CHAPTER VI.
DANBAZZAR
The abstracted mood of Barry during the remainder of the evening was too noticeable to pass without comment. His dance partner, Naomi, a girl friend of Jack’s grew very petulant, until Jack was really sorry for her. This wouldn’t have mattered, but Jack showed it. Whereupon Naomi became furious.
Barry knew that he would not lack successors, however, for a lot of their crowd were there, and Naomi was what Jim termed “a star looker.” Accordingly he excused himself early on some imaginary pretext and started for home. He had let Hemingway go, and he taxied back. He longed for the solitude of his own room—for reflection.
He wanted to argue this thing out with himself once and for all. He wanted to know if he had been purposely mystified by the occupants of the hillside house, or whether he was succumbing to a delusion. This he must determine, for his highly sensitive nature demanded it. The family physician had warned him that the blow to his skull had been a severe one, and that he must on no account overtax his brain for at least a year to come. Somewhat belatedly he began to take this warning to heart.
Had it been a covert intimation that he was threatened with insanity?
The detective on duty at the corner saluted him again as he discharged the taxi. Jim Sakers’s words returned to his mind while he fumbled for a key. He remembered too that his father had advocated a long vacation abroad.
What did this mean? Should he regard it as confirming his worst theories? Or did his father suspect that there was some deep plot afoot? Reared from childhood in an atmosphere of luxury, he had never hitherto appreciated, in all its significance, the fact that he was the son of a millionaire.
As he was passing the library he heard voices; one of them unmistakable, the other deep, resonant—equally unfamiliar.
John Cumberland as a rule retired early, and Barry paused, wondering whom this late visitor might be. Curious, he rapped and opened the door.
He looked down the long rectangular room. The Cumberland library was one of the acknowledged “sights” of New York, but to Barry it was a commonplace. It was lined with relics of that wonderful civilization which flourished under the Pharaohs. Its very atmosphere was reminiscent of the Nile land, of the indescribable smell of Egypt.
His father was seated in the big armchair, looking up at a wall painting from Medinet Habu. Facing him, and seated on a corner of the library table—a favourite perch of Barry’s—was a man of arresting appearance.
He was in dinner kit, but in lieu of the more regular black bow displayed a stock. His hair, brushed back from a fine brow, was silver-gray; his head leonine; the pale chiselled features were of Moorish severity. He wore a short moustache and a small tuft beneath his lower lip, of that kind once known as an imperial. He was built massively, imposingly. His eyes, which at Barry’s entrance had turned in the direction of the door, were light brown and, in their piercing regard, resembled the eyes of an animal. He stood up, revealing his height, which Barry estimated to be more than six feet.
“Hello, Barry!” said John Cumberland. “Glad you looked in. I should like you to meet Mr. Danbazzar.”
Danbazzar raised his hand in a slow, majestic movement, and:
“I am delighted to meet Mr. Barry Cumberland,” he replied, and his voice possessed a deep organ note. “But you forget, Mr. Cumberland”—turning to the elder man—“that I lay no claim to the title of Mister. I am Danbazzar; neither Danbazzar Esquire, Sir Danbazzar, nor Lord Danbazzar; merely Danbazzar.”
He came forward, extending his hand.
“Mr. Barry Cumberland, I hope you and I will be friends, as your father and I have been for many years.”
Half attracted, half repelled, Barry took the extended hand—and experienced a mighty grip, which greatly reassured him. He smiled.
“You can be sure of it, Mr.—I beg your pardon—Danbazzar,” he returned. “I heard voices. That was why I came in.”
Danbazzar inclined his head graciously and placed a chair.
“Perhaps you would like to sit here?” he said. “We are discussing a matter upon which I think your father would welcome your views.”
Barry sat down, and:
“Is that so, Dad?” he asked. “What’s the big argument?”
“There’s no argument, Barry,” was the reply; “there isn’t room for any. It’s a proposition, and it’s up to me to say Yes or No.”
“Precisely,” Danbazzar murmured; and resumed his seat upon the corner of the library table.
He had an odd trick of tensing and then relaxing his lips. He did it now, looking from the older to the younger man. Then, from a box upon the table, he selected a cigarette, lighted it, and reflectively blew a puff of smoke toward the dancers and other ladies of Pharaoh’s golden court displayed upon the wall above him.
Barry, his mind full of his own affairs, settled down rather reluctantly to listen.
“I am afraid this is going to be right over my head,” he confessed. “But it’s bound to be interesting, so fire away. What is it all about?”
Danbazzar waved his cigarette in the direction of John Cumberland, and the latter, smiling, replied:
“It’s a deal in Egyptian antiquities, Barry, as no doubt you surmise. But in a new kind of antiquity—different from any Danbazzar has ever offered me before; different in every way.”
“You are right,” boomed the deep voice. “No such proposition has been made to any living man, I should guess, since the days of Rameses the Ninth.”
Danbazzar imparted a quality of awe to this extraordinary statement which was not without its effect upon Barry. He found himself studying the large, well-shaped hand holding a lighted cigarette and discovered a curious fascination in a little scarab ring on the fourth finger. As one does upon meeting a man of whom one has heard much, he endeavoured to sum up his impressions of Danbazzar and to compare the result with what he had hitherto learned about him.
He was reputed to be the agent of an individual or a syndicate in Egypt, and it was rumoured that his activities had more than once attracted official attention. Certainly, he had been the medium through which many rare antiquities had reached collections of wealthy connoisseurs, and indeed, more than one public institution. John Cumberland’s museum had been enriched by not a few items obtained in this way. And since the export of such antiques was contrary to the laws of the Egyptian government, and their importation subject to a heavy tax by that of the United States, it was only reasonable to suppose that Danbazzar was a smuggler. But he was master of his subject, a fact to which the names of his patrons testified. His nationality was unknown.
“It is some years since we have met,” John Cumberland pursued, “On the last occasion, if I remember rightly, you brought me——”
He pointed to a very beautiful enamelled casket enclosed in a glass case.
“Correct,” Danbazzar nodded. “There are only two of that period in existence, and the other is in the Louvre. I had the honour to supply it to France, as I told you at the time of our deal.”
“Yes, I remember,” said John Cumberland. “And now, Barry—” turning to his son—“I have been given first refusal of a proposition which, if it matures, will win me a place among the real Egyptologists; let me in on the ground floor, in fact.”
Danbazzar raised his hand, checking the speaker.
“One moment, Mr. Cumberland,” he interrupted, and turned to Barry, fixing upon him a penetrating glance from his extraordinary eyes. “You quite understand that what you are about to hear must not be mentioned in any shape or form to anyone now outside this room?”
“Quite,” said Barry, almost startled by the intensity of the speaker’s gaze. “You may rely upon me.”
He glanced at his father, and realized that he was labouring under the influence of intense excitement. His voice, his colour, his movements betrayed him.
Enthusiastic though John Cumberland had always been upon this subject, Barry could never remember to have seen him quite so roused before. He felt, suddenly, that he stood upon the verge of something momentous. The shadow of Ancient Egypt at last was reaching out to touch him. He experienced a momentary shrinking, followed by a thrill of anticipation, communicated, possibly, from father to son.
“I have seen a papyrus to-night, Barry,” John Cumberland went on, “which even my limited study of the subject”—he acknowledged with a smile Danbazzar’s gesture of denial—“shows me to be unique. You shall see it presently, if you wish—that is, with my friend’s consent.”
Consent was given in a gracious gesture.
“It may mean little to you, but it has meant much to me. I foresee that reproductions of it will occupy a place in the library of every student of Egyptology. It will be more sought after than the Papyrus Harris, or the Papyrus Ebers. The discovery of the Rosetta Stone, itself, will almost be dwarfed by the publication of the Danbazzar Papyrus——”
“Mr. Cumberland!” Danbazzar’s voice broke in imperiously. “You have heard my proposition with all its conditions. If you accept them, the papyrus shall be known as the ‘Cumberland Papyrus.’ Upon this I insist. It is no more than your due. By your efforts its authenticity must be established.”
“A minor point,” John Cumberland assured him. “My share will be that of a backer. You are the discoverer.”
“Not of the sarcophagus,” was the reply. “This has yet to be discovered, and can only be discovered by your help.”
“Tremendously thrilling!” said Barry, standing up restlessly and lighting a fresh cigarette; “but, as I expected, right over my head. Does it mean a job of exploration or something?”
“It does,” said his father, looking at him.
“Might I take a peep at this papyrus?”
Danbazzar bowed gravely, and from the other side of the library table took up a large portfolio having double locks. He opened it carefully and spread out a stained fragment, some three feet in length, part of which was clearly missing and other parts of which were defaced by curious stains.
It bore rows of figures of a type quite familiar to Barry, but nevertheless meaningless, and some of the colouring retained much of its original freshness. It seemed to deal with the inevitable subject of burial, but upon one figure, perfectly preserved, he fastened his gaze as if hypnotized. It was that of a slender girl, more delicately drawn than any he ever remembered to have seen. But that which held him enthralled was the resemblance, the uncanny resemblance, of this figure to the girl of the balcony.
Allowing for the conventional methods of the ancient artist, it might have been her portrait!
He heard Danbazzar speaking.
“My own translation is here,” he was saying, indicating a manuscript which he held in his hand. “I have asked your father to have it checked by any two authorities he may select. But the theory that I have based upon this is the point that will interest you.”
“It will startle you out of your life!” John Cumberland interjected.
Barry looked up.
“What is the theory?” he asked, looking from face to face.
“The theory is,” Danbazzar replied, “that unless some unforeseen accident occurs, or has already occurred, we shall shortly be in a position to learn some of the secrets of Ancient Egypt from the lips of one who lived there!”
CHAPTER VII.
ZALITHEA
“I should be glad,” said John Cumberland, “if you would just run over the main facts again for Barry’s benefit.”
Danbazzar inclined his head in that courtly manner which was his and glanced aside at the younger man.
“Quite so,” Barry agreed. His original purpose was forgotten, for here apparently was an even deeper mystery than that which had been puzzling him. “At the moment I simply don’t know what to make of it all, so please start right at the beginning.”
Danbazzar took up a position before the mantelpiece. Barry could not help thinking that the background suited the figure. The man had the majestic presence of a Pharaoh.
“The facts,” he began, speaking slowly and impressively and emphasizing his statements with graceful and unfamiliar gestures, “are of a sort which you would be justified in doubting if you met them in a Sunday newspaper. My reputation, though, gives them a greater value. But in spite of a life devoted to these subjects, I’m not infallible, and I won’t consent to go any further, as I have already told you, Mr. Cumberland”—turning in the latter’s direction—“until two other opinions have been taken.”
“Your proposal is fair and reasonable,” was the reply; “and I have already agreed to it.”
“Very well!” Danbazzar resumed. “The story starts from five years ago, when I was paying one of my periodical visits to Egypt, and when I discovered”—he pointed—“this papyrus. I won’t bore you with particulars of how it came into my possession as Mr. John Cumberland has these already. Nor can I account for its presence in the place where it was found. Enough to say that I recognized it to be genuine and immediately set to work to decipher it. I tried to restore, as far as possible, those parts which had become defaced.
“A first glance had shown me that it was not the ordinary ritual buried with most mummies. A very short study proved that is was unique—unique in every way—and that it dated from the latter part of the reign of Seti the First.”
“When did he reign?” Barry asked.
“Roughly, about thirteen hundred and sixty years before Christ!”
“Good heavens!” Barry stared again at the fragment with its amazing freshness of colouring; “then this thing is something over three thousand two hundred years old?”
“Precisely,” Danbazzar nodded. “In other words, it dates from a time when the art of mummifying human bodies had reached a very high state of perfection. One day, perhaps very soon, you will see the mummy of Seti himself in the Cairo Museum. You will never forget the majesty of his features preserved by that lost art for over three thousand years. I mention the fact of the high development of the art of the mummy maker at this period, because the contents of the papyrus show that this had been achieved by long years of study, and that even more extraordinary results were looked for by a certain group of students closely associated with Pharaoh’s court.
“I found it to consist of two parts. The first, fortunately, almost complete, the second, as you see, with a great part missing. How much is missing I can’t even surmise, but I should say that from this point”—he bent forward and laid a long finger upon the papyrus—“to the end where it is torn covers a period of some two hundred and eighty years. It bears the names, or as we should say, the signatures, of six generations of priests.
“The first and shorter part, written toward the end of Seti’s reign, if I’m not mistaken, states that in accordance with the wishes of a certain learned high priest of the Temple of Amen Ra at Thebes and with the consent of Pharaoh, an attempt was made to prove that not only the physical frame but human life itself could be preserved indefinitely under peculiar conditions.”
“What!” Barry exclaimed incredulously—“that a living person could be mummified and remain alive?”
“This priest,” Danbazzar replied, “referred to in the papyrus—his name would mean nothing to you—believed that he had perfected a process for accomplishing this! It was all an outcome of that peculiar egotism which belonged to the Ancient Egyptians. And in this way, no doubt, he interested Pharaoh in his experiments.
“You get what I mean? The statues and records which had preserved for posterity the principal events of earlier reigns weren’t good enough to tell coming ages of the greatness of Seti the First! To his glory a living witness should be left behind to testify to the ancient grandeur of Egypt. This is stated at the beginning of the papyrus, which then goes on to relate that a beautiful captive, attached to the person of the Queen, was selected for this high honour.”
“High honour!” cried Barry. “You mean she was selected to be put to death!”
Danbazzar smiled slightly.
“As it is stated that she was of great beauty and bodily perfection,” he admitted, “it is just possible that an element of jealousy entered into this selection. At any rate, for whatever reason, this girl was chosen, and she is referred to in the writing as Zalithea, a Princess of Unu, taken captive in the wars of Seti. As Egyptologists have never succeeded in identifying this island of Unu, we can’t even guess at the nationality of Zalithea. But she possibly came from the neighbourhood of Cyprus.
“Now—” he paused, raising his finger—“the nature of the process by which this suspension of life was induced, and that by which it was to be ended, or the subject awakened, is not mentioned. This papyrus”—he lowered his finger and pointed again—“is no more than a brief statement of the fact that, in accordance with the wishes of Pharaoh, Princess Zalithea was selected for this high honour and laid in a certain tomb under the guardianship of a group of priests appointed as custodians.
“Certain funds were set aside for the upkeep of the small temple attached to the tomb, and one of the most extraordinary experiments ever attempted by man had begun.”
“But,” Barry objected, “while I’m not in a position to dispute the genuineness of this writing, it’s—well, what shall I say?—it’s really a nightmare—the dream of a madman—who unfortunately had power enough to carry it out and condemn this poor girl to a living death! Thank God we live in an age of real civilization!”
His father caught his eye, and:
“Don’t judge until you have heard all the facts,” he said. “The civilization of Ancient Egypt was more real, and higher, than you appreciate.”
“That is true,” Danbazzar resumed, unmoved by Barry’s criticism, “as the second part of the papyrus bears out. This roughly covers the reigns of seven kings. In the ages that have since gone by time has reduced the whole of the papyrus to a more or less uniform colour. In fact, some of the earlier colouring is brighter than the later, but here”—he stepped forward to the table—“we move from somewhere around 1365 up to somewhere about 1200 B.C. It was the duty of the priests, to which they were sworn, to examine the sleeping Zalithea at certain periods which I estimate to have been fifty years apart.”
“You mean to awaken her?” Barry demanded.
“Surely!” said Danbazzar. “They were entrusted with a certain formula by means of which, in the belief of its inventor, the sleeping woman could be aroused from her trance. It was their duty at specific dates to record the results. Here we have five such records, covering a period of some two hundred and fifty years, as I estimate. Each, as you see, is confined within a ruled space, and every one is undoubtedly the work of a different scribe and possesses recognizable characteristics of the period in which it was written. Each also bears what we may term the signature of the chief priest in office at the time, and the accounts, while the wording varies slightly, all tally. The last, or the last to be preserved, states as the others state, and is attested by three witnesses, priests of the temple, that at this time the Princess Zalithea was still living!”
“Good God!” Barry exclaimed. “It simply isn’t credible! Don’t misunderstand me! I am not doubting your translation or the genuineness of the thing! But there must be some mistake!”
“You are entitled to suppose so,” Danbazzar admitted. “It was because I supposed so myself that I allowed several years to elapse before making the proposition that I have made to-night to your father. During those years I have not been idle. A trusted agent of mine in Egypt, working upon such information as I could give him, had been searching—secretly, of course—and twelve months ago his search was rewarded.”
“What was he searching for?” Barry asked.
“He was searching for the tomb of Zalithea! You see, it would be unlikely to attract the attention of the ordinary excavator, its historical importance being slight—except in relation to this papyrus.”
“Do you mean that he found it?” Barry demanded amazedly.
“He found it!” Danbazzar replied. “There is such a tomb!”
“Do you understand, Barry?” said John Cumberland excitedly. “Do you understand what this may mean?”
Barry in bewilderment looked from his father to Danbazzar and then stared down at the papyrus on the table.
“I worked on it all last winter,” Danbazzar went on quietly. “I opened a way in—and I found myself checked by a great stone portcullis.”
“You mean,” said Barry dazedly, “you spent last winter in Egypt, actually excavating?”
“Actually on the job! I got away with murder. I had no permit to dig. But I’ve explained my system to your father. I’d hoped to go back this season; but funds won’t allow. It’s going to be ruinously expensive to complete that excavation. But the man who does complete it will make a name for himself.”
“If,” John Cumberland went on, “she remained alive for three hundred years, Barry, why not for three thousand?”
“But, Dad,” said Barry, “this is raving lunacy!”
“It seems so,” Danbazzar admitted gravely; “but five generations of learned men whose names we have here testify to the fact. Are we to assume that they were all liars? If so, with what object did they lie? I found the tomb—unopened, untouched!”
But Barry’s attention had wandered again, and the words reached him but vaguely. He was staring intently at the graceful figure in the papyrus which aroused such strange memories. And now, turning to Danbazzar, and resting his finger upon that part of the record:
“What does this mean?” he asked. “Is it a symbol?”
“No,” was the reply. “You will notice on the right of the figure what looks like a cartouche. I have been unable to identify it, though. Translated, it means, ‘She Who Sleeps but Who Will Awaken.’ For this reason I take the figure to be a portrait of the Princess Zalithea.”
CHAPTER VIII.
SPECIAL OPINIONS
“The last time the man Danbazzar was about,” said Countess Colonna, “the result was that a motor lorry and ten men arrived. The front doors were taken off their hinges and a stone figure as big as the Statue of Liberty was carried into the library.”
“I don’t think it will happen this time, Micky,” Barry assured her.
“I hope not,” was the reply. “I don’t like Danbazzar. I always imagine him living in a harem.”
“I haven’t met the sportsman,” said Jim Sakers, “but I am going to crash into the University Club to-night and look him over keenly. If I don’t approve, Barry, I shan’t hesitate to advise you to drop him. On the other hand, I may be favourably impressed. And as is only fair to him, if this should prove to be the case, I shall relieve your mind at once and let you know.”
“Thanks,” Barry replied. “I shall be in a frightfully unsettled state until I have your opinion.”
“That’s quite natural,” Jim agreed; “but I promise not to keep you in suspense.”
“It occurs to me, young Sakers,” Aunt Micky broke in, “that you and I are being deliberately kept in the dark about this thing. Young Cumberland here has a secret eye. It’s his left!”
Barry laughed.
“You hit the nail on the head, Micky,” he admitted. “Danbazzar has come across with a proposal about which I have promised to say nothing. It’s a very queer business—more than queer, in fact; but to-night I shall know more about it. Dad has invited him to join us at the University Club with Dr. Rittenburg of the Smithsonian, Horace Pain, the big Oriental man, and Dad’s old friend, Dr. Blackwell of Yale.”
“What a wild party!” Jim commented. “I suppose you are going on to the Earl Carroll Vanities after dinner?”
“On the contrary,” Barry assured him, “we are going on to Danbazzar’s place.”
“You can’t delude me,” cried Jim scornfully. “I see Dr. Rittenburg and Professor Blackwell dancing far into the small hours of the morning in some small but costly cabaret. I can see you all, haggard-eyed, flushed with wine, a really shocking Six, taking breakfast at Child’s on Fifth Avenue as the morning sun peeps in upon the end of your debauch. Barry, I’m sorry, but you are making the pace too fast.”
The dinner turned out more successful, however, than Jim had predicted. Barry’s father had never before so taken him into his confidence in regard to this hobby of his life, and under different circumstances he would certainly have come prepared to be bored. As it chanced, the company proved to be so amusing that he was amazed to find how quickly the time passed.
Horace Pain, the celebrated Orientalist, was all that he had expected of him; a dry, slow-spoken scholar, whose only enthusiasm was for his subject. But Dr. Rittenburg proved to be a comedian who would have rejoiced Jim’s heart. He was a round little man—a study in curves. His red face was round, his bald head was round, and he wore very round glasses. He and Professor Blackwell succeeded in keeping the party in a state of continuous laughter; for Professor Blackwell, tall, gaunt, and saturnine, had a fund of wit, as Barry knew, which seemed to be inexhaustible.
Danbazzar, too, was a delightful companion. There seemed to be few spots in the world, civilized or uncivilized, that he had not visited, from the headwaters of the Amazon to the monasteries of Thibet. The real purpose of the meeting was not touched upon, however, until the party had adjourned to the library of the club. Here, as they took their seats in an alcove, Barry observed Jim. Faithful to his promise, he had “crashed in.”
With an exaggerated air of secrecy, based upon the Charlie Chaplin tradition, he crept around the gallery above, turning his back swiftly whenever one of the party looked up, and apparently searching for some book which he always failed to find. Crouching low behind the rails, so that only the top of his head and his eyes were visible, he peered down intently. This amazing piece of pantomime was only interrupted by the decision of the party to adjourn serious discussion to Danbazzar’s apartment.
But, as they quitted the club and got into John Cumberland’s big car which waited outside, Jim Sakers, his face buried in an evening paper, hat brim pulled down over scowling features, stood beside the steps watching intently.
Danbazzar’s apartment, Barry had always been given to understand, contained a number of literally priceless objects, every one unique and irreplaceable, and any one of which he could have sold over and over again for incredible sums. Used to the orderly neatness of his father’s collection, he came prepared to find something similar, although probably on a smaller scale.
The address proved to be situated amid some of the loudest noises of New York. He had thought vaguely, before, that it was an odd spot to live in. But he had not allowed for the fact that Danbazzar lived on the roof. Here, like a priest of Bel, high above all the buildings surrounding him, Danbazzar from a cloudy silence looked down upon teeming streets, thousands of lighted windows, dwarfed sky signs.
His apartment was virtually a bungalow from the porch of which one stepped into a sort of Japanese garden, with flowering vines and tortuous, spiny cacti. A large pond was approached through a loggia and peopled by golden carp. From little arbours around the wall one might look down upon a muted New York. An Arab servant, who apparently knew not one word of English, attended upon the guests; and presently they entered a large, low room, in which the famed collection was housed.
Here, Barry had a shock. The value of the statuettes, vases, mummies, caskets, items of jewellery, and other nameless relics of Egypt he could not dispute. But instead of being formally lined up in wall cases and cabinets, they were littered about the place in the utmost confusion.
A magnificently painted sarcophagus had been converted into a cupboard to contain bottles of Scotch whisky, old brandy, champagne, and other material comforts. Cigar butts disfigured the polished floor. There were books and papers lying about anywhere and everywhere.
The effect was that of a second-hand dealer’s establishment in which somebody had been trying to rope a steer. He was unable to conceal his amazement, and:
“Did you ever see anything like it, Barry?” his father said, speaking in a low voice.
“Never!” he confessed. “Are these things really valuable?”
“Valuable!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg, who stood near. “There is a fortune in this room.”
Danbazzar cleared a space upon a large table and set out the papyrus.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said in his courtly manner, “let us get to the business of the evening. I have given you, Dr. Rittenburg, and you, Mr. Pain, an opportunity of examining and testing this piece of writing. I await your opinion.”
“I have anticipated it,” said John Cumberland, in a voice that betrayed suppressed excitement.
Horace Pain removed the cigar from between his teeth, cleared his throat, and:
“I know Professor Rittenburg’s opinion,” he said, “and he knows mine. The papyrus is undeniably genuine. It has points of resemblance to the Turin Papyrus which I shall presently point out, as I have already pointed them out to my friend Dr. Rittenburg. Respecting the claims of its writer, or writers, I shall have nothing to say. This is outside my province. As, I take it”—turning to John Cumberland—“it is outside yours? I mean, your interest, like mine, is in the writing itself, not in what it states.”
“Partly,” John Cumberland replied, glancing swiftly in Danbazzar’s direction.
“Well,” Pain went on, in his dry, hard voice, “I mean to say that a parallel is the medical papyrus in Berlin. No one would think of making up a prescription from it. You agree with me, Professor?”—turning in the direction of Professor Blackwell.
“I agree with you entirely,” was the reply. “It contains among other things a prescription for a hair restorer which, I will guarantee, would turn Paderewski bald in a fortnight.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Rittenburg agreed. “I look upon this business of the sleeping Princess as a sort of religious ritual, Cumberland, similar to the worship of the Apis Bull—only kept up for political reasons to delude the people, and to preserve the immortal name of Seti. Something of that kind.”
“Quite beside the point, gentlemen,” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “The fact that the papyrus is genuine and, in your opinion, dates from the time of the Pharaoh mentioned in it is the thing of interest to Mr. Cumberland and to myself.”
“Of this I am certain.”
Dr. Rittenburg nodded his round head vigorously.
“So am I,” Horace Pain admitted. “Of course, its publication will create a profound sensation, and the museums of the world will outbid one another to get it.”
“They will bid in vain,” Danbazzar replied. “Mr. John Cumberland has acquired it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg. “But of course you will publish a reproduction? Every student in the world is entitled to access to such a discovery.”
John Cumberland smiled happily. No triumph that his business had offered or could offer compared with the thrill of such a moment as this.
“In due course,” he said, “but not yet.”
Whereupon a debate arose concerning certain papyri, with the mere names of which Barry was unacquainted, and their points of resemblance to this one. Much excellent old brandy aided the debate. The two experts disagreed fiercely; but at a late hour, Dr. Rittenburg and Horace Pain having departed quite reconciled:
“Now,” said John Cumberland, “with Danbazzar’s consent, I shall discuss this matter with you, Blackwell. Your province is rather physiological than archæological. We have had expert opinion on the papyrus itself, and now we should like to have your opinion upon the feasibility of the claims made in it.”
The silent Arab replenished the guests’ glasses, except the Professor’s; for Blackwell, who was already lost in thought, waved him aside. The distinguished scientist was a tall man, though not so tall as Danbazzar, and built bonily. He was clean-shaven, with a long strong nose; and from his high brow, hair which was beginning to go gray was carelessly brushed back. His clothes would have fitted someone else better than they fitted the Professor, and he wore a low double collar with his dinner jacket, allowing free play to an enormously developed Adam’s apple.
His eyes, behind the thick pebbles of his glasses, resembled two interrogation marks.
“I never jump to conclusions,” he began, thoughtfully selecting a cigar from a box which Danbazzar slid across the table in his direction.
The box was an Ancient Egyptian curiosity, but Professor Blackwell had not even noticed the fact: his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Life,” he went on, “considered in the abstract, is the one thing of which Science knows nothing. Adolf Weisman maintained that duration of life is dependent upon adaptation to external conditions. We may take the case of what is sometimes termed ‘mummy wheat.’ Personally, I cannot vouch for these stories.”
“I can,” Danbazzar said gravely. “I myself have seen grains of wheat taken from a tomb of the fourteenth dynasty cultivated.”
“Did they yield any crop?” the Professor inquired.
“No,” Danbazzar acknowledged. “They shot up a very tender green to a height of six inches and then died.”
“Quite, quite,” murmured the Professor, “but the life principle was present, you see—dormant, but present. There is the case of a toad imprisoned in a rock cavity for several generations, vouched for by persons of repute, and I once examined, in India, a fakir who claimed the power to unhitch his spirit from his body. Under these conditions he presented every appearance of death and existed without visible wasting for a long period unsustained by food or drink of any kind. The question really is whether the tissues could be preserved over so long a period as this”—nodding toward the papyrus—“indicated.”
“If for three hundred years, why not for three thousand?” John Cumberland demanded.
“Quite, quite,” the professor murmured; “but unfortunately this fact rests upon what I may term ‘hearsay.’ The people who wrote it have been dead for some little time, you must remember!”
There was a short silence, broken by Danbazzar.
“Have you ever seen the mummy of Seti the First?” he demanded in his deep, impressive tone.
“Yes.” Professor Blackwell looked up slowly. “Curiously enough, I was thinking about him. He, of course, dates from somewhere about the same period as Princess Zalithea, and the preservation in this case is remarkable. But the system of mummifying employed on Seti could not be employed on a living person. It is very interesting, though—very interesting. A German physiologist whom I met in Berlin recently—I forget his name, but he was a knowledgeable man—was anxious to attempt some experiment of the kind, in a small way, upon a hypnotized subject. The difficulty, of course, was to find the subject.”
“Naturally!” said Barry, laughing.
The Professor glanced aside at him over his spectacles. And then:
“I pointed out to my German acquaintance,” he went on, “that normal processes of decay would proceed under these conditions quite inevitably. And if there is anything in the extraordinary claims made in this papyrus, I can only assume that some formula must have been invented to check these processes. Of course, it is frightfully empirical. One dare not raise such a thing seriously before modern science. It would spell ruin.”
“Nevertheless,” said Danbazzar, “you are right—there was such a formula.”
“Ah!” exclaimed John Cumberland, “if only we could recover it.”
“I have recovered it,” Danbazzar replied calmly.
“What!”
“I acquired it at the same time that I acquired this other papyrus. It is locked in that safe over there.”
“That settles it,” said Cumberland, standing up. “My other plans are made. What do you estimate it would cost, Danbazzar, to finance the expedition?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” was the prompt reply.
“Be ready in a fortnight,” said Cumberland. “I must start then or postpone the journey till next season.”
CHAPTER IX.
EGYPT BOUND
“Some people are so indecently lucky,” Jim Sakers protested. “It has been my ambition from childhood to visit the interior of the Sphinx.”
“You poor nut!” said Barry. “The Sphinx is solid. You mean the interior of the Pyramid!”
“Not so hasty,” Jim rebuked him, “not so hasty, my friend. My ambitions are not the ambitions of an ordinary man. Any fool can visit the interior of the Pyramid if he’s lucky enough to get to Egypt. Nothing so commonplace as that appeals to me. I said, and I repeat, that it has always been my ambition to visit the interior of the Sphinx. I hope I make myself clear.”
“You expose fresh views of your ghastly ignorance at every turn,” Barry said. “If you can think clearly for two minutes, concentrate on what I’m going to say. Everybody seems to think that I need a vacation, and Dad has decided to pay a visit to Egypt and to spend the beginning of winter there.”
“Lucky, lucky man,” Jim murmured.
“He is keen for me to go with him,” Barry went on; “and as I have never been out of America yet, the idea rather appeals——”
“Rather appeals!” Jim echoed. “Oh! the blasé youth of this generation! I should cheer for an hour without stopping if my honoured parent could be induced to get out of touch with Wall Street for a week-end!”
“In brief,” Barry pursued patiently, “the idea that I am trying to drive into your thick skull is this: I am going to Egypt, and I am going next week.”
“This is dreadful,” Jim declared. “Think of the broken hearts in New York. Besides, what about the Princess?”
“It is about the Princess,” Barry returned, “that I want to speak to you. Several people, yourself included, have tried to convince me that I’m suffering from a delusion where this girl is concerned. But I am just as certain as ever that I have seen her, definitely twice, possibly three times. What I want to ask you is this: Once in a while, when you are in that neighbourhood, see if you can find anything out.”
“You mean,” Jim suggested, “drop in on Mr. Brown and say that I have called about the electric light, or the installment due on the Ford, or something of that kind?”
“Something of that kind,” Barry agreed. “Do it your own way—but just keep a sharp lookout. And if you should pick up any information, send me a cable. I can’t give you the route. When we get to some place up the Nile where we are going to camp, I shall have to let you know.”
“Consider it done,” said Jim. “And now, I have a request to make. Bring me back a large bottle filled with the sand of the unchanging desert. By sprinkling this in my bathroom and walking about in bare feet, I shall be able to imagine that I am a son of the mysterious East. Ho, there! Fatima, my dark-eyed ship of the desert!”
“The expression ‘ship of the desert,’ ” Barry interrupted, “usually refers to a camel!”
“I am talking about a camel,” Jim assured him. “The affection of the Arab for his camel is an historical fact.”
“You are thinking about his horse!”
“I am not thinking about his horse!” Jim cried. “The Arab I am talking about has no horse, he has a camel.”
And now: “What’s the row?” demanded a deep voice.
Aunt Micky intruded, carrying a large hatbox.
“Hello! Micky!” Barry exclaimed. “Been shopping again?”
“Yes,” was the reply; “it has just arrived. The best that Dobbs could do for me.”
Opening the box, she produced a sun helmet of dazzling white, decorated with a puggaree band in silver, violet, and maroon.
“Great shakes!” Jim exclaimed. “Is this for Barry?”
“It is,” Aunt Micky returned firmly. “It is most important that he should not expose his skull to the rays of the sun. John always wears a helmet in the East.”
“I know he does,” Barry admitted ruefully, contemplating this “creation,” “but the one he wears is a decent sort of putty shade—and without ribbons. However! Is it the right size?”
He tried it on.
“Really smart people,” Jim commented, “wear a feather—a small, neat feather—stuck in the band just above the left ear. I am told that everyone will be wearing them this season. Didn’t they tip you this at Dobbs’, Micky?”
“They tipped me a lot of things,” Micky returned, lighting a cigarette, “and there are lots of things I could tip you!”
“I know it,” he said; “my ignorance is appalling. But on one point Park Avenue is agreed. I do know how to dress. Further, I don’t merely put on my clothes—I wear them! Allow me, Barry.”
He raised his hands and settled the helmet at an angle over Barry’s right ear, then took a step back to contemplate the result.
“Better,” he muttered, “better. That is the British Army rake. Of course—” again grasping the helmet and tilting it forward—“there is the Rajah rake, very popular in India, and also——”
He was about to take further liberties when Barry gave him a playful but powerful punch in the chest.
“And also there is the complete limit,” he said, “and you reach it every time, Jim.”
Taken all around, however, the period of preparation was an exciting one for Barry. His father was an experienced traveller and, under his guidance, Barry acquired all sorts of equipment for the journey. On the advice of Danbazzar, most of the camp gear, the firearms, and the impedimenta of the excavator, they were picking up in London. Danbazzar had prepared a formidable list of these, and Barry discovered a great fascination in merely reading it.
The papyrus had disappeared into Danbazzar’s great safe, and Barry often wondered if his imagination had played him tricks in regard to the portrait of Princess Zalithea. He had abandoned hope of ever seeing this girl of dreams again; but Fate had one more curious experience in store for him, and it came about in this way:
Professor Blackwell was leaving for Europe a week ahead of them, and later joining the party in Egypt. Bound to strictest secrecy regarding the nature of the expedition, his scientific curiosity had been greatly aroused, and he had consented to be present at the opening of the tomb when that time came.
The steamer sailed at midnight, and Professor Blackwell had dined at the Cumberland home prior to joining her. Barry and his father went on board with him, inspected his stateroom, ascertained that his baggage had arrived safely, and then:
“There is no point in waiting,” said the Professor. “We don’t sail for another twenty minutes or so, but it is my custom on these night sailings to turn in. I leave unpacking until the morning. I hate all this fuss and bustle!”
“As you like, Blackwell,” said John Cumberland. “See you in Cairo—or, if you have gone up the river, in Luxor. Hope you have a nice crossing.”
Barry and his father came down the gangway, turned to wave to the tall, gaunt Professor at the top, and then made their way along the pier toward the staircase. They reached the street level at practically the same moment that the elevator started up.
Through the iron grille of the car a girl was looking out, apparently directly at Barry.
He stopped dead, stared at the ascending elevator, and then, with no explanation to his father, turned and fled back up the stairs like a man demented!
His behaviour was so extraordinary that a Customs official intercepted him at the top.
“Kindly stand aside!” Barry said breathlessly. “I have seen someone I want to speak to—must speak to!”
“Go easy, go easy!” The man persistently intruded his burly form. “Wait a minute! Who are you running away from?”
“I’m not running away from anybody!” cried Barry angrily. “Let me pass! I want to go on board.”
“Go easy!” the man repeated. “You can’t go on board. The last visitors are just coming ashore. In three minutes the gangway will be cleared——”
And then John Cumberland, even more breathless than Barry, arrived on the scene.
“What’s the matter?” he asked; and, to the man: “It’s all right,” he explained. “My name is John Cumberland. My son has seen someone he thinks he knows.”
“You can guess who it is!” the latter returned. “And I’ve lost her again!”
Slipping past the mystified Customs officer, he raced out along the pier.
Beyond exciting amusement and astonishment among the onlookers, his reward was nil. Of course! He was too late! And he was sure, absolutely sure, that this time he had not been mistaken! Could it be that she had gone on board the liner?—that she was leaving America—still unknown, elusive to the end!
He was prevented from reaching the gangplank. The order “Clear away!” was given as he ran up. Realizing the hopelessness of the thing, he turned and went back to where his father waited. His manner was constrained.
As they drove home, John Cumberland was very sympathetic, but secretly was glad to think that the journey to Egypt would prove a powerful distraction, which he considered his son badly needed. He was growing more and more anxious about this odd obsession of Barry’s.
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes which come and go,
Round with the sun-illumined lantern held
In midnight by the Master of the Show.
The Master of the Show had many more queer tricks and illusions in store. But neither Barry nor John Cumberland, being poor mortals, could peep behind the scenes. The ensuing week passed like a feverish dream, so magically does time dissolve on such occasions—and the night of their departure for Egypt came.
A tremendous crowd of friends turned up to see them off, Aunt Micky more iron-jawed than usual, and full of dark theories respecting missing baggage (which was really safely on board, of course).
“Clean your teeth in Vichy water,” was her last injunction to Barry. “Once you are out of England, all water is poison.”
Then came the final shouted farewells, Danbazzar, Barry, and John Cumberland standing at the rail as the liner crept out of her dock. Much cheering and waving of hats. Great excitement, to be followed by depression. And over it all came a clarion cry from Jim Sakers, standing bareheaded far below, a megaphone upraised.
“Don’t forget, Barry!” he bellowed—“a bottle of the Unchanging Desert! I am an Arab brave and free!”
CHAPTER X.
CAIRO
From the balcony of Shepheard’s Hotel, Barry fascinatedly watched the life in the street below. This was Cairo!—real yet less than his imaginings concerning it.
Vendors of fly whisks, of scarabs incredibly old, of necklaces from the tombs of queens, of red slippers, of all sorts of Birmingham ware, clamoured in a group beneath him. They poked their offerings through the railings at his feet. The instinct of these people was wonderful. His father was never solicited in this way. One glance the sidewalk merchants would give him, smile sadly and pass on. While of Danbazzar they seemed to be positively afraid.
The passers-by absorbed his attention. He had learned to pick out the residents from the tourists, to recognize the curious air of detachment, that quiet fatalism which is the seal of Africa. He had also grown used to the tarbûsh worn by the British officers. At first he had mistaken them all for Turks. But he was not yet entirely reconciled to the presence of laden camels and smart automobiles in the same street.
In some of the cars he had glimpses of veiled women, whose long dark eyes provoked him. Whenever such a harem car went by he craned forward eagerly, vaguely expecting to meet the glance of eyes that he knew.
During the journey, he had torn himself free in a measure from this strange infatuation, but Egypt had revived his dreams.
He had dressed early this evening, and now, sipping a cocktail, sat waiting for his father to join him. It was too hot yet for the big tourist invasion, but the advance guard was already in possession. Guide books were in evidence at several tables in his immediate neighbourhood. To whatever government, Turkish, French, British, or Egyptian, the people may from time to time acknowledge obedience, everybody knows that Egypt really belongs to Thomas Cook & Son.
To-night, Danbazzar was expected back from Luxor, where he had been to select a base of operations and to check the information furnished by his agent. This agent, Hassan es-Sugra by name, had met him there four days earlier and was returning with him to Cairo.
John Cumberland’s excitement had been intense all day, and Barry’s little less. Never, until now, had Barry fully understood the hold that Egypt and the things of Egypt had over his father. It was a complete, an absorbing passion. The John Cumberland of New York was barely recognizable in this keen, alert, bright-eyed man to whom the African air was an elixir of youth, and who now crossed the terrace and joined him.
“Well, Barry,” said he, “has the spell of the Nile got hold of you yet?”
“It has, Dad,” Barry admitted, looking at the healthily tanned face of the speaker; “I’m simply dying to start. I went again to-day to look at the mummy of Seti; and even now I find it hard to believe that this man ruled over Egypt, a civilized country, at a time when Europe was peopled by savages, and when the American Continent was probably a mix-up of mountains, forests, swamps, and rivers. That man was no savage, he was a ruler of great power and intellect.”
“Certainly he was,” John Cumberland agreed, nodding to an acquaintance coming up the steps. “We are very proud of our new wisdom, Barry. I wonder how much of it is in advance of the old?”
“I hadn’t been altogether able to believe in your hopes of success,” Barry went on, “but the figure of Seti is beginning to make me share them. There he lies in the flesh for everyone to see. I looked at him yesterday for nearly half an hour, and I realized that he had known, probably had many times spoken to, the Princess Zalithea! Dad, I’m just crazy to be on the job! Isn’t Danbazzar late?”
John Cumberland glanced at his watch; then:
“No,” he replied. “The train got in about ten minutes ago. He should be here at any moment now.”
And even as he spoke an arabiyeh pulled up at the steps and Danbazzar got out.
He wore a white drill suit, the coat cut tunic fashion and buttoning close up to the neck. His light gray felt hat with its very wide brim awakened in this Eastern scene memories of the West. His pale skin had assumed a deep, even tan, and, with his aquiline features, he looked more truly of the Orient than any of the Cairenes about him.
His gaze sought and found John Cumberland on the terrace, and he raised his right hand in a slow, graceful gesture. A second traveller descended from the carriage and followed Danbazzar up the steps.
This was an æsthetic-looking Egyptian, black-robed and white-turbaned, slender, with small delicate features and the gentle eyes of a gazelle. He carried an ebony cane and possessed a curious dignity, utterly unlike that of Danbazzar, yet in its way equally impressive.
John Cumberland sprang up eagerly and extended his hand.
“Is everything all right?” he demanded.
“Everything is fine,” Danbazzar replied, and, turning, greeted Barry. “I want you to meet our Chief of Staff, Hassan es-Sugra. What I don’t know about the Valley of the Kings, Hassan can tell us.”
Hassan saluted profoundly, and Danbazzar now gave him permission to be seated. Discreetly, he took a chair a little removed from the others and waited to be addressed.
John Cumberland glanced around to make sure that he could not be overheard; and:
“How many men have you got?” he asked.
“Hassan has engaged fifteen,” was the reply. “Most of them are already in Luxor.”
“No suspicion has been aroused?”
“Absolutely none,” Danbazzar assured him. “So far, there hasn’t been a single hitch.”
“I take it these men are living in Luxor at present?” Barry asked.
“Yes. In the native quarter, where most of them have friends; for they are all excavators and used to the work.”
“We will have cocktails in my room,” said John Cumberland. “One never knows who may overhear us.”
The party went upstairs to Cumberland’s suite, which overlooked the romantic gardens of the hotel, and cocktails were ordered. Hassan es-Sugra was a devout Moslem, one who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He drank coffee, which, when the waiter presently appeared, he took with him out on to the balcony, bowing deeply as he retired.
“That’s a mysterious fellow!” said Barry.
Danbazzar fixed the speaker with his piercing regard, and:
“You’re right,” he agreed. “He’s quite a lot of mystery. But he holds some kind of position in the Moslem world that gives him complete control of the natives. He’s the best man at the job in Egypt. He can get things done that you or I couldn’t manage if we spent a million dollars. Yes, sir, Hassan es-Sugra is worth his weight in gold, and he knows the game from A to Z.”
“Good!” commented John Cumberland. “I know the type and I believe you. Wasn’t he with Flinders Petrie at one time?”
“The tomb?” asked Barry Cumberland eagerly. “It has not been disturbed?”
Danbazzar stood up, and slowly crossing to a side table, dropped ash into a tray. He turned and:
“It’s absolutely untouched,” he replied. “The entrance where I reclosed it is almost hidden by sand. You can rest easy.” He paused impressively. “No one has disturbed her.”
“Gad!” Barry brought his hand down upon his knee. “It sounds almost too good to be true! But how did Hassan identify the tomb in the first place? How was he sure? How can you be sure?”
“You can take it I made sure before I started,” Danbazzar answered calmly, “but, anyway, Hassan never makes a mistake. You remember the cartouche in the papyrus? It was not that of any Pharaoh or any member of any known royal family. It was clearly meant to represent Princess Zalithea.”
He stooped over the cane table at which John Cumberland and his son were seated. With a pencil he roughly outlined upon a newspaper which lay there a design of four figures.
“We’re agreed,” he said, glancing up, “that its meaning is: ‘She Who Sleeps but Who Will Awake.’ Both Mr. Pain and Dr. Rittenburg have checked this.”
“Well!” said Barry eagerly.
“Well!” Danbazzar replaced the pencil in a breast pocket of his tunic. “This same inscription is cut in the rock before the entrance of the tomb!”
“I have sometimes wondered,” said John Cumberland, “why it has been overlooked so long.”
Danbazzar stared at him for a moment, and then:
“Have you stopped to think,” he asked, “how many tombs there are in that valley? Why should those few people with powers to excavate open an obscure one? What’s more, the tomb is in an unfrequented spot, almost due north of the Tombs of the Queens and on the edge of the western valley, more than half a mile from the Tombs of the Kings. The nearest place ordinary tourists ever visit is the tomb of Queen Nefertari and that of Seth Ra, the wife of Seti the First. This was about where I figured to find it. Seven miles farther west, and about a mile and a half north of the caravan road from Farshût to Kûrna, Hassan has put up our men. There’s a small Hawwara village there, and the Sheik is a good friend of mine.”
“When do we start?” cried Barry eagerly.
“I can see no reason,” Danbazzar replied, “why we shouldn’t leave for Luxor in the morning. We shall be wise to take every advantage of the slack season before the tourist rush begins.”
Barry watched the speaker fascinatedly. During his short stay in Cairo, he had been out to visit the Sphinx, that long-cherished ambition of Jim’s; he had penetrated to the interior of the Great Pyramid, and had wandered through the fascinating bazaar streets of the Mûski. He had known the whole indescribable atmosphere that creeps over the most modern and garish hotel in Cairo when night drops its cloak upon Egypt. Now, it seemed to him, watching Danbazzar, that of all the mysteries that the Nile has known, this man was the greatest.
“And now, I suggest that we consult with Hassan,” Danbazzar went on.
He stood up, clapping his hands sharply. From the shadowy mystery of the balcony, Hassan es-Sugra entered, a slim, impressive black figure. He bowed low upon the threshold.
CHAPTER XI.
LUXOR
The Nile was high. Much of the Memnonia was impassable. The Colossi sat lonely in the midst of a great lake, when Barry came to Luxor. In this way he saw the City of the Sun under advantageous conditions.
The Winter Palace Hotel, whose impudent modernity aspires to dwarf the majesty of the great temple, was in a comatose state. Its palatial suites which later in the season would echo Wall Street quotations, its public rooms where, anon, much talk would be heard about the situation in the English coalfields and the cheery optimism of Mr. Baldwin, these were empty. Empty was the dragomans’ bench before the entrance. No guttural German voices were raised in argument against the soft music of Arabic impostors, relative to the cost of donkeys from Kûrna to Dêr-el-Bâhari. The tourist steamers were missing; yet Barry did not miss them.
Sighing wearily at the end of her summer sleep, the City of the Sun looked wistfully down the Nile from which at any time now invasion might be expected.
Barry had conceived something very like friendship for Hassan es-Sugra. The man fascinated him. Delicate in form and features, soft-spoken and mild-eyed, slow of movement and speech, invariably unruffled, Barry had detected beneath the velvet surface an indomitable will, and something else.
On the evening of their arrival, leaving Danbazzar and John Cumberland at the hotel poring over rough plans, Barry had set out with Hassan to view the celebrated spectacle of Karnak by moonlight. The evening was oppressively hot. The sky looked like a dome of lapis lazuli. The moon was such a moon as gave birth to Isis; fronds of palms seemed to be carved out of ebony; and the whiteness of the buildings was dazzling. Plaintive notes of a reed pipe crept up from the river, with more distant throbbing of a darabukkeh.
A great zest of life, an eagerness to inhale, as it were, the unfamiliar perfume of this strange land, possessed Barry. He hurried as though bound for his father’s New York office. But:
“Sir,” said Hassan, in his soft, caressing voice, “there is no need for haste, and the evening is hot.”
Barry pulled up and glanced aside at his companion. The gaze of the gazelle-like eyes met his own. Hassan smiled.
“Always,” the speaker went on hesitantly yet with perfect expression, “always the gentlemen who come from America and from Europe are in so great a hurry; particularly the gentlemen from America. Yet there is so much time, and life in Egypt is very beautiful for those who will rest and enjoy it.”
Barry laughed.
“No wonder you always look so cool,” he commented. “Now I come to think of it, I have never seen you hurry.”
Hassan extended his slender brown hands, his ebony stick held lightly between the first and second fingers of the left.
“What is there to hurry for?” he asked softly. “We are all going the same way. Why should we try to pass one another? Everything that life has to give us is ours to-night. Let us enjoy it, for to-night will never come again.”
Barry stared curiously at this survival of the Arabian philosophers, but checked his eager steps and walked on sedately beside the dignified Egyptian.
Spots of interest were pointed out by Hassan, and, as they moved through the streets, it became apparent to Barry that his companion possessed many acquaintances in Upper Egypt by whom he was held in high esteem.
A most notable demonstration of this came when they passed a café in the native town. A number of men sat smoking outside. Five of them, on sight of the approaching figure, sprang up and performed a graceful Arab salute with the right hand. All were fine types, tall muscular fellows, and different from the townsmen surrounding them. Hassan es-Sugra gravely returned their salutation, but they remained standing until the café was passed.
“Who were those men, Hassan?” Barry asked.
“They are some of our excavators, sir,” Hassan replied. “Most of them are already at the camp: these are late arrivals who go to-morrow.”
Barry glanced curiously at the delicate, almost effeminate face of the speaker, and he wondered, as he had wondered many times before, how Hassan es-Sugra had inspired, and how he retained, the profound respect of these men.
And so, pursuing their leisurely way, they presently found themselves on the ancient road to Karnak, formerly bordered by Sphinxes throughout the mile of its length. The silence now was broken only by the distant note of a pipe, the faint throbbing of a drum. Barry grew silent, too, awed by the sleeping past upon which he intruded. At that point where the road turned left into the Avenue of the Rams he sighted the great shadowy ruins and hastened his steps.
“It is fortunate, sir,” Hassan said, laying one slender hand upon Barry’s arm to check this impetuous increase of pace, “that we have been able to begin while the Nile was in flood.”
“Why is that?” Barry asked.
“Because,” Hassan replied, “the tomb, which is on high land, can only be approached from above at this season and is cut off from those routes along which people generally come. We are less likely to be disturbed.”
At the entrance to the Temple, the Ghafîr appeared, mysterious, out of a bank of shadow. Barry, a law-abiding citizen, had been given to understand that he must show his ticket here, but Hassan es-Sugra waved him aside, saluted the guardian, was saluted deeply in return, and they entered the great, silent building.
Again Barry found himself glancing curiously at the face of his companion, delicately beautiful in the moonlight. He was learning a lesson that anyone susceptible to truth learns in Egypt. He was learning to look with less satisfaction upon the hurriedly grasped successes of modern life, and to experience an unpleasant sense of inferiority in the company of this dignified, placid, yet majestic Arab.
Those who are sent to govern in these lands must be of a type immune from such impressions. Barry had too much poetry in his nature to be blind to some strange spiritual calm possessed by Hassan es-Sugra (whom Aunt Micky would have briefly classified as a heathen), the secret of which has been lost during generations of feverish endeavour.
He found himself amid a forest of vast columns; statues looked down upon him scornfully; and all about him upon painted walls were those Pharaohs and gods whom the imagination of Pierre Loti has depicted as eternally signalling to one another. Bats haunted high, shadowy places, and the note of some night bird sounded eerily.
Hassan es-Sugra walked through the mysterious darkness as confidently as Barry would have walked along Fifth Avenue, until they came to the Great Hall, most awe-inspiring of all the Egyptian monuments. He seemed to know every inch of the place. The hieroglyphics held no mystery for him. Raising his stick he pointed to an inscription, translating slowly:
“I did the best I could for the Temple of Amen, as architect of my Lord. I placed obelisks, their height reached to the world of heaven. A propylon is before the same in sight of the city of Thebes; and ponds and gardens of flourishing trees.…”
“Who made this inscription, Hassan?” Barry asked.
“He was the First Prophet of Amen,” was the reply, “in the reign of Rameses the Second, who was the son of Seti the First.”
Barry did not reply. A new idea had possessed him; a new magic had invested the building. Here, in this vast, wonderful temple-place, she must have walked—the Princess Zalithea!—the beautiful, mysterious girl of the past who was so like that other, who lived, who surely lived, in the present! His blood tingled, impatience claimed him, and, suddenly turning to Hassan:
“When do we begin to excavate?” he asked abruptly.
“I hope, sir, the day after to-morrow.”
“Good!” said Barry.
The magic of Egypt had got into his veins. He knew that whatever else life might hold for him, wherever Fate should guide his steps, always until the end he would hear it calling him—calling him back to the Nile.
Later that night in the almost deserted lounge of the hotel he got into conversation with a very bored young man whose job was connected with the Irrigation Department. In a less virulent case this young man could not have failed to prove a perfect antidote.