felt less like laughing. And the echo of our laughter was as if the spirits laughed behind our backs. We never promised we wouldn't come, Monnie hastily began, before Anthony could speak. We just kept still, and Sir Marcus thought she wouldn't much mind, because the two nicest newbians brought us quite safely. Oh, isn't it wonderful? And to be here when you open that door. But why, it isn't one of our men with you, it's the thief. Don't call him names now, dearest, Bridget Begg. Poor wretch, he looks nearly dead. What a good thing we brought the biscuits and brandy. I was going for some, I said. Not only had I got to my feet again, but had helped Bitty to hers. And Anthony had snatched his tall Monnie up, as if she had been a bundle of thistle down. The angels! It would never have done to tell them how glad we were that they had disobeyed us. It was Providence, apparently, not Marcus Lark, who had sent them to the rescue. We thought perhaps if you found anything interesting you'd want to stay with it a long time, explained Monnie. That's why we brought you food and drink. It was a good thing we came, isn't it? Fenton and I did not answer. Indeed we occupied ourselves with ministering to the enemy, a few bits of crumbled biscuit, a few drops of brandy to moisten them. He mumbled and swallowed and choked, and slowly the vainest red came back to the flabby gray cheeks, with their prickles of sprouting beard. It's fresh air he needs now, said Anthony. He won't die from two or three days fasting, not he. And it can't be more, for it would have taken him days and nights of hard work to get here after his men were sent off. Jove! I believe it's more funk than anything else that's laid him low. Thought he was done for and all that. Look! There's his candle-lantern upset on the floor. It couldn't have been very gay for him when the light went out. Lend a hand, Duffer, and we'll give him to the newbians the girls have brought. They'll carry him to his own tent. He never got as far as the second door here, so we didn't search him, otherwise I would, like a shot. Yes, it was something higher than a mere financier who sent the girls to us in the ante-chamber of the secret. We could not, for their own sakes, have risked bringing them. But here they were, and we should always have this memory together, we told ourselves, though we did not tell the disobedient ones. That would have been a bad precedent. What there was to see, they would see with us, and even the gins could not work harm to angels. We went out and collected more stones with which to prop up the second screen of rock, which was not so thick as the first, and used cork-grinds spade to hold it up at last. Beyond was another roughly hewn chamber, and at the far end, set in a curiously fitted frame of wood, a wooden door, looking almost as new as though it had been made yesterday. Anthony flashed his electric torch over it, and we saw the grain of deal. There was a bronze lock and a latch of strange, crude workmanship which Monnie touched deprecatingly. May I, she half-whispered, for to her also the place was haunted. She seemed to ask permission of spirits rather than of her lover. But the latch did not move. It would be sacrilege to break the lock, she said. What shall you do? Take the door off its supports, they're not hinges, Fenton answered, in the queer, low tone which somehow we all instinctively adopted. We've got one or two implements that may help to do the trick. She worked cautiously, even tenderly, for this queen's secret was our secret in the finding, even if the right to it was in the keeping of the gins. Monnie held my lantern, and it was a good half-hour before Anthony and I together could carefully lift the deal-door, unbroken, from its place. Still Monnie held the lantern, and at the threshold of a dimly-seen room beyond we all drew back, for on the sanded floor were footprints. To them the girl pointed, her eyes turning to Anthony's face as if to ask, How can it be that anyone came in when the door was locked and there was that screen of rock to raise? But as we looked over one another's shoulders we realized that the prints were not made by modern boots. They were the marks of sandals, and they went across the floor to a thing that glittered in the middle of the room, a vague shape like a draped coffin, with something high and pointed on top, crossed to a glittering table on which a ray from the lantern revealed offerings to the dead, a loaf, a roasted duck, its wings neatly tied with string, cakes and fruit, all dried and blackened, but perfect in form, and a saucer of incense from which a little ash had fallen from a ghostly pastel onto the table. There the sandaled feet had paused, while the incense caught a spark, and moving on had walked straight to the door. A faint fragrance from perfume jars came to our nostrils. A strange, subtle fragrance still, though most of its sweetness had gone, leaving more marked the smell of fat which had held the perfume all these years, while civilizations grew up and perished. The man who had lit the incense and locked the door seemed to have hurried back from, who knew where, to stand behind us, saying, I forbid you entrance in the name of the ancient gods. We could not see him nor hear his voice, but we could feel that he was there, and something in us revolted against the ruthlessness of disobeying, of forcing our way into the room in spite of him to crush his footprints with ours. Why does the sand glitter so, Manny asked? Everything glitters, everything looks as if it were made of gold. The mountain of the golden pyramid, Biddy murmured. Go in, first, you two, and bless the place, I said, my heart wildly beating. They obeyed for once, moving delicately as if to music which ears of men were not fine enough to hear. They went hand in hand, and as Manny in her straight, pale-tinted dress held up the lantern, I thought of the wise virgin. When this room had last been lighted, the parable of the virgins of the lamps was yet unspoken. It is not sand, said Manny, gasping a little in the heavy air. It has sprinkled gold dust. Now it is on the soles of our feet. It shines, it shines. Anthony and I followed, still with that curious sense of hesitation, as if we ought to apologize to someone. The room of the dead was very close, and we drew our breath with difficulty for a moment. But the discomfort passed. Mechanically we avoided the footmarks printed in gold, avoided them as if they had been covered by invisible feet. Manny was right. Everything was gold, and it shone, it shone. Just from the terrible mines of nub, whence the convict miners never returned, lay thickly scattered over the rock floor. The walls of rock were plastered with gold leaf, as high as the low ceiling, and upon the ceiling itself, on a background of deep blue color, was traced in gold the form of nut, goddess of night, her long arms outspread across an azure sky of golden stars. The table of offerings was decorated with gold and barbaric patterns, and the saucer which held the burnt pastille of incense was of gold, crudely designed but beautiful. Cloth of gold, soft as old linen, draped a coffin in the center of the room, and hid the conical object on the coffin's lid. On a sudden half-savage impulse I lifted the covering, with a pang of fear lest the fabric should drop to pieces. But it did not. Its limp, yet heavy folds fell across my feet, as I stood looking at the wonderful thing it had concealed. There was no sarcophagus of stone. The doors leading to the rock-tomb were not large enough to have emitted one. Instead there was an extraordinarily high, narrow coffin or mummy case, richly gilded and decorated with intricate designs different from any I had seen in the museum at Cairo. The top of the case represented the figure of a woman, with a smiling golden face, painted lips and hair. But the strangeness and wonder were under the long eyelids and in the woman's hands. The slanting eyes had each an immense kabuchan emerald set for its iris, set round with brilliant stones like diamonds curiously cut, and the carved, gilded hands of wood, with realistic fingers, wearing rings, were clasped round a pyramid of gold. This it was which had betrayed its conical shape through the drapery of gold cloth. The opening in the miniature pyramid was not concealed. There was a little door guarded by a tiny golden sphinx, and on the neck of the sphinx, suspended by a delicate chain, was a bell. It is to call the spirit of the queen if a profane touch should violate her tune, Fenton said dreamily. He was beginning to look like a man hypnotized. Perhaps it was the close air with its lingering perfume of two thousand years ago. Perhaps it was something else, more subtle, something that we could all feel, as one feels the touch of a living hand that moves under a cloak. No one spoke for an instant. I think we half expected the bell to ring. Then Fenton said, Manny, you and Mrs. O'Brien must choose which is to have the privilege of finding out the secret of the golden pyramid. The duffer and I wanted to be one of you. Oh, no, not I, cried Manny, almost angrily. Nor I, bitty-firmly echoed. Duffer, the papers were yours. Will you, Anthony began. No, I—it was your faith in the mountain that brought us to it, I reminded him. It ought to be you. If it ought to be any of us, Manny broke in, with a little breathless catch in her voice. If—but what do you mean, Anthony turned, an odd, startled look upon the girl? I hardly know what I mean, only I couldn't touch anything here. They are hers. They've been hers for two thousand and two hundred years. I never thought I should feel like this. I'd rather drop dead this minute than try to take that little pyramid out of those golden hands. They've clasped it so long. She wanted so much to keep the secret, Anthony. This is the strongest feeling that ever came into my heart, except love for you—this feeling that—we have no right—that it would be monstrous to rob this queen. It wouldn't be robbing, Anthony said heavily. We have the right. Oh, I wonder, bitty-whispered. What would become of museums if everybody felt as you suddenly feel, or think you feel, Fenton went on? If it were wrong to open tombs, the best men in Egypt. Not wrong, perhaps, Manny explained. But oh, I'm sure you understand. I'm sure in your hearts you both, you men, feel just as we do, now we're in this wonderful secret place. That something forbids—I don't know whether it's something in ourselves or outside, but it's here. It says, No, whatever others do, you cannot do this thing. If you didn't feel it, you would have taken the pyramid out of those poor hands and tried to tear off the rings and open the coffin itself to get at the mummy. But you haven't, either of you. You don't want to do it. You can't. I dare one of you to tell me it's only for bitty in me that you've kept your hands off. We've come a long way and have done a good deal to find this secret that we expected Egypt to give us, I said, dolly, instead of answering her challenge. Manny had no argument for me. She turned to Anthony. The secret you expected Egypt to give, she echoed, and has an Egypt given you a secret? Yes, said Anthony. Egypt has given us a secret, the greatest secret of all. But is there a but? I wonder if that isn't the only secret which one can open and learn by heart, without breaking the charm? Bitty seemed to be speaking to herself, but we heard. The secret of love goes on forever being a secret, doesn't it? The more you find out about it, just as the world and its beauty grows greater and more wonderful the higher you climb up a mountain. But other secrets you find them out and they're gone, like a bright soap bubble. Nothing can mend broken romance. If we didn't touch anything here, what a memory this would be to carry away, Manny said. Don't you remember, Anthony, my saying once how I love to dream of all the beautiful lost things hidden beneath the sea and earth, never to be found while the world lasts, and stuck miserably under glass cases? You said you felt the same in some moods. I love those moods. I felt I feel so about things in general, Anthony admitted. It was my romantic side you appealed to. Have you a better side? No better, but more practical. This isn't things in general. It's a thing particular, personal, and definite. If we should be chaotic enough not to take what we've earned to the right to take, we should be called fools. Instead of claiming our half, the Egyptian government would get all. Let it, Manny cried. A government is a big, cold, soulless impersonality. It could never know the thrill that's in our blood this wonderful minute, or miss the thrill if it were destroyed. Do you mind being called a fool, Anthony, and you, Lord Ernest? Anthony was silent, but something made me speak. I don't mind. You know I've always been a duffer. Our future largely depends on this, Fenton persisted, with a conscientious wish to persuade us and himself. I believe it does, Manny strangely agreed with him. What do you mean, Anthony's voice was suddenly sharp with some emotion, which sounded more like anxiety than anger? Do you mean that if Ernest, Borough, and I insist on our rights to whatever treasure is hidden here, you and Mrs. O'Brien will think less of us? Not less. Nothing you could do would make us think less after all that has happened to us together. But could it ever be as it has been, as beautiful, as sweet, with all the dearest kind of romance in our thoughts of you? You see, you have the glory of finding the secret. Queen Candice saved it for you. She wouldn't give it to such a man as Colonel Corcoran. She knew he wouldn't respect her. Maybe she hoped you would. I seem to hear her saying so. All this gold and the treasure we haven't seen is hers. It's been hers for more than two thousand years. Why should we steal it? We aren't a horrid, cold government. It won't be our fault whatever a government may choose to do. She'll know that, and so shall we. Besides, we can beg to have the tomb kept like this for a great shrine of the Marrow. Our memory of this place can't have the glamour torn away whatever happens. Nothing sordid will come between it and us, as it would if— Why, after all, where's the great difference between opening the coffin of a woman dead thousands of years ago or a few months? Supposing people wanted to dig up Queen Elizabeth to see what had been buried with her—or Napoleon. What an outcry there'd be all over the world. This poor queen is defenseless because her civilization is dead, too. Could you force open the lid of her coffin, Lord Ernest, and take the jewels off her neck? Just now I feel as if I couldn't, I confess, humbly. And you, Anthony, what if I died and asked to have the jewels I loved because you'd given them, put on my body, to lie there till eternity? And don't, Anthony cut her short. There are some things I can't listen to from you. And some things you can't do. You may think you could, but go ahead and take the golden pyramid out of those golden hands, if you can. I shall not take it, said Anthony. I shall never take it now. You must know that. I'm not saying I shan't go on loving you if you go against me. I shall love you always. I can't help that. But that's it, the but. Let it all go. At least we've had the adventure, and we've got love. I don't want the treasure now, or the secret. I give my part in them for ever. For me? Yes, for you, but there's something more. Another reason? I think so. Frankly, it isn't all for you. Only you've made me feel it. Without you I might have felt it, but too late. If there's a drop of Egyptian blood in my veins, why, yes, it must be that, telling me the same thing that you have told. This Egyptian queen may lose her treasure, and must lose her secret, but it won't be through me. And because you wouldn't steal them, she has given you the secret and the treasure, the best of both with her royal blessing, Biddy said. This is what Fellini's papers and the legends really meant for you and Ernest. Everything that's happened, not only in Egypt, but in our whole lives, has been leading up to the discovery of the treasure and the secret that we can take without stealing. Do you know what I'm talking about? And if you do, was it worth coming so far to find this treasure that I mean and the secret? We know very well, Anthony said, and you know that we realize it was worth journeying to the end of the world for, or into the next. Or into the next, Moniekod, here we're on the threshold of the next. That's why the queen's blessing feels so near. The End End of Chapter 32 The End of It Happened in Egypt Read by Cibela Denton in October-November 2007 in Carrollton, Georgia.