 CHAPTER XXI. I was never less alone than when by myself—Gibbon. Next morning, with her chaperone's energetic daughters, Damaris found herself one of the herd foregathered on the Nile bank, preparatory to the excursion to the Valley of the Kings, and later in the afternoon, by the mountain path over the ridge to that marvel of antiquity, the terraced temple of Der El-Bahari. I don't want to go, Janey dear, she said the preceding night, whilst the devoted maid wielded strong bristled brushes on the burnished, short-cropped hair. Better go, dearie! One must be polite, even if the heart breaks. Jane Coop's literary plane swung between a three-penny weekly entitled Real Stories from High Life and Uida's Novels, which latter she had bought a second hand in the Charing Cross Road, and kept sandwiched between her Bible and grandmother's herb recipes. But I don't want to go. I hate crowds, and I can't take Wellington. Every native flies from him since he got behind the musical colossus and growled. You remember? They thought it was the statue speaking, and the dear old darling was only trying to catch a lizard. The bulldog loathed Egypt. He was always either in disgrace or being talked to in baby language. He had seen next nothing of his beloved mistress, and his digestion had been almost ruined by the amount of chocolates he had eaten out of pure boredom. Take me, he said, every time his beloved went out, as plainly as he could, by means of his beautiful face and downcast tail. But excursions had grown rarer and rarer, and his slender middle more and more defined through grief. My heart isn't breaking, Janie, de Meris declared, sitting up in bed. I know it isn't dearie. There's nothing to break it over, I'm sure. I was just repeating from her scarlet sin where the beautiful heroine is torn between two stools, as it were. Jane Coop had no use for knights who left the field of combat, and as for the tales which were duly carried to her of an Arabian chief who followed her young mistress in the desert and sent her bunches of flowers and such like trash, well, it was all you could expect if you left your own country for heathen parts. To Jane Coop, rides in the desert in Egypt were just as much a part of the day's program as rides on donkeys at holiday time had been in Margate, before intervening people began to make a funce about the rider's weight. You mind your own hedges, Maria Hobson, and see that your own cattle don't go astraying with their monkey tricks. She had said tartly and not overlucidly to her graces maid, who had heard from someone, who had heard from someone else, that Miss Heathencourt was out at all hours of the night, here, there, and everywhere. I know what time she comes in and where she has been and with who, and that's quite enough for me. Thank you, I can shepherd my own flock. She was not exactly within the confines of truth in her statement, but having learned in her youth to diagnose the herd of dumb animals, she felt she was fully qualified to treat her beloved child's unrest without any verbal aid from outsiders. Yet something, a warning from the future maybe, had prompted her to speak this night as she stood beside the bed, looking down upon the beauty of the child to whom she seemed, more than anyone else, to stand in the position of sponsor. Will you promise me one thing, dearie? She stroked the red-head lovingly as it lent against the motherly bosom upon which had so often rested errant lambs and stricken pullets. Yes, Janey, darling, I would promise you anything. I know things are going crosswise a bit with you, dearie, as they always do in an unknown country, but I don't worry about that, because at the crossways there is always a signpost. But now we are in this heathen land. I want your promise that you will always tell me where you are going when you go out, always. If it's out for a ride in the desert or over amongst them mummy-tumes or out to a tennis-party or dance, will you, dearie, always? The insistence in the demand made the girl look up into the homely face, and she did not smile as she made a little cross above her heart in the manner of children. I promise, Janey, cross-heart, and I'm starting out early to-morrow morning on an excursion to the tombs of kings. We are taking lunch with us, paper-bags and remnants of sandwiches amongst Egypt's dead, tea at rest-house, and—she stopped for a minute, then continued slowly. And if I don't come back with the rest, Janey, dear, don't worry. It's full moon, and I may stay to see the temple by moonlight. A moment's silence then said practical Jane. And as you can't take welling to, dearie, will you promise to take your revolver? You know, they say lions have been seen in—Dumeris laughed. They've left, Janey. They're all an-ass one, raiding to be shot by Mr. Kellerman, Miss Sidmouth. Jane Koop sniffed as she tucked in the bed-clothes and kissed her child good-night. She had got to the door when Dumeris spoke. Janey, you know all about birds, don't you? Hens, dearie. Well, the girl's voice came muffled, as though she had drawn the sheet about her face. Supposing a hawk—Hawks aren't hens, dearie. Well, hens, supposing you had a breed of hens that were all—oh, oh, any color. White leg-horns, said Jane Koop, who was beginning to get interested in this subject so near her heart. Yes, well supposing you found that one, when it had all its feathers, had some speckled ones under its wings. But it couldn't, dearie, if it was purebred. Yes, but just supposing it had, what would be the meaning of it? Jane Koop hesitated and retied her apron strings. Descriptive analysis was not her strong forte. Well, dearie, I should say that the male bird was a—oh, a Plymouth rock or something like that. The speckled bird would be a good one, but if it was mixed it would have to be turned out of the run if you had a fancy for showing in prizes. I remember a black—but there now. What made you start your old nanny talking about hens? Just you turn over and go to sleep, dearie. You have to be up and away early to-morrow, you know. She closed the door gently and left the girl alone. I don't understand, she said softly and slipped out of bed to stand at the open window, with all the glory of an Egyptian night before her. I don't understand the meaning of the story, she repeated. As she watched the figure of a fella wrapped in a big cloak which shone snow-white under the moon, trudging patiently across the grounds to the servants' quarters. Then, as the huge dog flung himself against her, she struck her hands together. The sudden impact sent her maid flying back to the first time she had seen Hugh Cardin Ali in English writing-kit and Mohamedin Tarboush in the bazaar. Then in her memory she saw him dining as an Englishman, saw him riding with Falcon upon fist, a very eastern, saw him as an Arab of Arabia and the desert, again as an Englishman, save for the Mohamedin Tarboush, holding the bay mare as she thundered past him on the stallion, Sultan. In a flash she understood the tragic story of the hawk of Egypt. The pity of it, she whispered, oh, the cruel pity of it, and crept back to bed. Wide-eyed and quiet she stood very early next morning with the jostling, laughing crowd, waiting to be ferried across the Nile on the excursion to the tombs of the kings, which to most of the crowd ranked on a level with Madame Tussaud's waxworks, with the difference that in the valley of desolation you could leave the remnants of your lunch anywhere, which is a habit strictly forbidden in the Marleybone Road. Mounting the diminutive donkeys caused peals of laughter, the hamlets of Nazair Rizqa and Nazael Barayit rang with the cries of the cavalcade, and de Maris blindly followed Lady Thistleton's energetic offspring, as with notebook and pencil they followed the guide in and out of the regulation tombs of Biban el-Muluk, the history of which he repeated with parrot-like monotony. Lucy Jones, light-hearted tourist, thought the lunch awfully jolly in the shade of the tomb. In fact, she made it a righteous feast, with the help of others as young and non-temperamental as herself. After all, what did it matter? As Lucy said, the dead had been such a jolly long-time dead, and the desolation of the valley made such a splendid contrast to the golden sunshine and violent blue of the sky. The zigzag path down to Der El-Bahari occasioned more laughter and little screams and offers of help from the sternor-male, who under an extreme insouciance tried to hide the insecurity of its perch on the back of the humble, scrambling quadruped. When the laughing, jostling and somewhat disheveled crowd streamed back down the second incline and across the central terrace and route for the donkeys, it left a Maris standing with dancing eyes and laughing mouth under the blue and star- strewn ceiling of the shrine. And when the last sound of laughter and clattering stone under nimble hoof had melted away, when the sky had turned the marble temple mauve and pink and deepest red, and back to pink, to mauve, to soft as white, when the first star had fastened the robe of day to the cloak of night, and silence had fallen like a balm upon the wound caused by raucous voices, de Maris tiptoed down the steps and out into the colonnade of Punt. She was quite alone. CHAPTER XXI No time so dark, but through its woof there run some blessed threads of gold. CP CRANNIC. It is difficult—no, it is impossible—to describe the wonder of dear el-Bahari under the moon, just as it is impossible to describe the light that never was, on land or sea, or the Taj Mahal or a mother's love. To our eyes it is the picture of desolation, just as it must have been a picture of grandeur to those of the woman who built it, Queen Hatshepsut, sister, wife, and queen of Tutmos III. It is built in terraces to which you climb by gentle incline. It is surrounded and crossed by colonnades. There are ruined chapels and vestibules and recesses, an altar upon which offerings had once been made to the great gods. Broken steps and closed and open doors, behind which the ghosts of dead kings and queens, priests, priestesses, and nobles sit in ghostly council, through which they beckon you if you belong. There has surely come to each of us in this short span we term life, the moment when, just introduced, we look into another's face and say, or think, we have met before. May it not have been that we once met to burn incense together before the dread god Anubis, or to make offerings upon the altar erected to the great god Raha-Marcus, or was it per chance that you, if you are a woman, once waited at the temple gates to see him pass upon his return from the great expedition to the land of Punt, which we call Somaliland today. Had the man with hawk face who offers you a muffin or cup of tea today once brought you gifts of ivory, or incense, or skin of panther from the wonderland, did he sweep the seething crowd with piercing eye to find the face beloved and pass on to the rolling of drums, the crash of cymbals, the blaring of trumpets, to make obeisance to his monarch and return thanks to the mighty gods? Her chance. But Demaris had no thought of the past as she stood among the pillars of the colonnade which commemorate the great expedition. She was enthralled with the hour, the solitude, the silence, as she hesitated, wondering which way to go. Then, even as she hesitated, the silence was broken by the distant throbbing of a drum. It came from one of the villages far down the hill, and caught by the evening breeze, was carried to the temple, to be multiplied a hundredfold in the echoing roof. All other sounds may cease way out in the east, birds may nest in human sleep, but the sound of the drum faileth never. It is a message, a love song, a lament, a prayer, and you hear it in the desert as in the jungle, in the temple as in the courtyard behind the hobble. It is not a wise thing to listen to its call, for it can lead you off the beaten track, or over the precipice, or out into the desert to die. It caught the girl's feet in the witchery of its rhythm, and set them moving upon the sand-covered floor of the temple. Yet there was no smile upon her lips when, moved by whatever it is that causes us to do strange things in the east, she danced like a wreath or a silt, or a leaf in the wind, in and out of the columns and out into the light of the moon, and through the granite door onto the terrace where once had planted the incense-trees which had come with the spoil from punt to perfume the air to the glory of Raha Marcus. The rolling of the drum stopped short, and Demeris came to herself with a start as she stood under the moon, then clasped her hands upon her thudding heart as she watched a man with two great shaggy dogs walk across the terrace towards her. Say for the Mohammedan head-covering he was an Englishman, and he spoke in his mother's tongue to the girl he loved, and whom he had watched since her arrival with the jostling, laughing crowd. The gods of the temple are good to me, he said simply. I prayed that I might watch you dance upon the incense terrace of their house. They have answered my prayer. Come. As they passed across the terrace to the hall of columns, which is the vestibule of the Chapel of the God of Death, he told her how he had watched and waited, meaning no discurtecy until she should visit the temple amongst the limestone hills. Where are we going? Demeris spoke more to break the spell which seemed to hold her than to know the end of the walk across the sand. Bewitched by the moon and the terrific power of Old Egypt, she would have followed the man blindly, fearing no hurt, even into the innermost sanctuary which, hewn out of the rock itself, lies at the extreme end of the temple. To the Shrine of Anubis, the God of Death, where I would show you the hawk of northern Egypt upon the wall. They passed between the great columns and up the flight of steps to the doorway, beyond which lie the chambers of the Shrine, and there Hugh Cardin Ali took the girl's hand, as he called her name aloud, until the walls or the spirits of the gods thundered back the echo. The gods introduced the kings of Egypt to the sanctuary. Anubis, God of Death, as you will see by the painting upon the wall, led the great queen to the door. He said in reply to a whispered question from Demaris, I would not that the shadow of Death touched the hem of your raiment. I called your name aloud so that the gods might hear. Do I believe in strange things? How can one say I believe, or do not believe, in this land which is in the grip of a dead past which is not dead? And they passed in through the door and stood looking up at the hawk of Horus, painted in the eighteenth dynasty upon the wall. Brilliant in colouring, green and white, with red-tipped wings, it spreads them above the place where once was seen the painted picture of the queen, who reigned and suffered and died, thousands of years ago. Ah! said Demaris, as she looked up to the corner. It is your crest, your—it is a fantasy of mine. We trace my father's house right back without a break to the days of the pharaohs. So I believe, does Muhammad Ali, bender of slippers in the bizarre? He paused, then added abruptly, with a frown and a movement of the shoulders as though he were trying to shift a burden. If you will come with me to the inner chamber, if you are not afraid, I will interpret the story of the hawk to you in the shadows where it belongs. Demaris put out her hand as though to speak, then passed into the inner room across the threshold of which the dogs of Bili laid themselves down. Death is around us, said Hugh Cardinali. Do you believe in omens? No, nor I. I wish there was a seat so that you could rest whilst I tell you. Demaris laid her hand gently upon his arm, and he looked down into the face shining dead white in the reflection of the moon which had silted in through a hole in the roof. You know? Demaris looked up and smiled. Yes, I know, and being the son of such a splendid people I cannot understand why the gates of pain and love and sacrifice were opened and the girl shrank back against the wall as the tide of pent-up bitterness swept around her in the ruined shrine. The man's face was white, his eyes blazed in the agony of his hurt, whilst the dogs lifted their heads and growled. You do not understand, you do not understand that I love you, and loving you I stand a prisoner behind the bars wrought for me by the love of my parents. That I love you as surely as you have never been, never will be loved, and that I dare not, cannot ask you to be my wife, even if you loved me which you do not. What? You do not see why I should not marry into my mother's race even as my father did? I will tell you why. He gripped her wrists and pulled her to him, because I am the outcome of their union. My father is an Arab, my mother an Englishman. I am a half-cased, I am nearer white truly than my father, but my son, although he might be white or dark, a native, as you say in England, would be only a half-case lying on your white breast if you were my wife. The moonbeams lengthened as the man talked on, whilst Demaris learned one of love's bitterest mistakes. Oh, forgive me, he ended, why did I bring you here to hurt you, to make you cry for a pain which is not yours? Why are you left alone? It is so dangerous in this land of my father's. Your godmother deserts you while she goes to my mother, who is afraid for me. Ah, did you not know? The man who loves you has left you to the wind of chance, my friend, Big Ben tell him. Oh, gods of ancient Egypt, how you must laugh! My friend! Shall we meet again, I wonder? Surely Anubis, the god of death, Anubis the jackal-headed, who leads the soul of the departed through the underworld to the presence of the great Osiris, surely he moved upon the wall and turned to look after those two as they passed out of the inner chamber to stand beneath the hawk upon the wall. Or was it the shifting moon amongst the shadows? Will you? There was no trace of the man's anguish in his voice. The Mohammedan's resignation to the inevitable may seem a weak way out to one who will kick and worry until he drops from exhaustion. But it saves a great deal of pain to others. Will you? You must surely marry some day, so beautiful, so sweet you are. Will you let me give you this as a wedding present? And will you think of me, a prisoner, when you fasten it in your wedding gown? He held out a jewel in the shape of a hawk, which spread its wings upon the wall above them. It was found here in this sanctuary, a priestly ornament, a pilgrim's offering? Who knows? Will you? I have no right to it, for beneath my wings is the plumage of another race. I am not a purebred son of northern Egypt. Will you pin it in? The girl's voice shook as she tilted back her chin so that her mouth was on a level with the man's, as he bent to fasten the jewel in the silk. Will you promise me one thing? Yes, yes, you are good to the prisoner. Allah, how I love you, and surely if I may not be your master I may serve you. If you should be in trouble, ever, in this land of Egypt, the very soil of which is drenched with the blood of those who have fought and loved and won, and lost, thousands of years before the coming of the gentle Prophet, who said that in the sight of the great God anyway we are brethren, yes, if trouble should come to you, will you send me a messenger, to the tents of purple and of gold? I am doing you a great wrong in lingering where I can catch glimpses of you. I love you, love you, but that is no excuse for causing you harm through the wagging of evil tongues. Tears dropped one by one upon the jewel which glittered on her breast. And if I were in trouble, great trouble, if I were to come to you myself, how—my boat waits at the landing stage from sundown to sunrise, the swiftest mayor in all Egypt, as the fortune teller foretold you, the snow-white mayor P.K. waits from the setting until the rising of the sun at the gate of tomorrow, which is a ruined portal on the road of the Colossi. From there the way lies west, and fear not. He pointed to an inscription on the wall and translated it in the Egyptian tongue. I have come full of joy because of my love to thee. My hands are full of all life impurity. I am protecting thee among all gods. Over by the dogs they walked slowly down the incline to a mound of rubbish, flung up, and left by an excavating party many years back. Behind it they found the stallion sultan in the care of his Sais, also the one donkey which had wandered off in search of grass and got lost, and whose absence in the cavalcade had not been noticed on account of the disorder of the descent. Kizmet had said Jobod the guide when he had made the discovery at the water's edge. If the white folk could not keep count of themselves he was not going to draw their attention to the fact that one of the party was missing. He had not the slightest intention of providing an evening meal for the lion by offering to go in search of the pair. Kizmet, Allah would watch over them. Hugh Carden Ali leapt into the saddle without touching the stirrups, then swung the girl as lightly as a leaf up into his arms. He list of the extra burden of the slip of a girl who had mastered him in the desert and who lay so quietly against his master's heart, the magnificent black beast stood stock still, then suddenly shivered violently, just as the dogs of Bili belly to the ground, eyes blazing, ruffs on end, growled softly. Hugh Carden Ali pressed Amaris back against his shoulder and turned and looked in the direction whence had come that sound, paralyzing if you do not happen to be armed. From somewhere amongst the rocky wilderness of the hills carried by the night breeze had come the hoarse coughing of a lion. Listen, he said. And as it came again, with streaks of sabay, sabay, the pea-green scythe left upon the back of the terrified donkey, which spurred by fear, disappeared like a streak down the hill just as the stallion, sweating with pure terror, reared and wheeled, then backed with great eyes rolling and hoof-striking sparks from the stones. Up he reared until it seemed impossible that he should not fall backwards, rushing to death or hideously maiming the man who, encumbered with the girl upon his arm, could do little to calm the frightened beast. And well for him it was that Hugh Carden Ali, with his love and understanding of horses, knew that only to the sagacity of the animal could the safe negotiation of the dangerous descent down the hillside be left. He gave Sultan his head. There is no danger in it, goodness knows, when you bestride a diminutive donkey whose dainty feet know every pebble on the route. But there is danger when an animal-like sultan takes the avenue of sphinxes at a mad rush, and slips and slithers and slides, under the impetus of his own weight, pace and terror, the rest of the way, even if he is as sure-footed as a goat. Later, when her beloved child wakened the night-porter, Jane Coop, blew with anxiety and cold, most unhygienically closed the window and thankfully patted off to her comfortable bed. CHAPTER XXII. Antiquity. Thou wonder's charm, what art thou? That being nothing art everything. The mighty future is as nothing being everything. The past is everything being nothing. LAM. In spite of her tongue, which was somewhat unduly inclined to gossip, Lady Thysselton was a motherly old soul and had a great affection for Demaris. I should not like either of my little girls, she was saying the morning after the visit to the terrace temple, to visit the ruins or stay out on chaperoned after dark. I am responsible for you, you know, dear, and you are very beautiful and very young. Of course, I know that you are a little unhappy, dear, but other girls have been the same. So you must not worry. Everything will come right. I expect you know all about, my Ellen. Demaris nodded. And everybody is so fond of you. Would you like to have a long day in bed today, dear, or go to Dundra with the girls? They are thinking of staying for a few days. Demaris smiled the radiant smile which made her so attractive, and Rising put her arms round the motherly old deer's neck and kissed her, which was an unusual thing for her to do, as she was, as a rule, undemonstrative to coldness. I'd love to go to Dundra if I may take Janie in Wellington. And I'm truly not worrying, it's just a tremendous spirit of adventure which drives me to do these awful things. So to Dundra she went, with her spirits at highest pitch, at the thought of getting away from Luxor for a few days, and of seeing the wonderful temple of Hathor, the goddess of joy and youth. She was in riotous spirits when she arrived at the Hotel Dundra in Kulla, where the lovely porous jugs come from. In fact, so blithe was she that Ellen, inclined to despondency and of a superstitious tendency, remarked, I should calm myself a little, my dear Demaris. Such gaiety can only lead to depression later on. But Demaris only laughed. How good it is that we cannot visualize beforehand the hour in which our tears must flow, and our hearts must come well nigh to breaking. She laughed, she sang, she visited the town, and went to bed early. She teased Jane Coop the next morning, as perilously perched on donkey-back. She headed the little procession which wended its way through the stretches of earth, which later would give a harvest of corn and sweet-scented flowering bean. She urged the painting bulldog along the three good miles, and laughed at him when, sneezing and coughing, he rubbed his great paws over his face, covered with the cobwebs which floated on the air. But she stopped laughing when she first caught sight of the great arch of crumbling antiquity, which is all that is left of the edifice upon the side of which the Temple of Hathor was built. And she stood quite still in the overpowering colonnade, whilst the Thysselton's notebooks in hand rushed inside in the wake of the guide. Jane Coop stopped dead at the outer edge of the colonnade. I thought you said it was a Temple of Love, dearie, all white marble with doves and lover's-knots and hearts. It's a tomb, that's what it is, and I'm going to sit outside. I don't like it, it bodes no good. Let's go back, dearie. I don't like the place or the hotel or the town. If we go quickly we can catch the first boat. Let the others stay if they want to. I'm thinking of you, my heart's telling me that you must not stop, and that if you do harm will come to you or somebody. Strange was the persistence of the usually placid woman, as she caught her young mistress by the arm and quite violently shook her fist at the sinister face of the goddess, which shows on each side of the columns. And strange it is to know that if the girl had but listened the harm might not have befallen. But demeris shook her head. We must be polite, Janey dear, even if we are dying to go home. Besides, two or three days will do us good. And it will help pass the time until Marene comes back. Come, well, well. The dog followed his mistress up to the door, but there he stopped. Come along, well, well, she repeated. The dog sat down with a definite air of ending further exploration as far as ruins were concerned on his part. I think you and Janey are bewitched today. Demeris spoke petulantly and watched the dog waddle back and sit down beside the maid, who, busy crocheting, sat on a stone some few yards from the temple, to which she had resolutely turned her back. Demeris stood for a moment feeling as though the very wettest of wet blankets had been wrapped around her. Then turned, listened, until she heard Ellen's staccato voice coming from the direction of the antechamber in the middle of the temple, and tiptoed across to the east side, where are to be found the ruined treasury and storerooms in which were stored the incense for sacrifice or offering. The vestments and banners and other such props needful to the correct fulfillment of the rites of an ancient worship which, as far as services go, in display of wealth and sense during accessories, did not differ so very much from what we see in some of our churches in this present day of grace. She came to the stairs, up which so many years ago the mother of Hugh Cardin Ali had climbed, on the day when she had fully realized that the crown of love had come to her. Demeris climbed them and stood on the roof, watching, as had watched, Jill Cardin, the clouds of twittering birds as they flew in the direction of the Libyan hills. Then she crossed to the little shine of Osiris, stood for a moment unconsciously passing her finger over the carvings, turned as though someone had called her and ran down the stairs. She stood and listened until she heard Ellen's voice looming from the side-chapel on the western side. Then, and just as though pulled by some invisible hand, she passed quietly through the antechamber into the sanctuary where, in the days of ancient Egypt, the mighty Pharaoh and he only entered to commune with the gods at the birth of the new year, and where the mother of Hugh Cardin Ali, stricken with the glory of the secret revealed, had fallen unconscious to the ground over twenty years ago. She stood quite still, her heart beating to suffocation, then she raised her hand and pushed the hair from her forehead. I feel just as though the roof was pressing down upon me, she whispered to herself. As though through me something awful was going to happen. I—she turned and almost ran out of the sanctuary, her footsteps waking the echoes of the roof which had once resounded to the clash of cymbal the role of drum and blare of trumpets. She heard Ellen's strident voice calling to her, telling her to come and join them in the crypts. She paid no heed. She ran on and out into the sunshine and down to the maid who was still placidly crocheting. And as she left the ruin the mantle of depression fell from her, and she laughed as she caught the great dog and forced him to walk upon his hind legs. No, Janie, she said that night as the maid tucked her up in bed. Here I stay until I have visited the temple thoroughly, and I'll take you down into the creepy crypts and lock you in them if you worry any more. We all got up too early and hadn't had enough breakfast. That is why we disliked the place so much. They stayed some days and then took the public steamer home, de Meris bubbling over with high infectious spirits which had their birth in a secret hope that she might find a letter from Ben Kellam upon her return. She was leaning over the rail, thinking about him, as the boat made its lazy way downstream. So funny, she was saying to herself as they approached Luxor under a sunset sky, I wonder if he will be at the hotel. I somehow feel him quite near. And then her thoughts were distracted by the exclamations and laughter of the passengers as they rushed to the side, causing the boat to take a distinct list. What little things served to amuse us. The blue bottle at the cathedral service, the stray dog which russes thwart the regal possession, the straw hat blown through the traffic. The steamer was churning up the waters of the river down which Cleopatra had passed in all her power and beauty. On each side were the ruins of temples and tombs, built to the glory of great God or mighty emperor. Yet the tourists flung down guidebooks and left their tea to shout encouragement and wave their handkerchiefs to Ben Kellam and Sybil Sidmouth, who were also having tea on the slanting deck of their private steamer which had run aground on the pastiferous Sandbank. Mrs. Sidmouth, in the seclusion of the saloon, was summoning all her strength for a real nerve storm. Demaris looked hard for a moment, then became deadly white and backed her way out through the crowd. She flashed a quick glance round in search of the Thysseltons, and saw them leaning dangerously far over the rail, trying to attract the attention of Sybil Sidmouth, who was smiling so contentedly as she handed her companion his tea. Then she turned to run to the saloon to hide herself, and ran instead right into Jane Coop's arms. There was a grim set to the maid's mouth and a steely glitter in her eyes. I was just coming to ask you, dearie, if you'd like a cup of tea. One gets fair sick of the ruins and things one sees on this river. The young ladies can come and find you at tea if they want to. How often had the motherly woman gone out to bring in the lamb from the storm, or hunted the fields and hedgerows for her string-chick? Later she sat on the edge of her darling's bed and padded the curly head, resting on her faithful heart, to the accompaniment of little clucking sounds. There now, dearie, there now, there now, it isn't worth crying over. Every river is as full of good fish as ever sailed on it in a boat that couldn't run straight. Let old nanny dry her baby's tears. There now, there now. She dried the tears stained her little face with a big handkerchief, and rocked her child to the rhythm of the music which drifted from the hall, borne by the night breeze, through the open window, until the sobs had ceased. And in the ballroom the Thysselton family nodded their heads sagely to the rhythm of the same music. I am sure she didn't see Mr. Kellerman's sible, mamma, Ellen was saying. She was having tea when we went to find her, and looked quite all right. I was thankful when I saw her, broke in bernese, patting a thick envelope with the Edinburgh Postmark. On the Nile, together, it really did not seem cumul-fo at all. And wherever Mrs. Sidmouth was, she might have countenanced the courtship by her presence on deck. Well, all's well it ends well, said mamma placidly, as she secretly returned thanks that her daughters were not as others. But later, far into the night, Demaris stood at her window with her arms around the bulldog's neck. You're the only one who really loves me well well. Everybody else runs away and leaves me. I'm—I'm so unhappy. Tears stood in the big eyes as she flung out her arms and cried in a sudden, passionate intensity. Marene, Marene, I want you, I want you. If you loved me, you had come to me, because I want you so. CHAPTER XXIII. The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted. They have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. BIRON. Olivia, Duchess of Longacres, stood on the balcony of the hotel, looking down at the Cortes, which had escorted the wife of the Sheik El-Umbar from the house and Mahaba, some way out in the desert, and which was making its way as best it could through the torturous, narrow, unpaved streets of Kergug Town. The white and only wife of the great Arab travelled and ran. Two outriders with modern rifles sung across the shoulder, and brandishing throwing spears, caused consternation amongst the spectators as at a word or touch of the unspurt foot they made their magnificent horses rear and back and plunge. One trick or feat had caused the heavens to be rent with screams of pure joy and shouts of Wahale El-Asim, Masha Allah, and other references to the might and glory of the Almighty. You do not often see this feat of strength and dexterity, and when you do it brings your heart almost out of your body, and has an exhibition of tent-pegging simply beaten to a frazzle. A spectator of the tender age of three clothed, as it was a day of festival, in Tarbush and voluminous robe-girt about him with a cummerbund, on ordinary days he would have been clothed in nature and girt in dirt, toddled straight into the middle of a square, just as the outriders charged across it. There was no room for them to turn, so packed were the places where the sidewalks should have been, neither was their time in which to reign in their horses. Women shrieked and beat their breasts, men looked on at the inevitable tragedy with the composure of the sterner sex. The babes stood stock still, and Yusuf, the outrider, bending low on his saddle, drove straight down upon it, gathered the back part of the cummerbund in some folds of the voluminous skirt upon the point of his spear, and lifting the might amidst yells and shouts and wild clamor, carried him at spear-length and top speed safely across the square, where the real danger comes is in judging the exact amount of stuff to gather on the spear-head, an inch or two too much and you may get a part of the kitty's little back, an inch or two too little, and when you have him high in the air you may cut through the cloth and cause said kitty to make a hasty descent to terra firma. Anyway, the child was safely restored to its fond mother, who simultaneously smacked it and stuffed its mouth with fly-brown sweet-meats, and became the hero for the latter part of the day. The real cortege was headed by camels bearing gifts from the house El Umbar to the great white woman who stood, on the balcony in a gray silk taffet-address, shawl of priceless lace on her head, and a gray parrot upon her shoulder. Silks, jewels, sweet-meats, bibelos, and ivory and precious metal, dates, coffee and berries, a monkey and a bushel of wheat, were amongst the gifts carried by the camels, who grumbled and rumbled as they stocked, with swaying-gate and contemptuous, half-closed eyes. Next came the armed escort, mounted on horses, with modern rifles, slung, and cummerbunds stuck full of the most atrocious-looking knives. They scowled at every one, but as they passed under the balcony each one drew his knife and rattled it against that of his neighbor, so that the weapons made a glittering arch in the light of the setting sun, as salutation to the old white woman who was of their mistresses' race. Came Mustafa, the Ethiopian, into whose care the sheikh had given his wife all those years ago, when they had ridden out of the desert up to his dwelling amidst the tally palms of the flat oasis. He was on foot, not that he had done the entire journey in like manner, and held the golden chain of the magnificent camel upon which his mistress rode. She rode in a paliquen of ivory with curtains of rose satin embroidered in precious stones, on either side, although on camels rode two slaves who waved huge circular fans on long staffs to cool the air about this woman who was so beloved throughout the land for her good deeds and loving, helpful hand. She was in silk robes of rose covered in a satin cloak of deeper shade. She was closely veiled as becomes the wife of a Muhammaden, and wore no jewels save a rope of pearls, and her steady, wonderful blue eyes which were just twin heavens of happiness, shown with the light as she looked up at the old woman who had known her as a girl, with her hair hanging in two great plates. She put both hands to her forehead and spread them out in the beautiful eastern gesture of welcome, then bowed to her knees as she passed. Then turning she pulled her yashmuk a little to one side, Petit Mama, she cried, Welcome, Petit Mama, and blew her a kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers. Arrived at the entrance the armed escort made a circle round her with drawn knives. Her camel knelt, a Persian carpet was laid across the quasi-clean stones. Then Mustafa the Ethiopian made a sign, upon which Amina, the little hunchback woman who loved her mistress more than her life, and who had been transported with joy when she had laid the firstborn son in the mother's arms, came running swiftly. Mustafa and Amina lived one long life of secret feud. They fought like cat and dog as to who could do the most in their mistresses' service. They stood shoulder to shoulder and fought everybody else in the same good cause, and the huge man scowled fiercely as the deformed little woman arranged the flowing robes and walked up the Persian carpet behind the wife of the great Sheikh. Well, I never was Hobson's comment as she peeked from behind a door. Her grace must have made a mistake. You take that downstairs, she added, coming boldly out into the landing to intercept the slave with the monkey. Downstairs, and she pointed down to the entrance, surging with people, unless she wanted the place to be full of feathers and fur. Jill stood in the doorway, looked across at her godmother, and made the beautiful gesture of salutation. Then removed her veil, picked up her robes, and ran across the room right into the outstretched arms. Tears were very close as they laughed and held each other by the hand, but the laughter died away altogether as they sat in the failing shadows, the younger one with her head on the older one's lap. Two wise women, they were fighting for the happiness of the young, as the shadows fell and the stars came out and faded before the light of the moon as she trailed her silver garments across the heavens. Jill had risen once to her feet in a moment of anger and had gone out onto the balcony and stood looking down, smiling upon the crowd, composed chiefly of women, who had raised their hands and called down the blessings of Allah upon her. The steps were strewn with gifts, ranging from live goats to masses of sticky sweetmeats and glass beads. Mothers had brought their sickly babies and laid them down amongst the goats and beads, hoping that if even the shadow of the blessed woman were to fall upon them they might be healed. Mustafa kept guard, hurling abuse at those who tarried, helping their departure by the aid of his foot. Hobson stood like a grim sentinel outside the sitting-room door. He had made tea under the greatest difficulty, the kettle of tepid water had been flung at the salaming offender who had brought it, and had taken it in a blushing brick red when Jill had risen and kissed her on both cheeks. Dinner had been served, hardly tasted, and been sent away, and a whole tray of cups full of burnt milk showed the perturbation of the maid's mind as she waited and waited for the sound of the little bell which summoned her to her grace's presence. You are a noble-looking woman, my child, said the duchess, as she keenly scrutinized the fair face, with great blue eyes and broad humorous mouth, which, but for an added sincerity and dignity, was so very like the face of the girl who had been left behind at Ismailia over twenty years ago, and who had journeyed into the desert with the Arabian shake and had married him. I'm not surprised your husband adores you. Could he not have come with you? I have always longed to see him. It seemed that the shake Hamad had been invited to Baghdad, to some conference concerning the big Arabian question, but hoped to be able to greet her grace before her departure. In the meanwhile his dwellings, his servants, his horses, and everything he possessed, were hers. And he means it, petit mamma, he loves making people happy. I love him. She paused for a moment, then looked straight into the stern old eyes. My love for my son is as great as my love for his father, and I would lay down my life for their happiness. There was no tenderness in the sad old eyes and no lines of yielding in the stern old mouth, for although her heart was aching to say yes to the mother's insistent demands for her son's happiness, her common sense had turned her into a very rock of resistance. I am happy, radiantly happy. Jill, who was sitting on a stool at the old woman's feet, slipped to her knees and caught the wrinkled old hands in her own. So why should the little girl not be happy with my son, who is the finest man and dearest son ever born to women? Tell me, what difference is there? Why should my son be made unhappy? Tell me!" She knew perfectly well. Her son's words on the roof of his dwelling under the stars were ringing in her ears, but she was hanging on to a very forlorn hope with both hands, tricking herself with the thought that, out of her love for her, the wise old woman might see things in a different light and give her consent to the marriage just because the man was her son. But the old woman caught the mother to her breast and stroked the golden head and kissed it with a world of pain in her sad eye. Because, dear, and the words were very gentle and the voice was very soft. Just because, when we love, we think of ourselves only and not of those to come. The old woman's side as Jill raised her head sharply. Try to understand, little one. You, my dear, a white woman, married a pure-bred Arab. Ah, my dear, my dear, forgive me, your son is— Jill sprang to her feet, and as she sprang, caught the rope of pearls upon the arm of the chair, breaking it and scattering the jewels to the four corners of the room. She flung out her hands, making the eastern sign to scare away evil spirits. The omen, she whispered, the omen, a broken string of pearls means death. Come, come, child, said the old lady sharply, to allay the unsightly terror in the other's face, and also because she believed in using an axe in felling a tree. Repeating her last remark, you are suffering now through the selfishness of love. Women who marry without giving a thought to the result of the marriage, to the good or the harm it might bring to the children of that marriage, deserve to suffer. Marry the man if you really love him and can help him by being his wife, but let there be no children if there is anything in the union that might hurt them. She rose and crossed to the girl who was standing, staring into a corner of the room, with a world of horror in her eyes. She moved back as the old woman came towards her, holding out her hands as though to ward off some evil thing she saw in the shadows. I can't bear it, she whispered, I can't bear it. I don't believe that anyone could think that of Hugh. Remember how loved he was as a hero? Ah, my dear, my dear, there was your great mistake. You're wrong, interrupted Jill Harsley. You're hopelessly, cruelly wrong. He was idolised in England. He is loved out here. It was sheer spite on the part of the woman who told them that he was, was—she pressed her hands over her mouth as she backed to the wall, then flung out her arms wide. Her face was dead white, her eyes blazing. She reminded the old woman of a tigress fighting for her cubs. She was beautiful beyond words in the tragedy of her motherhood. I don't believe you. I don't believe you, I—Hugh! Listen, Jill, the old woman's voice was as cold as ice as she watched the agony in the fair face. Dear heavens, she did not want to hurt. She wanted to give in and gather the child up in her arms, but she knew what was best. Your boy knows it, dear. He knows he is out of the running. Come over to me and listen whilst I tell you something. She sat down and pulled the suffering child down beside her, who lay across the silken knees like the stricken mother across the knees of the wise Madonna, and made no sound or movement while she listened to the bitter words of the fortune teller in the hotel garden at Cairo. A little silence fell, then very gently, very tenderly the old woman spoke. So you see, dear, until she is of age it will be my only duty to see that Demaris does not marry your son. And Jill sprang to her feet and beat her hands together. And I, she said, I will give my heart's blood to bring happiness to my son. Death alone shall— She stopped and shivered as she glanced over her shoulder out into the night, then drew herself up with a surpassing dignity and threw out her hands in the eastern gesture of resignation. You say I will not. I say I will. But it is God who decides. With a little sobbing sigh she relinquished the unequal struggle just as Hobson walked boldly into the room and stood inside the door like a graven image of intense displeasure when her mistress, unable to withstand the unspoken disapproval, consented, after a promise to Jill to have another long talk on the morrow, to go to bed. But there was to be no long talk, anyway, in the town of Kirga on the morrow. She lay in bed, propped by pillows against which, divested of its mask of red and white and blue, the dear old little face shone brown, a priceless bit of lace hid her own white locks, free for the night of the outrageous perook which covered them by day and which lay at the moment hidden in its box. A pair of crimson bed slippers peeped from under the bed, another pair, absurdly small, outrageously high-heeled, buckled and crimson, made a splash of color near the dressing-table. Her little hands were gently folded under the ruffles of priceless lace of her cashmere night attire as she lay quite still, trying to find a way out through the jungle of pain and grief which seemed to spread round and about so many she loved, whilst Deco, puffed out with sleepiness, sat on the back of a chair, muttering incoherently to some fanciful image of his own weird brain. Hobson lay fast asleep in the next room, which had a communicating door with that of her mistress. Knowing nothing of nerves or of temperament, she had dropped asleep as soon as her head, with scanty locks tortured into chevet de frieze of steel pins, had touched the pillow. Her strong hands were clenched on the frill of her stout calico-nightdress. Her powerful face looked grim in the dim light of the moon, which high in the heavens flung a silver shaft through the open window straight across the bed. There was absolutely no sound when, just as, so many miles away, Demeris made her passionate appeal, as she stood by the window. Hobson, dour, stolid, unimaginative, yet with a streak of scotch blood in her veins sat straight up in bed. Her eyes were wide open as she stared in front of her, then she passed her powerful hand over her grim face and flung the bed close to one side. She's in trouble. She spoke very clearly, sat for a moment thinking, then reached for a pused dressing-gown trimmed in mulberry. I'll go and tell her, and the infinite love in the pronoun was good to hear. She'll understand. The duchess turned her head as the door opened slowly, but made no movement, although her heart suddenly quickened its beat. Yes, she said, quietly. Hobson walked up to the bed and took one of the little old hands between her own powerful ones. Mr. Merris wants you, ma'am. She spoke with certain conviction, then added, I've had a dream, ma'am. I saw nothing, but I heard Mr. Merris calling you. It woke me up. Merein, she said, I want you. That was all. And she does, ma'am. She stood patting the hand of her mistress, who lay for a moment quite still. Then the faithful creature put a shetland shawl round the bent shoulders as the old lady sat straight up in bed. Would you please find Miss Jill's maid? She used the term of the past when Jill Cardin had stayed at the castle and had teased Hobson to death and asked her to tell her mistress that I should be pleased if she could find it convenient to come to my room for a moment. Hobson found the aged body-servant lying asleep outside her mistress's door. Amina had learned a few words of English language in the last twenty years, but not enough to allow her to understand the terrifying person who stood over her, so that she shook her head whilst Hobson repeated her request over and over again and ever more distinctly until it ended at last in a veritable shout which brought Jill, who had not slept for the ache in her mother heart, to the door. For a moment she stood, a beautiful picture with big, questioning eyes and two great plates of auburn hair hanging down over her satin wrap. Then she ran down the corridor and into her godmother's bedroom. In an hour those two forceful women had made their plans, acting without hesitation upon what might so easily have been the outcome of digestive trouble on Maria Hobson's part. Fully clothed, two maids entered her grace's bedroom, the one carrying the tea tray and the other a plate of biscuits. Amina, said Jill, who was sitting on the end of the bed, please go and find Mustapha. Tell him to go to the station, find the station master, and give him this letter. We want a special train as soon as possible. Mustapha is to bring me a written reply from the station master. She spoke with the authority of the eastern potentate, and took no notice of the maid when she knelt and kissed the hem of her satin wrap. Give me a cigarette, Hobson, said her grace, in the depths of whose eyes twinkled the star of humor. We shall be starting as soon as possible, maybe directly after breakfast, for Luxor. Yes, your grace, I will begin the packing, said the imperturbable Hobson, placing the tray on the table beside the bed. And when you have had your tea, ma'am, will you try and get a little sleep? You can leave everything safely to me. But special trains do not grow like blackberries upon a sideline in the east, so that many weary hours pass before they set out upon the return journey, which was rendered infinitely tedious by the never-ending mistakes which got them shunted into sidings to allow the ordinary trains to pass. CHAPTER XXIV. The watchman that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me, the keepers of the wall took away my veil from me. SONG OF SOLOMON. The night before Ben Kellam's return to Cairo, Zulana sat on a pile of cushions with her back to the crumbling plaster wall in the filthy, smoke-filled hovel. She had completely recovered, and save for the excruciating pain caused by the shrunken muscles when she moved, she was as sound as a bell, and likely to live to a ripe old age, slave to her welling servant, who sat on his heels, inhaling the fumes of the jewel-encrusted Nargila which his heart had always coveted. It is useless writing about the health through which the woman had lived from the moment she had returned to consciousness. Besides, there are some things which words cannot describe, and which in any case are best left alone, not even to the imagination. She was absolutely in the power of the Negroid Brute. With the destruction of her beauty she had lost everything, save what she had in the bank, and from the ever-growing heaps of little canvas bags in a corner and little piles of bank-notes under the straw, she knew that some day that, too, must come to an end. She had loved her jewels, loved the shimmering pearls and sparkling diamonds, and had found her greatest joy in dipping her hand into a leather bag filled with unset stones. How often, had she sat in the luxury of her bedroom, reveling in the trickle of the rubies, sapphires, and emeralds from between her fingers into her lap? Even those she had lost. The millner's safe stood open, showing empty shelves, and she shuddered yet at the memory of the frightful scene which had followed her refusal to open it. She loved jewels, wanted them for their beauty, and fought the Negro for them. But there was one thing she clung to even more, and that was life, so that when the huge hands had slowly, so very slowly, pressed upon her neck, she had given in and setting the combination had swung the door slowly back. And Katim, gray-green with fright, thinking that it had been worked by the power of a gin or devil, had flung her out into the night, and having scraped a hole in the fetid earth under the straw, with fervent prayers to whatever he worshipped, had withdrawn the jewels, hidden them, and called the woman back. Yes, she clung to life. Strange is it how we do even when youth and beauty and health have passed from us. How, crippled and unlovely, twisted of temper or limb, with failing senses, in bath-chair or propped-on sticks, we hang on till the last thread, when surely we ought to be so thankful to snap it and be away to whatever our lives have prepared us for over the border. Were it not a shame, were it not a loss for him, in his clay carcass, crippled to abide? Well might ponder old Omar upon this. But Zulana had a good reason for clinging to life, in spite of the greatness of her debacle. The medal of which had been wrought, the one love that had come to her in her short life, had not been able to withstand the crucible of physical pain. For hours and days she had writhed in the agony of her physical injury, with no one to care if she suffered or starved, except the Ethiopian, who, when her senses had come back to her, had twitted her upon her failure in her love affairs, had tormented and mocked and laughed, until a great wish for revenge had taken the place of her former love for the Englishman. Revenge, above all things, on the girl who had been capable of inspiring love in two such men, revenge upon the white man who had really been the primary cause of her downfall, but a lingering, hellish revenge, if she could only think of one, for the man who had given the order to the dogs just because she had reviled the white girl, Demaris. So she sat upon the pile of cushions, smoking the cheapest cigarette of the bazaar, whilst her cunning brain-wove plots around the astounding news Katim had just imparted. They were perfectly free from interruption. The door was barred and the small aperture which served as window was too highly placed in the wall to allow a vice to peep. But it was superstition that really kept them safe and proved far more potent as a barrier against their neighbor's curiosity than any spike-crowned wall. Katim had given out that the woman was bewitched, and that death, instantaneous and horrible, would be the fate awaiting any one but himself who should speak to her or look upon her unveiled face before the setting of the sun. Some of us Christians refuse to walk under ladders, and, although it entailed much fetching and carrying and marketing on his part, still it ensured them solitude. And you saw him? She spoke with a sibilant intaking a breath, caused by the twist to her mouth. Yes, with a beautiful white woman, another. They have come from Aswan by the boat. Not the girl who rode in the desert with— She touched the purple angry marks on her cheek. Nay, woman, I have told thee, she walks in the blackness of the ruins, with the man who caused thee thy hurt. She drives with him, he spat, she should take thy place in the bizarre Ozulana of the thousand lovers. The woman paid no heed to the jib. Who told thee? Behold, the night-watchman of the big hotel upon the edge of the water sent me word. Why? That is no business of thine. Tell me what scheme thou hast in thy head. Does thou desire the death of the three? Ozulana shook her head, and turning it so that the wounds and distortion were hidden, lent against the wall. Not yet, she said, loosening with filthy hands the uncombed masses of jet-black hair, which still retained something of the perfume of better days. Not yet, let me think awhile. And she paid no heed to the man who sat staring at her, breathing heavily. The right side of her face, untouched and perfect, showed in all its beauty against the dirty whiteness of the wall. Her hair served as a mantle to the perfect figure in the soiled satin wrap. Her crippled limbs showed not at all in the foul room lit by a wick floating in a saucer of oil. The light went out suddenly. O, Ozulana! Surely your cup of misery was full to the brim. CHAPTER XXV. HE THAT HAS PATIENCE MAY COMPASS ANYTHING. RABBELAE. Ben Kellum sat near the value-strait on the veranda of Shepard's hotel just after breakfast, pretending to read the morning paper whilst trying to make up his mind. Sybil Sidmouth and her mother, owing to lack of accommodation, brought about the crush of visitors in the huge caravan Sarri had gone to the Savoy, for which the man was secretly thankful. He wanted to eat out his heart all by himself in the appalling loneliness which had overwhelmed him when, on ringing up Heliopolis the night before, he had learned that de Meris and the Duchess had transferred themselves to Luxor. And you simply cannot indulge in your particular brand of malaise or doleur with an extreme optimist sitting opposite you at meals, or adjacent to your elbow at most other times. He anathematized the postal system of Egypt, his own haste in accepting the girl's refusal, the oriental imagination with its magnified cats into lions, but above all the wash of that steamer upon which de Meris had returned from Dendera which had refloated his own craft and sent him, racing full steam ahead for Cairo. Another hour of the infernal wait on the sand bank and he would have transferred himself to one of the scores of small boats and been ferried across to Luxor, where he would have dined at the Winter Palace Hotel whilst waiting to catch the express to Cairo and perhaps have seen his beloved in the dining room or have heard that she was staying there. He was thoroughly irritated as he pondered his deliberate way as to the best thing to do. Should he take the first train back to Luxor, or as the Duchess had not seen fit to acclaim him as to her movements, should he stay where he was, write her a letter, or send a telegram and wait for an answer? Anyway he was irritated enough to scowl at the commissionaire who was raiding a woman whom he had seen hanging about the street, doubtless with intent of soliciting a nickel from one of the great white race as he or she distended the steps to stroll along the street. She made a few choice remarks upon the undoubted inclusion of a pig in the commissionaire's parentage, in a curiously sibilant voice, then limped away with the distressing swing of her body from the hips. Can't you keep these people quiet? Kellam demanded angrily as she moved a chair further back and led a cigarette. An hour had passed in which he had come to no decision when fate in the shape of a page-boy offered him the just-derived, local morning paper which he took in red with only half a mind upon the gossipy contents. By Joe, he suddenly exclaimed, if that isn't a bit of luck, here's the very excuse for getting down there without kind of thrusting myself upon them. He flattened out the paper and again read through the paragraph which gave a most extraordinarily detailed account of the immensely wealthy Hugh Cardin Ali. His career a hero, his travels, his stables in the desert, his birds, and a hundred and one other details calculated to interest those who liked reading about other people's most intimate affairs. It ended, being a great sportsman, the strange story of Lyon which is causing such uneasiness and is likely to do harm to the Luxor season has taken him to his chance of purple and gold, one of the wonders of modern Egypt and which lie in the desert a little distance from the well-known Colossae. He did not frown this time as he folded the paper and turned to watch the commissionaire in conclave with a cold black Ethiopian who clad in crimson tunic, enormous turban, and with scimitar rattling at his side, tendered an envelope. Yes, yes, said the hotel servant, I will see that it is delivered into the gentleman's own hands. And tell me, he lowered his voice as he winked his eye. Has she returned from Alexandria? Coutine was caught in a quandary and he cursed the vanity which had urged him to don his most resplendent garments upon his errand to the great hotel, to which he had come after a violent argument with Zulana. With a heart full of hatred and agony in her twisted limbs the woman had hung about the streets in front of the hotel until she had seen the man for whom she had felt such a sudden and fleeting love and who was the primary cause of her disfigurement. Heard him she must, if only as a balm to her own physical and mental agony and in what better way than by destroying his faith in the white girl he loved. Hence the letter, written hastily in the hovel and consigned to the care of the Ethiopian, who in return for his assistance had demanded Bakshish in the shape of a pink leaf covered with strange black marks. The woman's presence in the great city in her deplorable state was the last thing he wanted to be known, so he lied, clumsily. Nay, she is in Alexandria, he blurted out. The commissionaire slowly winked his eye. Perhaps and perhaps not, and chuckled as the negro turned hastily and strode away in the direction of the bank. And thus came it to be known in the bizarre that Zulana the courtesan had returned to the great city. And a little later Ben Kellam felt no tweak at the string with which Fade had hobbled him to his destiny. When, on hearing his number called, he took the letter from the page-boy, turned it over and looked at it on each side, as we do when curious, but not over-interested, then he opened it idly, read it, and crushed it in both hands. It was written in the excruable English Zulana had picked up in her few years of cosmopolitan intercourse with different nationalities. It was in vile hand writing and was as despicable a method of revenge as an anonymous letter usually is. It ran after this fashion. If you want to find your white woman, go and look for her in the ruins of Karnak at night in the arms of her half-cased lover Hugh Carden Ali. And the woman who had limped back to the street, sniggered behind her veil as she watched the man tear the letter into shreds while he sat and thought out an answer to this second problem. It's a damnable lie. My demeris and good old Carden. I expect they've met, but who— He sniffed at his hand suddenly. Pa! Now, where have I smelt that scent before? Filth! He sat with his hands to his nose, then frowned as, under the suggestion of the perfume, the picture of a lovely woman clad in silks and satins and wearing rich jewels rose before him. My God! he said slowly, as the full significance of it all dawned slowly upon him. Of course, she—she invited me to—to visit her and I refused. By all that's clean and decent, if I don't make her pay for this. And it's Carden, too, who can tell me the best way to set about it. The harlot! I wonder if I shall have to wait until evening for a train. He clenched his hands until the knuckles showed white as he unseeingly watched a woman limp down the street. I'll make her sorry she was ever born. He need not have worried on that point. Fate was dogging those unsteady feet back to the hobble. The spreading of a prairie fire is slow compared to the speed with which news runs through the bazaar. The servants in the big house in the big garden went suddenly about their various tasks of tidying and clearing up the courtesan's home, whilst little-nots of people, composed principally of women, stood about in the vicinity of the gate. It was the first time the tyrannical woman had been absent upon a long journey and the relatives and friends, even unto a most distant generation of her servants, had taken advantage of it to visit the house and examine it to them, surpassing luxury. The Ethiopian, with his mind fixed only upon the bank, had taken but little interest in the house itself and had visited it but rarely, and then only for the sake of appearances, so that the visitors had become more and more brazen as the days passed, fingering the satins sitting upon the cushions, feasting on the floor. Bess, the monstrous keeper of the lions, had become prime favorite with the men, and the neighborhood had resounded with the roars of the brutes at night as they fought for their food. Also was there something savage in the way the women visitors had fingered and touched everything and had visited every corner of the building. They were fat or thin, plain or passably good-looking. They were all hideously poor, and in their heads they had the echo of the jives their men focused cast at them. When returning with empty pockets they had boasted of great conquests. Which boasting the sillies had believed, thinking as all women think, that their own particular male has been specially favored of the gods, and is therefore anodontis in the eyes of every other woman. There was an indefinite air of trouble in that quarter of the bazaar which increased with the heat of the day. Household matters were neglected, whilst the women foregathered to talk. Words were few, but gestures were quick and expressive. The servants, wondering at the absence of the Ethiopian, grumbled as they worked. They had been paid no wages in their mistress's absence and were on the verge of mutiny. Brave words, when they knew what they would fall flat upon their faces at the first swish of her satin robes. They waited all the day, and no definite word came of the woman's return. They waited until the stars twinkled and they still waited with the terrible patience of the East. Why they waited, they could not have told you. They dared not set upon her if she passed in her litter. She wielded too great a power through her beauty and wealth for that. But as the hours passed they moved to and fro softly, as moves the wretched beast in his cage at feeding time, whilst a look of cunning allied to cruelty shown in the soft brown eyes. It only required a spark to start the conflagration. CHAPTER XXVI. And the dog shall eat Jezebel, and there shall be none to bury her. Second Kings. The station was bathed, blood red in the afterglow of the wonderful sunset, which being a daily occurrence is hardly ever noticed by the winter visitors in Cairo. A star or two twinkled in the pale gray hem of the coat of many colours which day was offering to-night, as the evening breeze lifted the edges of the veils and blew refreshingly around a woman who descended awkwardly from a native cart and limped her way across the station-yard. The porter, trundling Ben Kellam's luggage, caught her by the shoulder and likening her to the cross-eyed offspring of a clumsy she-camel, flung her to one side. Rage incarnate glittered from her eyes, bitter vituperation flowed from behind the yash-mak, until, noticing that a swashbuckling member of the native police was making his menacing way towards her, she quieted down and limped to where she saw, standing the station-porter of Shepherd's Hotel. Strange is that power which has led so many a criminal to the gallows by dragging him irresistibly back to the scene of the crime. It was some such force which had held Zulana throughout the day. She had nothing further to gain by looking upon the man who had unconsciously been the cause of her ruin. She had done her best to retaliate by blighting the love she had herself tried to gain. But she had been mastered by a morbid desire to look just once more upon Ben Kellam, hoping to be able to trace in his face some sign of his mental hurt. The suffering of innocent people and animals had always given her intense pleasure. How much greater, therefore, her satisfaction if she could bring and gloat over bodily or mental pain to someone who had made her suffer. She hung about until she saw Ben Kellam arrive, and stood quite close to him, chuckling inwardly at the tail told by the grim set of his mouth. Zulana was dirty, her hands were ill-kempt, her fine muslin veils filthy and torn, but there still hung about her the faint odor of the perfume she had always used in the heyday of her success. The passing of a barrow piled high with luggage disturbed her veils, and as the rush of some excited natives disturbed the air Ben Kellam swung around. He had suddenly scented the perfume of Zulana, the courtesan. He looked to the right, to the left, and all about him, eyed with disfavor the dirty woman so close to him, who stood crookedly, with an evil lear to one eye, frowned and walked away to the platform from which the train starts for Luxor. All stations in the east are invariably and most uncomfortably crowded with natives who either stray hopelessly after the manner of lost sheep, or stand stock still, as hopelessly incapable of movement, or rush pel-mel hither-thither at the sound of clanging bell, or shriek from locomotive, but the station was unduly crowded this evening, owing to the return of hundreds of pilgrims from a visit to a certain shrine in the countryside, and an influx of their friends and relations from the Bazaar to greet them. The strong electric lights were blazing, intensifying the vivid colors and modifying the dirt upon what was intended to be the white portions of the natives' picturesque raiment. They shone down also upon the disfigured woman who, with a certain amount of satisfaction in her heart, brought about by the grim look on Ben Kellam's face, was limping towards the exit. She had just reached it when her veil was caught on the rough wicker of a basket containing hens, which was being carried on the back of a man whose mean hovel, which yet had been his home, had been raised to the ground to allow the building of the courtesan's house. He had stood the best part of the day, with heart full of vengeance among the little knots of people loitering outside the courtesan's gate, and had only been induced to leave the spot to go and claim the poultry waiting for him at the station. Just as the veil caught in the wicker he moved a little to one side to escape a group of laughing, joyous pilgrims, swung right round to shout them a greeting, and in so doing pulled the struggling woman in front of him, tearing off her veil and exposing the right side of her face, which, having escaped injury, was still wonderfully beautiful in spite of the dirt. The basket of hens crashed to the ground and bursting liberated the birds, as with a yell of Zulana, the man leapt straight at the woman who dived under a porter's arm and disappeared through the exit. There was a sudden mad rush to the exit by the inhabitants of the bazaar, who jamming together in a shouting, yelling pack, gave the woman a few moments' grace. Stand on one side, sir. Come back, mists, ordered the stationmaster, seizing the arm of an indignant Britisher. It's no use trying to stop them. They go like this sometimes, quite mad. Generally when they've cited a thief or somebody against whom they have a grudge. Let them pass, sir, let them pass. The station-yard was packed with vehicles, motors, omnibuses, and scores of rattling, irritating, native carts. Straight into the middle of them fled the woman, terror lending her an incredible speed, which agonizing physical pain augmented. She dived under horses, she squeezed through vehicles, she twisted and turned, caring not for the native drivers, who, indifferent to the daily sufferings of their wretched little horses, lashed at her with their whips, with shouts of shimalak, uaa, uaa, riglak, riglak, uaa, uaa, and peels of derisive laughter. Heeded by the man who had carried the hens, their eyes blazing, hopeless victims of the indescribable bloodlust which sometimes seizes the mob, the inhabitants of the bazaar, with those who, understanding nothing of the cause of the tumult, had joined in merely for the sport, were after the woman like a pack of hounds. If it had not been for the limp caused by the shortening of one leg, and which became more noticeable the more she ran, she might have escaped in the crowd in the plas-rumsese and been alive to-day. But the pack, as they ran, shouted, A lame dog, a lame dog, who has seen a lame dog, and those who had rushed to door or window to watch the fun pointed her out with yells of laughter. She found a few moments respite when she tripped and fell over the neck of a recumbent camel, indescribable in the gloom of the side street into which she had turned, as she headed for her own house. She had no distinct plan in her head. She was too exhausted to think. She only knew, as no all-wounded animals, that home is the place to go when stricken unto death. If she had just stacked quite still on the curb, pulled a bit of stuff across her face and pointed way down the street with peals of laughter, the mob would have swept past her and she would have been safe, but she blindly ran for home. If she had stayed where she had fallen, behind the camel which lurched to its feet as the pack ran by, she would even then have been safe. But she lay, face down in the filth, only long enough to regain her breath, which sounded like a whistle as it shrilled through the twisted mouth. With breath regained she was up and away, with the secret door in the wall, which had been discovered in her absence as her goal, just as the human hounds doubling on their tracks tore into the street to see the fluttering end of her dress disappear round a corner. She ran with a twisting, shuffling lope, horrible to see. She looked like some wounded animal as bent double she paused again for breath, just for one moment with face to the wall. She ran on, she stumbled and regained her footing, she fell on her crippled knees, then onto her face in the dust, where she remained, breathing like a far-spent horse, with blood-stained foam flucking the corners of her mouth. A great shivering shook her as she listened to the shouting, yelling mob, questioning this way and that for the lost quarry. She did not pray, poor Zulana, she knew nothing of a god of love or pity to pray to. She lay still, burying her fingers in the stand, clinging desperately to what remained of her life. They swept round the corner, those men and women screaming vengeance on her who had lived in luxury, whilst they starved, who hung herself with jewels and neglected to pay the trifling debts of the bazaar, who lived in a house built on the side of their demolished homes. They rushed past and over her lying begrimmed and foul, one with the dust of the ill-lighted street. They drove her face into the dust, they marked her beautiful body with the shape of their feet, but they did not kill her. She wanted to live. The pack pressed on to the bazaar, carrying with it the definite news of the return of the woman Zulana, and if you had looked close you would have seen the cunning in the eyes of the man who had carried the hens. If you had listened to his whispered words you would have shivered at the ferocity of his counsel. In the passing of ten minutes you would, if you had walked that way, have walked through empty streets in the vicinity of the courtesan's house, and there would have been nothing or nobody to whisper to you of the men, women and children and dogs, standing packed in the rooms and passages and courtyards waiting for a given signal. The moon looked down on a peaceful scene as Zulana, wrapped in filthy garments, crept deathly from shadow to shadow. Had she been more observant she would have wondered at the intense stillness of the bazaar, which no matter at what hour of the night is full of little sounds, the song of a woman or her laugh or her cry, the crack of a whip, the bang of dogs. If she had looked back she would have seen the stealthy opening of the doors, the craning of furtive head as quickly withdrawn. She paid no heed. She was so near, so very near the place in the wall, hidden in the shadow of the talik-palms in which was the secret door which opened on the pressing of a certain brick in the third row from the top. And once in the house, with a veil across her face, a whip or dagger in her hand, she would show them who was master, cripple or no cripple, fool that she had been to have submitted to the black catim, but thriceful he who knew nothing of that other bank in which one half of her fortune and one half of her jewels were kept in safe custody against such a rainy day as this. She cursed herself for the blundering, feeble way she had set about revenge. She cursed the moon, the agony of her limbs, the stretch which lay between one shadow and another. But she laughed, no sound issuing from the gaping mouth, as she stood in the last patch of shadow which was separated by some few yards of silvery path from the black plot upon the wall which covered the secret door. They had hunted and harried her, and walked upon her body lying in the dust, but they had lost her and had gone back to their ovals to eat and sleep, and maybe once more she cast up the reckoning of the money she owed them, the which she swore the most horrible oath she would never pay. She gathered up her dust-ridden garments and stole swiftly across the moonlit space. She had just touched the edge of the shadow, she was almost home, when with a mighty shout they were upon her. Out of the houses, out of the courtyards, down the streets they swarmed, children and women falling, to be jerked to their feet by the men who ran silently, urged on by the fantastic who for years had hugged the idea of some such moment of most horrible revenge. And then, to the sinister sound of their rushing feet there was added the baying of many pariah dogs which, from every conceivable corner and from miles away, raced like a pack of wolves upon the steps to join the hunt. Blind with terror, shaking in agony, Zulana fumbled helplessly for the special brick. It lay she knew in the third row and had as a mark a jetting piece of mortar in the middle. She passed her hand wildly up and down, too mad with fear to count. Every brick, to right, to left, and as far as she could reach above, below, had the jetting piece of mortar. The wall was as high as the heavens. The third row was here, beneath her hand. No. High above her head. No. One. Two. Yes. Here. Her fingers touched it. It was gone. It takes a long time to write or read in inky words, but it was really only a few seconds before the door swung open. She gave a terrible scream of relief and rushed into the blackness and, as she rushed, a dog leapt straight at her shoulders. She screamed again and swung to the door with all her strength. It shut upon the dog, breaking its back. It remained ajar to her pursuers. There was still hope. She knew the way. They did not. Could she but get to her bedroom behind the massive doors? Could she but reach the telephone, the instrument she had regarded as her finest toy? She would soon have the police running to the rescue. She fled down the narrow passage which led to a jumble of small rooms. She even paused for a moment to listen to the cursing of those who ran behind her, stumbling in the narrow way. She fled through the farthest door. She was free, but there remained a shallow flight of marble stairs to the suite wherein her bedroom lay. Then she stopped and shrieking flung out her arms. To right, to left, and upon the flight of stairs there stood her servants. The men and the women she had flogged and kicked, thinking to heal their wounds and bruises and dim their memories by throwing gold amongst them on the morrow. They made no movement. They simply stood and stared. Her head veil and mantle had gone. Her undergarments were torn to shreds, leaving exposed the slender body which leaned sideways like a tree which had been struck by lightning. Her matted hair fell far below her waist. It made a frame to the horrible face, one side of which was that of an old, old hag, and the other, grimeed with dirt, flecked with foam, was yet as lovely as a jewel. They shrank back and still further back. They made the sign to scare away the spirit of evil, thinking her possessed of Eblis, the devil. They would not have touched her for gold-piece. They turned their heads at the sound of rushing footsteps. They motioned her to move on, believing her mad. They gave her a chance, for in the east you dare not turn your head against the mentally afflicted. She ran, and after her came the pack in full cry. Across great rooms, lit by hanging lamps, scented with braziers of perfumed wood she fled, flipping a Pontian chila-rug or glaring monstrous heart-rug of Berlin wool in her desperate haste to quit the house. Out into the air she must get, under the trees in the garden, under the moon, down the broad paths to the wall at the end. There was no wall too high for her to climb in her extremity. Her face was gray, her eyes sunken black, orbits, her nose pinched with nostrils which blew and flattened like bellows to her labored breathing. A hand clutched at her streaming hair and misted as she sped down the garden, they were upon her heels, dogs jumping at her face as she ran. She was blind to death, almost dead, when the great gorilla-shaped arms of best closed about her. She made no sound as she hurtled through the air, mercifully perhaps she was dead as she crashed down into the pit at the bottom of which great shapes prowled hungrily. They did not stay to watch, not one of them. Shouting and laughing, men and women ran back to the house, which in one hour they had stripped bare. Just before the dawn a great flame shot skywards, an orange ribbon across the purple robe of dying night. REQUIUM There was an awful row in the bazaar last night, said Mr. Ephraim Perkins to his spouse facing him across the breakfast table. They killed a woman and burned her house down. Really, dear, said Mrs. Ephraim Perkins, rasping butter on a piece of toast. These natives want to firm hand over them. Poor thing! They usually stab each other in the east, don't they? Yes, I think so, but they threw this one into a lion's den. Now, that's an exaggeration, Ephraim. The knife never stopped its rasping. They would not be allowed to keep wild beasts in a populated quarter. Stranger things have happened in the native quarter, Maria, misquoted Mr. Perkins, than are dreamt of by the government official. True words! If we dare penetrate the labyrinths of the bazaar and stir with foolish finger the dust which lies thick upon immemorial custom, what should we not find? But having a meat of wisdom in the full measure of our imperial insularity we do not pry with foolish fingers, guessing even knowing of the wild beasts in the labyrinths, we draw a glove upon the hand and walk delicately in the opposite direction with half-closed eyes. I repeat, it is an exaggeration, stubbornly replied Mrs. Ephraim Perkins, as she stretched for the marmalade, and I do hope the fire-engines arrived in time. CHAPTER 27. A tail-bearer revealeth secrets, but a man of understanding holdeth his peace. PROVERBS. It was the night of the full moon. It was also the night of the cantillion, given by a certain princelot of unpronounceable name and great wealth, who hailed from one of those countries in Europe where quasi-royalties abound. The cattillion favours were to be of extraordinarily fine quality. Rumors spoke of gold, cigarette cases, and other such trifles, for both sexes. The supper was to be a bacchanalian feast. Every invitation had been accepted, sa va sans dire. The hotel was like a disturbed wasp's nest, and the buzzing of the chatterers in the gossips well nigh deafening. Demaris had decided to go to the ball. In fact, since her storm of tears on her return from the unlucky visit to Dendera, she had taken the broad view of the situation, and had decided to give her neighbours no cause for comment and to continue the festive life, as led in the winter season on the Nile, until the return of her godmother, after which she would, as soon as possible, shake the dust of the land of the pharaohs from off her feet. In fact, so gay was she, so full of life and high spirits, that she appeared to have forgotten her lover completely, thereby giving the Thysselton family cause to congratulate themselves in the seclusion of their bedrooms. I told you so, mamma, as had said Ellen, this night of the full moon, as she had pondered before the mirror upon the effect of a headache van du, in the shape of a royal asp would have upon a certain retired colonel, who seemed inclined to find solace for his long widowhood, in second noses. She evidently did not see Mr. Kellam and Sybil on the sand bank, and I honestly do not think she cares for him a bit. No, broken baronese, whose hair clung to her head like wet seaweed to a rock, I am sure she does not. Do you think if Ambrose had courted me and then neglected me, that I could have danced and laughed and—well, I am thankful, broken mamma, looking after any girl as beautiful and erratic, supplied Ellen, who had decided on the headache van du? Erratic as de Meris is certainly no Sinecure, supplied baronese, who in the fervor of her affection for her curculean cleric gave no thought to such trifles as head dresses and not much to the rest of her attire. Giving a final pat to her offspring's toilettes, mamma shepherded them downstairs, tapping at de Meris's door as she passed, inviting her to join them in the winter garden, where they were going to sit and look at the dresses and watch the arrival of the guests from the less select hotels. De Meris looked radiantly beautiful as she stood for a moment at the window of her godmother's sitting-room, into which she had gone to fetch a fan. True, her eyes looked over big in the violet shadows that surrounded them, and her cheek and collarbones were unduly prominent. But then, however well you hide the fox of uncertainty which tears at the vitals of your common senses and sense of honour, you cannot completely hide the outward signs of the inner agony which tortures you. You're a perfect picture, dearie, said Jane Coop, as she tied the ribbons of the simple, heelless, white leather shoes in which the girl always preferred to dance. Let me look at you just once more. Like a slender lily, de Meris stood under the electric light. The soft white satin seemed to cling like a sheath to the slender, beautiful figure. Her arms were bare, the bodice low-cut enough to show her gleaming shoulders. She was dazzling, virginal, remote as she stood, quite still, looking down at her maid. Her eyes looked intensely black, her red hair flamed. She wore no jewels, say, for a massive, jeweled brooch in the shape of a hawk which glittered in the bodice just above the belt-waste, where, thinking the bodice too low, she had pinned it hastily. I don't like that brooch, dearie, said the maid. It's a waste of money, I think, to buy these heathen things. But there, you and her grace know best. And don't forget your cloak, darling, it's too chilly to sit out in the grounds without one, Egypt or no Egypt. I'll be real glad when we run into Waterloo Station, that I shall. De Meris laughed as she took the satin cloak with broad, sable collar, then kissed her nanny and walked down the corridor to her godmother's sitting-room, followed by the bulldog. I don't want to dance well well. I'd much rather stay up here with you and read. Hmpf! said the dog, as he followed his beloved onto the small balcony, where he stood as close as he could to her as she lent on the rail, and looked up at the moon and out to the other side of the river, where ruined temple and ruined tomb shone white. I'll come up and see you both, she said, looking down into the hideously beautiful face, with its honest eyes and beaming expression. But I can't take you down with me, you know. You might hurl yourself into the middle of a fox-trop to find me. I'll bring you up a cake or a chocolate if you'll stay in here and not go after Jane to worry her with my night-slippers. Good boy, stay here and wait for Missy. Take me with you, said Wellington as plainly as he could with eyes and tail. Take me with you. Can't, old boy. Look, she reached inside for a book she had been reading and laid it on the ground. Keep that for Missy until she comes back. She smiled down at the great brute as it placed both four feet upon the volume. But she sighed as she lent for a moment on the rail, then suddenly drew back as she heard her name mentioned by someone who, hankering after a cigarette, had wandered out to kenvass the rocking seat directly beneath the balcony. Well, said the masculine voice, I think it's a damned hard lines on Miss Heathencourt, that's all, and a man wants a damned good hiding for being a knave as well as a fool. Of course it's not gospel truth, replied the voice of the hotel's biggest gossip bar nun, who, on account of her abnormal interest in other people's affairs, had earned the sober-key of Paulina Pry. But some people I know, who were at Heliopolis, have just come from Aswan told me that Mr. Kellam is engaged to Miss Sidmouth. You know, she is the crack lady shot, and that they are on their way home now. The engagement, I should think, will be announced shortly. Well, all I can say is that I'm infernally sorry that Miss Heathencourt has been made the butt of gossip and scandal through a cad's behavior, and I think that you and I ought to be shot for discussing her in her very intimate affairs. If—Dumeris waited to hear no more. White as chalk, she stumbled back into the room and crouched down upon the floor beside a chair, burying her face and her arms. For five of the longest minutes of her life she knelt, burning with shame, trembling with rage, then she sat back on her heels. Is there nobody to help me in all the wide world? Nobody I can go to? And clearly, as though it was in the room, she heard the echo of the words spoken in the Shrine of Anubis, the God of Death. Allah, how I love you, and if I may not be your master, I can at least serve you. If you are in distress, will you send me a messenger to my tents of purple and gold? My boat, from sunset to sunrise, awaits at the landing stage. The mayor, P. K., waits from the setting until the rising of the sun at the gate of tomorrow. She acted on the impulse of her outraged pride. She gave not one thought to the mad thing she was about to do. She stayed not one instant to question the trustworthiness of the man who had so strangely shadowed her since their meeting in the Bazaar. She decided in the flick of an eyelid. She would go to him, she would tell him everything, and if he were then willing to make her his wife, she would go to his English mother and from the shelter of her arms proclaim her engagement to the world. Yes, she would run away. In a flash she thought of her beloved old godmother in the loving arms always held out to her and the loving sympathy and counsel which never failed. But she shook her head. To silence the scandal-mongers her engagement must be made known before that of the man who had treated her so shamefully, who, if she had only had known, was racing towards her at that very moment as fast as a train could take him. Wait for Missy, you shall come to her, she whispered, as she knelt and kissed the dog, you and Janie. She sprang to her feet. What about her promise to her old nanny? Had she not crossed her heart and given her word that she would always let her know where she had gone? She moved swiftly to the writing-table, took a sheet of paper, and hastily wrote a line, then looked round for some place to leave the message. Wellington whimpered as he stood with his forefeet on the book. She ran to him and twisted the folded paper into the steel ring of his collar, hugged him closely and turned away. With a lace veil over her head, concealing her face, with the sable-trimmed cloak wrapped close about her, she slipped from the hotel without being recognized and down to the quay. Almost uncanny is the intuitive power of the native. Without hesitation a boatman stepped forward and salamed to the ground before her. By the sign of the hawk-headed harrakot. He repeated the phrase his master had taught him and which he had repeated over and over again for many days. And de Maris never once looked back as the boat crossed the blue-green Nile, which for all she knew would stretch forever, an impassable barrier between herself and those she loved. Acting as in a dream, she could never clearly recall what had happened until she stood at the gate of to-morrow. She had a vague recollection of crossing the great river and of being helped out of the boat and of four gigantic nubians who stood near a litter and salamed as she approached. She remembered, too, that the litter was lined and hung with satin curtains and piled with satin cushions and that she had been carried some distance at a gentle trot, which had in no wise disturbed her. Then it had been gently placed upon the ground and she had been handed out to find the sayes of the stallion sultan standing salaming before her, with his hand on the bridle of the snow-white mare P.K., the glory of Egypt. CHAPTER XXVIII. He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom thereof of gold, the covering of it purple, the midst thereof being paved with love. A custom to the flowing robes of the Arab it is not as difficult as it might be imagined to break a desert-trained horse to sidesaddle, but the mare, P.K., spoiled and sensitive, behaved like a very demon whilst the sayes exchanged the maraca, which is the native pad without stirrups, for the lady's saddle. She was not really bad, not she. She was simply a spoiled beauty and inclined to show off, so that every time her big, beautiful eye caught the sheen of the girl's satin cloak, she backed and reared and plunged, but more out of mischief than wickedness. For many days she had been ridden alternately astride and side by the sayes, who loved her better than his wife and almost as much as his son, ridden from the tents of purple and gold, and not overwhelmingly did she go, to the gate of tomorrow at sunset, to be taken back at a tearing gallop to the tents without restraining or guiding hand upon the reins at sunrise. It was not sunrise now, and she did not like the person in the shimmering satin who had, in some miraculous way, swung to her back and stayed there, but she was headed in the direction of home, and the moonlight was having just as much effect upon her temperament as it had on those of humans. A moon-struck horse or a moon-struck camel in the desert is a weird picture, and it were wise, as they are for the moment absolutely fey, to give them an extremely wide passage. Did her not, lady, shouted the sayes to Demaris, who answered to the movement of the mare like a reed in the wind, but otherwise seemed to take no notice of horse or man or moon, or untoward silkermstance. He hung on for a moment to the silken mane, and stared up into the girl's unseeing eyes. Then, with a ringing shout, let go and jumped nimbly to one side. There was no backing, no rearing, or vagary of any sort now. The mare started on her journey, broke into a canter, broke into a gallop, then, silken mane and tail flying, thundered back at terrific speed, along the path marked out by her own dainty hooves, and the relentless feet of that hound, fate. Demaris turned in the saddle and looked behind, then to her right and then to her left. She was alone in the desert. The sands stretched like a silver carpet in front of her, and like a silver carpet with the black ribbon woven across it by the mare's feet behind, to the east and west, where the sandy waste seemed to undulate in the great fawn and amethyst and blue-gray waves. So tremendous was the beast's pace, the horizon looked as though draped in curtains, gossamer light and opalescent, the heavens stretched, silvery and cold, as merciless as a woman who has ceased to love. And then, just as on the far horizon there showed a mound, which might have been a hillock of sand or a verdant patch, outcome of precious water, or a slowly moving caravan of heavily laden camel, the mare P.K. increased her pace. You would not have noticed it, for it would have seemed to you that she was already all out. But you would, as Demaris, if you knew anything about horses, have felt it, had you been riding her. It was that last grain of the last ounce by which races are won, the supreme effort of the great sporting instinct, which lies in all thoroughbreds, human or animal, and Demaris, thrilled to the innermost part of her being as she sensed rather than felt the quiver which passed through the mare, lent forward and touched the satin neck. That which distance had given the appearance of a mound grew more and more distinct. It was no mound or hillock, verdant patch or slowly moving caravan of cattle. Three tents at last shone distinctly, and the following is the short explanation of their origin. As it is not good for the Oriental youth to say under the same roof of his mother, once he has come to man's estate, which is at any age after eleven in the lands of the intense sun, the building of the house and Mahaba, near the oasis of Kairgag, had been begun with the first year of the birth of Hugh Carden Ali. Owing to the entreaties of his English mother, the boy had not been affianced in extreme youth to a little maid of two or three or four summers upon whom he would not set eyes until the night of his marriage. His mother had idolised him and he had worshipped her. He obeyed her, he would willingly have died for her. Later at her request he even left his country of sunshine in vivid colouring for hers, so cold and bleak. But before that and at the age when other high-cased youth of Arabia settled down in their own house, to contemplate seriously the taking of the reins into their own despotic hands, he had absolutely refused to go to the house and Mahaba, built for him as his father's first born. Perhaps also it was the English blood in his veins at which that age filled him with the spirit of adventure. A desire for solitude, a desire for something sterner than the everyday existence of his luxurious life, had driven him out into the desert, where bewitched, as it were of woman, he had followed the spirit which ever held out her long, fine hand with a beckoning finger. A mere boy? Absurd! Ridiculous! Not at all, for the high-cased boy of twelve in the Orient is off times as much developed physically and mentally as the Occidental of over twenty. He had followed the spirit where she had beckoned, and an Arab through the blood of his father had caught her and crushed the body, slender to gauntness in his arms, had twined the fingers in his coarse black hair and pulled it back from the different colored eyes, had sought the crimson mouth until his lips had rasped with the kisses aggrit with sand, slept with his hands clutching her tattered ribbons of saffron, purple and gold, torn the misty veil from before her face and dreamed with her cool breath which is the wind of dawn upon his face. He loved her, and to her he had pitched his tents. He prayed that he might be with her when he died, and convinced that his prayer would be answered he had pitched him a funeral tent between those of purple and of gold. But which of the desert the color of the tents resembled those in which she decks herself in the passing of a night and a day. Outwardly they were just ordinary Bedouin tents, the tan and brown of camel-hide, flat-roofed and square, giving a full-grown man room in which to move and stand to his full stature without the fear, as in the peaked affair called Bell, of bringing the whole thing down upon his crown. They lifted at each side to allow the desert wind to enter at any hour it listed, or the moon to pierce him with silvery spear, or the stars to blaze like jewels before his eyes, as he waited for sleep on a rug upon the sand. The one in which he slept was hung inside with satin curtains of deepest purple, with here and there a star of silver which glittered in the light of the cut crystal lamp which hung from the cross-pole. The Persian rug upon the floor was gray and old rose and faintest yellow and glistened like the skin of woman. Of the ordinary furnishings of an ordinary Bedouin there was no sign, you would have to go much further afield to find the tent with all the paraphernalia of the toilette. Just as you would have to go still further and towards the west to where were pitched the stables and the quarters of the specially chosen servants he took with him in his desert wanderings, just enough, and they had their work cut out to look after the dogs and birds and horses. The camels upon whom depended the supplies were right out of sight, and any one of the servants would have preferred death by torture to approaching within a mile of his master's tents until he heard his call. In the other tent he ate his bread and dates and drank his coffee or received the humblest of his passing brothers, those who scorched with heat tortured with thirst or hunger and blinded with flying sand, yet would not exchange one minute of their own free desert life for an eternity of soft couches and the most succulent effort of a cordon blue in the cramped surroundings of a crowded city. It was hung with orange satin, cushions of every hue were flung upon a carpet of violet colors. The lamps of bronze with wicks, floating in crimson saucers, hanging from the cross-pole, were rarely lit. The satin curtains hid a smaller room behind filled with dates and coffee beans, sweetmeats, beads, and other things which bring joy to the grateful heart of the wandering Arab and his family. The sand outside was marked and pressed down with the footprints of men and women and little children. They had not to ask in order to receive. But no foot but his had ever trod the fine matting of the tent between the other two. Firmly convinced that his prayer would be granted and that in the desert he would find the answer to the many questions which had occurred to him to ask of life he had sought for a covering under which he could lie after death, until not but his bones should be left for the wind of chance to play with. He had all a Mohammedan's belief in the hand of destiny, but the English blood in his veins filled him with horror at the thought of being torn to pieces by vultures after death, his desert blood filled him with an equal horror at the thought of being weighted down by the regulation tomb of bricks and mortar. And so it came to pass on this night of the full moon, when the girl he loved was racing towards him and fate was disentangling the threads she had knotted so grievously, that he lay stretched upon the block of wood which stood three feet high in the center of this tent. He lay face downwards with chin in hand, looking out through the lifted flap in the direction of Mecca, whilst the moon hung as a silver shield above him and the desert enfolded him on every side. Outwardly the tent was, as that of any Bedouin, tan and brown, the color of the camel's hide, of which it was made, square and grooved, with one side only which lifted, the side which was towards Mecca. Inside it was lined with a copy of the queen's funeral canopy of the softest lever, stretched square to the touch as soft, supple, and finest velvet. True, this copy had not taken year upon year to make, nor had scores and scores of nimble fingers stitched and stitched for days and months to finish it, as in the days of the nineteenth dynasty. The panels in the copy were of one piece of hide stitched finely by machinery, with the emblems painted upon them after the stitching. In the original they are made by the stitching together by hand of thousands and thousands of pieces of gazelle hide, each of which had been painted either pink or blue or green in various shades of yellow before the stitching. Looked up with Hugh Cardinali as he lift his head to gaze at something far beyond the tent-roof. You will see a copy of the central square which, divided into two, rested upon the top of the shrine which covered the dead queen who died about one hundred years after the siege of Troy. On one side of the panel is sprinkled with yellow and pink rosettes on a pale blue ground. The other side shows the vulture, the emblem of maternity, holding in its claws the feather of justice. Six there are in all. That is the ceiling. The tent walls are lined with a copy of the flaps which hung down on each side of the shrine of the funeral boat of the Egyptian queen who, some thousand years before Christ, crossed the blue-green Nile, followed by other boats filled with her priests and her princes, her officers, her mourning women. North and south the flaps are of a chessboard pattern in squares of pink and green, behind one of which was hidden the small room which held not but a crystal pitcher and crystal basin, filled to the brim with water for the ablutions at the hour of Nizam, which is the hour of prayer. Near the top the sides show bands of color, red, yellow, green and blue, almost as bright in the original as on the day the paints were mixed, one thousand years ago. Beneath the bands upon one side you will see the signet ring of the priest-king Pinotem, whose son, Queen Issa M. Cub, espoused also the royal asp and the scarab, the emblem of life out of death. Upon the other wall you will see the lotus flower which opens at the rising of the sun and closes at its setting, the enigmatic double-headed ducklings and the picture of a gazelle which is doubtless the representation of the pet which, bound in mummy trappings, was found beside its royal mistress in the tomb. Across the lotus flowers, like a silvery shaft, there hung a light throwing spear. A very technical description, taken down in rough notes at the museum of a specimen of patchwork, even like the patchwork counterpains of our great-grandmothers, stitched together by dusky slender fingers in the days of the great-king Solomon. And to Hugh Cardinali as he lay in his tent, looking towards Mecca, there came the sound, from a great distance, as of a horse running at full speed.