“Dead-alive hole, this,” he declared, “out of the season. Did you stay long in London?”
“A week,” Barry replied.
“Lucky man!” sighed the other. “I would cheerfully sell all Egypt, if it belonged to me, for a week in London. See any new shows?”
“One or two.”
“Gad! I’d see one every evenin’! And after the show I’d go on to the Kit Cat, first night; the Embassy, next night; Ciro’s, third night. And so forth.”
“Really?” said Barry. “That’s odd! The life in London or New York or Paris seems to be much the same. I’ve been fed up with the usual round for years!”
“I’ve never had a chance to get fed up,” the other declared plaintively. “I went straight from Oxford to the war, straight from the war to hospital, and straight from hospital to this blasted hole.”
“Don’t you get a vacation sometimes?”
“Sometimes is right,” said the other.
Barry laughed at his acquaintance’s pessimism and ordered another drink. As the waiter brought it:
“You are not here for fun, are you?” the irrigation man inquired wearily; “because there’s nothing funny about Luxor.”
“No,” said Barry guardedly. “My father and I are here on a job of work.”
“You are not goin’ to try to Americanize Egypt, are you?” the other suggested.
“Not exactly,” Barry replied. “Dad has a scheme for exploiting the old caravan road to the Dakhla Oasis.”
“What for?” drawled his acquaintance. “Nobody wants to go there!”
“They might,” Barry returned, “if the journey were easier.”
“Goin’ to build a hotel there?”
“I don’t quite know, but we are starting out to-morrow to prospect.”
“Good luck!” murmured the irrigation gentleman, raising his glass. “If I’m still alive when you come back you might bring me a few dates. They are the best dates in Egypt. I don’t think they grow anything else.”
Their chat was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of Professor Blackwell, expected that evening from Assouan and evidently newly arrived.
“Ah! Professor!” cried Barry, jumping up. “Glad to see you! Does Dad know you are here?”
“No,” the Professor replied, dropping into an armchair. “I have only this very moment come in.”
Barry introduced the Professor to the irrigation expert, who presently, however, having offered to buy more drinks, withdrew to what he termed his “fly trap,” nodding gloomily to Barry as he went.
“Don’t forget the dates,” were his parting words.
Going back to their rooms, Barry ushered in Professor Blackwell. John Cumberland, who was seated at a table studying some maps, stood up gladly to greet him. Danbazzar, his broad back to the room, was staring out of the open window across the Nile to where, sharp in the moonlight, the Libyan Hills were outlined against the sky. He turned, fixing his penetrating regard upon the new arrivals; and:
“Hassan tells me,” Barry began eagerly, “that we start operations on Thursday. Is that correct?”
“It’s surely correct,” came Danbazzar’s deep voice. “I don’t know who’s been giving public recitations, but it looks like some of our plans have leaked out. Yes, sir, we start on Thursday.”
Barry now entered upon a period of existence widely different from any he had known. Danbazzar’s camp was in the neck of a wâdi on the north of the caravan route from Thebes to Farshût. Further north, and visible from the tents, on the summit of a mountain stood an ancient watchtower, used in the days of the Pharaohs by the tomb guard. All about were remains of stone huts which had probably been the quarters of these guards. On the right, above terraced, desolate hills covered with débris of abandoned excavations, rose the stately mass of El Kurn, the Horn.
Here in this weird quarry to which no one ever penetrated, they had their base of operations. The native excavators, in charge of a headman who proved to be one of the group that had been seated outside the Luxor café, had their quarters several miles distant, in a sort of tumbledown village principally inhabited by dogs. Native life in the towns had offered novel features, but the conditions prevailing in this desert village surpassed anything Barry could have imagined. An entire absence of sanitary arrangements was the outstanding novelty; next to which he never got used to the spectacle of a considerable family, a number of dogs, chickens, and sometimes a donkey, residing happily together in one apartment which could have been covered by a full-sized dining table.
They reached camp at dusk, although they had crossed the river in the morning, having travelled by a circuitous route over high ridges and through gloomy passes, to find that a native cook had prepared dinner and that Hassan es-Sugra, who had gone ahead, was waiting to receive them.
Before attacking the meal, Barry, tired though he was, climbed the side of the wâdi and stood on the edge of a small plateau, looking out to the rosy haze that marked the course of old, distant Nile. The unforgettable dusk of Egypt was falling. Rocks showed like black smudges on a gray canvas, and the sky was passing through an amazing transformation of delicate blue to shell pink, which, by some natural magic, combined to form the violet afterglow which is not the least of this country’s beauties.
From below came a faint clattering of cooking utensils, and a dog was howling somewhere, probably in the village where the workmen were quartered. The great adventure had begun. To-night he was to see for the first time the tomb of Princess Zalithea!
He uttered a deep sigh, which was a sigh of contentment, and climbed down the steep descent again to the camp.
They dined inside one of the tents, Danbazzar deeming it unwise to court attention from any chance travellers upon the ridge above.
Barry stooped and entered the little canvas dwelling which was to be his home for some time to come. It presented a spectacle, on that first night, which was always to remain with him as an odd memory.
Plates of steaming tomato soup (Heinz tinned variety) were set upon the small square table, which even boasted a white cloth. The cook, a big, bearded fellow from the Fayyum, his magnificent teeth revealed in a constant grin, was just placing loaves and a pitcher of water upon the hospitable board.
Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches, and gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin had assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an unspoken retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn farce—a dream from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland, also coatless, sat on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and began to carve it vigorously, looking up as Barry entered.
It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this sun-baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out of place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the table. He wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun helmet. He was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the Scarabæus family which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his soup.
“Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our new quarters?”
“First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair. “If we go on in this style we shan’t starve.”
Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and:
“There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these fellows are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so Danbazzar informs me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than water.”
The soup dispatched:
“Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,” said John Cumberland.
Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the wâdi, suspiciously like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The glistening, smiling face of Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected light. He smiled as he cooked and sang soft Arab love songs.
Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony cane, Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of the chef. At the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a great distance it seemed to come—above and beyond—a rhythmic, silvery jingling. He had just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,” when Hassan turned toward him and raised his hand in warning.
Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly.
Ebon shadows lay in the wâdi; above, on crags and terraces of the mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been justified.
Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry stood, silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel bells! High above on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its way from Thebes to Farshût.…
After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of war, seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan es-Sugra attended.
“Although no precautions have been neglected,” said Danbazzar, “there appears to be suspicion about the object of our journey in certain quarters. I had an interview yesterday with the secretary of Mudîr of Luxor. We have known each other for some years, and he gave me a big dose of advice about the route beyond El Kharga.”
Danbazzar paused, tensing his lips so that his abbreviated beard stuck out truculently, a peculiar mannerism which Barry had noted before. Then:
“The Mudîr’s secretary was most hospitable,” he went on, “and so anxious for our comfort that I’m dead sure he knew I was lying. He knew we had no more intention of visiting the oasis than he has.”
“But how could the truth have leaked out?” John Cumberland asked.
“What about these people in the village,” Barry suggested, “where the men are quartered?”
Hassan es-Sugra extended his palms and softly intruded with a remark.
“They are of the Hawwara,” he explained, “or claim to be. They owe allegiance to their own sheik, and he is my friend. No, it will be some of the workmen, while in Luxor, who have been talking.”
“Then what can we do?” John Cumberland demanded.
“I could thrash two or three of the men,” Hassan suggested gently, “until I found one to speak the truth.”
Barry stared in amazement at the æsthetic face of the speaker, thinking that he jested; but no smile appeared. This was apparently a firm offer.
“No!” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “It would do no good. If this fellow Tawwab suspects anything——”
“Exactly,” said Professor Blackwell uneasily; “that is just what I am wondering. If he suspects anything, what will he do? Inform the Inspector of Antiquities?”
Danbazzar knocked ash from his cigar. The scarab ring upon his finger twinkled in the lamplight. He stared fixed at the Professor; then:
“He is an Egyptian,” he replied. “What would he gain by that?”
“Ah!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “Gain! That’s the answer—bakhshish!”
“Under the present government,” said Danbazzar gravely, “always!”
“Well!” Cumberland shrugged his shoulders. “I came prepared to pay! Is it safe to start?”
“I was about to ask the same question,” declared Professor Blackwell, raising his gaunt and ungainly form from the low camp chair in which he was seated.
“Yes.”
Danbazzar spoke deliberately, and without betraying any of the excitement which the Professor had been unable to conceal, which obviously possessed John Cumberland, and to which Barry was a restless prey. He turned to Hassan es-Sugra.
“Hassan,” he directed, “make sure that all’s clear.”
Hassan saluted deeply and went out of the tent.
“It’s a bit of a scramble,” Danbazzar warned. “Everybody in fibre shoes, and don’t forget your flasks.”
Their preparations were complete when Hassan returned with the news that the road was clear; whereupon, they set out.
The route they followed was merely a native path and not one of the roads ordinarily used. For a goat or a barefooted Egyptian it was navigable enough, but what with leaping over chasms of unknown depth and scrambling up narrow funnels composed of crumbling rock, brittle as a cracker, it was not all that might have been desired by a party of townsmen out for an evening stroll.
At last they came out on the hummock of a hill, and below them, magnificently outlined in shadow, lay the Valley of the Queens. Above towered that strangely shaped mountain once sacred to the goddess Hathor. Breathless, Barry leaned upon a block of stone, listening to a duet in hard breathing contributed by his father and Professor Blackwell. Danbazzar’s cigar glowed in the shadows of a neighbouring rock, and Hassan es-Sugra exhibited no evidence of fatigue.
Awhile they paused there, and then set out again, Danbazzar and Hassan leading, John Cumberland and the Professor following, Barry bringing up the rear. Thus they went, except where broken formation of the ground necessitated single file.
By what sailing marks the pilots traced their course was not apparent. But through the desolation of this land of tombs they passed, the way twisting and turning, their route being sometimes upward and sometimes downward, until at last:
“Here it is!” said Danbazzar.
Barry’s weariness departed; his heart leaped.
They stood before a sheer rock face, its irregular surface pitted with openings. Above a mound of drift, Hassan es-Sugra began to dig with his stick, clearing sand and rubbish away. Barry watched him abstractedly: he was fighting to conquer the reality.
Somewhere here, deep in the heart of this rock, she lay, the princess of long ago! She whose picture, portrayed in the papyrus, was a vivid representation of the girl he had seen on that balcony in faraway New Jersey! Here! somewhere in this ancient mountain where she had lain for thousands of years!
What was the link? What did it mean? Useless! His mind refused to grapple with so monstrous a problem.
“See!” Hassan es-Sugra turned, extending his palms. “The cartouche, sirs! As I found it a year ago!”
A ray from Danbazzar’s electric torch shone on to the rock. All bent forward eagerly.
“Quite! Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Yes, it is the same, unmistakably!”
Deeply carved in the surface, it was there for all to see—the curious sign which translated, meant: “She Who Sleeps but Will Awaken.”
Nothing succeeds like impudence. The original plan had provided for work at night only; but the flooded state of the Nile Valley was so discouraging to tourists and interruption of labours in the remote spot where the tomb was situated so unlikely that Danbazzar at the outset decided upon day shifts and night shifts.
Now definitely launched upon this unlawful project, a sort of unholy joy fired the party. It was even shared by Professor Blackwell.
The plan of operations was worthy of its inventor. The entrance to the tomb lay in a fairly deep recess; and Danbazzar had constructed, in convenient sections, a huge screen—practically a piece of scenery. The material for this accounted for the presence of several strangely shaped cases among their baggage for which Barry had hitherto been unable to account.
Set in place before the entrance to the tomb, with top pieces and side pieces, or wings, it was joined with sand and rubbish to the rubble of the valley path. When lovingly finished by Danbazzar—seated upon a light scaffold—with odd dabs of paint applied to a wet surface upon which sand had been thrown, the result was magical. While it slightly altered the conformation of the landscape, it was utterly impossible to detect the presence of this screen even by the closest scrutiny. One would have had to tap it to learn that it was of wood and canvas, and not of rock.
Access to the interior was gained by an ingenious door, low down at one corner. This door was in reality a shallow box filled with rubble and cement and opening upward. In the space between the screen and the rock there was ample room for work, which was carried on by lantern light. With two men always on duty, one at the high end of the valley and one at the low, to give warning for operations to cease, detection was next to impossible, short of treachery on the part of an employee.
On the morning that this screen was completed, Danbazzar, paint brush in hand, stood surveying his work with the pride of an artist. He turned to Barry, who stood beside him and:
“Some illusion, I think!” said he.
“It’s simply amazing!” cried John Cumberland.
“I worked behind that screen, sir,” said Danbazzar, “for three months, and not a soul but my men ever knew I was there! The last month I spent covering up what I’d found.”
“I take it,” said Cumberland, “we can soon demolish what you reconstructed?”
“Pretty soon,” Danbazzar agreed. “But I had to make a sound job of it.”
“Anyway,” said Barry, “from now onward we are safe.”
“As you say—” Danbazzar bowed as one who acknowledges applause and gave the signal for the scaffolding to be demolished—“the dangerous part is over. Rain is the worst we have to fear now.”
He touched Hassan es-Sugra upon the shoulder.
“Hassan,” he directed, “let the first party begin at three o’clock. You have my instructions. I shall be back at five.”
Hassan saluted, and leaving Mahmoud in charge of the clearing-up operations, walked away, slow and stately, down the valley.
As it chanced, their belief in the artistic genius of Danbazzar was very shortly to be put to the test; for, returning to the camp, where they intended to remain during the heat of noon, they were met by a very courteous Egyptian official.
John Cumberland started at sight of the figure wearing the tarbûsh, but Danbazzar exhibited neither surprise nor alarm.
“Ah! Mr. Tawwab!” he cried genially. “It was real good of you to hunt us up!”
Mr. Tawwab’s smile was noncommittal.
“The Mudîr felt anxious about you,” he explained; “and learning that you had not yet started for the oasis, suggested that I should see you.”
“We are honoured and delighted,” Danbazzar declared. “Allow me to make known to you Mr. John Cumberland and Professor Blackwell—Mr. Barry Cumberland. This is Mr. Ahmed Tawwab, secretary to the Governor of Luxor. Coffee, I believe, is prepared. You will join us, Mr. Tawwab?”
“Certainly.”
The Egyptian bowed, and they all entered the tent which served as dining room, office, and council chamber.
Danbazzar entered last, behind Barry, and, in his ear:
“Mischief!” he whispered.
The boring ceremony of coffee and cigarettes, which is indispensable to any piece of Arab business, having been duly performed:
“The Mudîr,” Mr. Tawwab explained, turning the gaze of his languorous eyes upon Danbazzar, “learns from the Mudîr of Asyut, that a considerable party of Hawwara Arabs, led by a sheik of the Hamman family and plainly meaning mischief, has been reported from El Kharga, in the Great Oasis. It is perhaps a political or a religious demonstration, but the Mudîr thought it wise to advise you that there may be danger.”
“Convey my thanks to His Excellency,” said Danbazzar gravely. “We are all most indebted.”
His deep voice was lowered to a sort of caressing purr; which, however, resembled that of some large member of the cat family.
“But,” Mr. Tawwab pursued, rolling a cigarette between his flexible fingers, “I understand that you are a fairly large party, and, of course, you can make choice. He will be glad to learn, nevertheless, that his information was correct, and that this warning has reached you before your setting out.”
Mr. Tawwab having presently departed:
“What does this mean, exactly?” John Cumberland demanded.
“It means, sir,” said Danbazzar grimly, “that our screen was only erected in the nick of time! We shall be watched!”
“What!” exclaimed Professor Blackwell with alarm; “but we may be arrested!”
Danbazzar turned his strange eyes in the speaker’s direction, studying him silently for a moment; then:
“Before that time comes,” he replied, “we shall be invited to pay. But if we can get through without paying, all the better.”
“Do you believe the story of the Arabs?” Barry asked.
“No,” Danbazzar answered promptly, “I don’t!” His fierce eyes grew very reflective. “Nor do I believe that Ahmed Tawwab came from the Mudîr at all.”
“I don’t follow,” said Barry. “What is your idea about it, then?”
“My idea is,” Danbazzar answered, “that Mr. Tawwab has discovered the identity of your father and has simply called as an ordinary matter of business. He has got wise that we’re here with some secret purpose, and he’s going to make us pay. It was against grafting of this sort that I budgeted when I mentioned the price for the expedition, Mr. Cumberland.”
Undeterred by these vague threats, operations were commenced that day. A tiny opening, a mere crevice, had been left by Danbazzar in the reclosed entrance, some ten feet above, and to the left of the inscription on the rock.
The first party set to work to enlarge this, and two guards were placed where they could command all possible approaches. By nightfall, enough had been done to show that this indeed was the entrance to a narrow, sloping shaft, carefully closed at the top with stone blocks.
John Cumberland’s excitement became intense. Professor Blackwell experienced much difficulty in persuading him to sleep. Throughout the afternoon and the evening not a soul had appeared in sight of the excavation, and the first day promised well for the enterprise. Barry only deserted the job when a night shift of excavators came on duty, walking back, tired but mentally exhilarated, to the camp with Hassan es-Sugra.
As they pursued their way through moonlight and shadow down to the little wâdi, Barry glanced many times at his silent companion. The wonder of it all swept over him—the insanity of their dreams; the almost incredible fact that less than a month before he had been leading a rather empty life in New York.
Now, he was walking through a vast cemetery peopled with kings and queens, princes, princesses, councillors, of a glorious civilization which the desert had reclaimed long ages before the name of America was known to men!
The stillness seemed to become oppressive. Not even the bark of a dog could be heard. And to-night no camel bells jingled on the ancient caravan road. Barry spoke at random.
“How long, Hassan,” he asked, “should it take to reach the tomb?”
“It is doubtful, sir,” was the reply. “Perhaps, if the stones are not too hard to be broken, only a few days, for we have many men at work. Perhaps longer; and then, we do not know if the passage is clear beyond the first portcullis. Sometimes there are two; sometimes three. And, at the bottom of the shaft, the entrance to the funeral chamber will have to be broken.”
“But the way in from the top? The part you closed up again last year?”
“That should be easy, sir. Perhaps by to-morrow. But there is still all the shaft.”
“Is that a long job?”
“Always,” Hassan replied, “it is a question of the conditions. Sometimes the air is so bad that men cannot work in these tombs.”
“A question of Kismet, eh?” said Barry.
“Kismet, yes!” Hassan es-Sugra smiled in his sweetly grave way. “If it is written that we succeed, we shall succeed. If not”—he shrugged his shoulders—“no matter!”
Dog tired, Barry undressed and threw himself upon his camp bed. He shared the tent with Professor Blackwell, and his last waking recollection was of the sonorous snores of that weary scientist.
He seemed scarcely to have closed his eyes before he was awakened by a stray beam of morning sunlight. Someone had raised the flap of the tent. He opened his eyes. Professor Blackwell was still sleeping peacefully; but the bearded, grinning face of Mahmoud appeared in the opening.
Mahmoud had a little English; and:
“Sir!” he said. “I come to tell you. They make a small opening—too small for me. But this morning Hassan es-Sugra goes through!”
“What!” Barry was out of bed in one bound. “You mean he has gone into the tomb?”
“He goes in, Effendim, and comes out again!”
“Where is he?”
“He is there, in the valley.”
“What!” came a harsh, sleepy voice.
Professor Blackwell turned over on his elbow.
“They’ve reopened the tomb, Professor!” Barry cried excitedly. “They’ve reopened the tomb!”
“Impossible!” the Professor muttered, sitting upright. “I never heard of such a thing!”
“But Hassan es-Sugra has been in! Mahmoud has told me so!”
“Oh, yes!” said the Professor, fumbling under his pillow for his glasses. “Quite! Quite! Of course I was forgetting that it had been opened before.”
Mahmoud departed, grinning broadly, as Barry made a grab for his clothes.
John Cumberland and Danbazzar were not in camp; and, having hastily disposed of hot coffee and biscuits, Barry and the Professor started for the excavation.
They had actually come out onto the plateau looking down upon the valley, when both pulled up dead, exchanging a swift, significant glance.
Unmistakable upon the still desert air, the note of a police whistle reached them! The guards were armed with these, but this was the first time there had been occasion to use them.
“Damnation!” Barry muttered. “Who can it be? Come on, Professor, let’s hurry!”
To the great discomfiture of the older man, they performed the remainder of the journey at a fairly rapid trot. And, coming out of a narrow ravine which opened some twenty yards above the site of the excavation, they almost literally ran into Mr. Tawwab!
He was standing not more than a dozen paces from Danbazzar’s screen, smoking a cigarette and looking about him curiously.
Prone upon a high crag Danbazzar lay, watching a horseman making his way down the slope of a distant valley and heading in the direction of the Nile. At last:
“He’s gone!” he said, and looked back over his shoulder.
John Cumberland heaved a great sigh of relief and, standing, stretched his cramped limbs. One long last look Danbazzar took at the receding figure, and then the two climbed down to the path below where Professor Blackwell and Barry awaited them.
“Do you think I got away with it?” the latter asked.
“No!” Danbazzar said promptly—“not entirely. Your explanation that we had gone out for jackal was good.”
“Excellent, in my opinion!” Professor Blackwell murmured. “You are really an accomplished liar, Barry.”
“Well,” Barry explained, laughing, “I knew we shouldn’t find you in the camp, and some sort of explanation had to be offered. I spoke loudly enough for you to hear me behind the screen, so that if he insisted upon staying till you returned, your story would correspond with mine.”
“Unfortunately,” said John Cumberland, “he must have heard the whistle.”
“He did!” declared the Professor—“although he never once mentioned it.”
“That is why I know he didn’t believe you,” Danbazzar added. “I shall go into Luxor on Monday and talk business to Mr. Tawwab.” He turned to Barry. “You haven’t heard the good news yet! Can you imagine that I was forced to stop work last year within a matter of hours of breaking through that portcullis?”
“What do you mean?” Barry cried.
“They cleared the entrance,” his father replied excitedly, “which Danbazzar had reclosed, without difficulty. You see, Barry, we are provided with the very best and latest gear. They set about the portcullis, and Hassan found a flaw in the rock itself beside this otherwise immovable stone door.”
“Why didn’t we find it last year!” boomed Danbazzar. “I figured that portcullis was a long, tough job!”
“They worked on it all night,” John Cumberland went on, “enlarging it——”
“Have you actually been in!” cried Barry.
“No,” was the reply; “the opening isn’t big enough. But Danbazzar and I were looking along the passage when we heard the whistle!”
“Hassan has been down,” said Danbazzar. “There’s an obstruction twenty feet below, but he reports the air is fairly good.”
“But what’s the obstruction?” Barry asked.
“I fear another portcullis,” said Danbazzar. “But the roof of the shaft seems to have collapsed at this point, or partly collapsed, and Hassan is uncertain whether there’s another portcullis or not. It may be a month’s work, or our job may be nearly finished. Remembering the purpose for which it was constructed, I look for a simple tomb. I should be surprised to find wells or dummy passages.”
“Could I possibly get through?”
Danbazzar looked him over briefly; and:
“No!” he replied, “but we have dropped a light into the shaft and you can look down. The men are at work again now.”
Excitement rose to fever pitch. Constant relays of skilled excavators could not work fast enough for John Cumberland or for Barry. By nightfall, the hole beside the mighty stone door which closed the passage had been appreciably enlarged. But whereas their first success had been due principally to a flaw in the rock tunnel itself, progress beyond this stage was a matter of patient drilling and chipping.
Danbazzar’s optimism was shown to have been excessive. Hours went by in constant work; blazing days and nights of ceaseless toil; but still the great portcullis defied them. Hassan es-Sugra, with the smallest men of the party, had attacked the lower obstruction. But conditions were bad. Both air and proper light were lacking. Since they could not be relieved, their progress was necessarily slow. And, meanwhile, the main gang chipped and chipped patiently at the rock tunnel surrounding the stone door.
By Monday success seemed to be in sight; and as Danbazzar set out for Luxor to interview Mr. Tawwab, he gave orders touching the work on the lower passage. And so, this day, which it was written should be a memorable one, wore on.
When the wonderful curtain of dusk was drawn over the valley, Danbazzar had not returned from his interview with Mr. Tawwab. Barry pictured him patiently drinking numberless cups of coffee and smoking scores of cigarettes.
Mahmoud had been out for quail in the morning, and the savoury odour of his cooking increased the appetite of the party, already keen enough at the end of an arduous and exciting day. Having performed their somewhat limited ablutions, they assembled in the tent over a surreptitious cocktail, perforce without ice.
“It seems to me,” said John Cumberland, “that this thing has developed into a race. The man Tawwab is out for blackmail. That’s clear.”
“Can we keep him off until we succeed, or will he hold us up?” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Success might come almost any day. What is beyond that further obstruction no one can pretend to guess. But as to what it is, from my scanty observations—for the light was very bad—I have formed a theory.”
“What’s your theory, Blackwell?” John Cumberland asked.
“It is this,” the Professor continued: “That first portcullis blocking the passage was built to be raised—I am sure of it.”
“I believe you are right,” said Barry; “and it worked in deep grooves.”
“Quite! Quite!” The Professor nodded. “By what means such a vast lump of rock was lifted, I leave to the greater knowledge of Danbazzar to explain. I am no Egyptologist. But I think the obstruction twenty feet down, from what I can see of it, is, or was, a second portcullis. The broken pieces look of about the same thickness as that at the top.”
“But why should the second be broken and not the first?” Barry demanded.
“Which brings me to my theory,” the Professor continued. “I think the second portcullis, at some time when it was raised, fell and was shattered.”
“By Jove!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “You may be right!”
“I am almost sure I am,” the Professor said. “I think I can see one of the deep grooves it worked in. If this is so, it should be fairly easy to clear the débris, and, unless there is a third portcullis, intact, why should we not then find ourselves in the actual burial chamber?”
“It’s possible,” his friend admitted. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
“There are no inscriptions to be seen on the walls of the passage,” Barry remarked.
“No,” said the Professor; “but I understand that this is usual. Am I right, Cumberland?”
“Quite right. But we may look for something very unusual in the chamber itself.”
They were all feverishly restless, but as their presence at the excavation merely interfered with the work, for this restlessness there was no proper outlet.
Dinner concluded, and Mahmoud having cleared the table, the Professor and John Cumberland, shirt sleeves rolled up and cigars lighted, settled down to poker. Barry, pipe in mouth, sauntered out into the wâdi, vaguely wondering why Danbazzar had not returned.
Without consciously intending to do so, he found himself following the familiar path, to which he no longer required a guide. On he went and down, until he came to that little ravine which opened into the valley just above the tomb. In the nick of time he remembered the usual routine and clapped his hands sharply three times.
Had he forgotten, the result would have been a blast of a police whistle and the suspension of operations!
The ingeniously screened working lay in deep shadow. He could see neither of the guards, but, standing there, silent, he could hear vaguely, deep in the heart of the rock, a sound of regular muffled blows. He was tempted to open the sand trap and to penetrate to the scene of activity, but overcame the impulse and turned right, walking up the valley to where it came out on the shoulder of a hill. Here, squatting under a curious mass of rock roughly resembling a giant skull, was one of the guards, who stood up as Barry approached.
“Lêltak sa’ îda!” said the man, saluting him.
Barry echoed the words, to which he was now becoming accustomed, and passed on. The guard reseated himself under the rock.
He determined to walk up as far as the ancient caravan road which crossed the crest above, a spot from which, Danbazzar had informed him, the view by moonlight was remarkable. He had counted, however, without the natural difficulties of the route. The path which he had intended to follow disappeared into midnight gullies and twined about upstanding crags. The shadowy places might be full of pitfalls. Barry paused, looking up at the ridge sharply outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
Perhaps, after all, discretion was the better part of valour. He might quite easily break his neck if he attempted this climb in the darkness. He stood there for a while looking about him, and knocking out his pipe upon the heel of his bass-soled shoe.
These slopes above and below he knew to be literally honeycombed. This weird place, almost unreal in its colouring under the moon, was no more than a vast necropolis. A month before, with New York’s life pulsing around him, the thought of this desolation and of being lonely amid it would have been appalling. Yet so adaptable is human nature that already he was growing accustomed to these haunted solitudes.
He began to refill his pipe. Upon a ridge fifty yards away, sharply outlined in the moonlight, a slinking shape appeared for a moment and as quickly disappeared. A jackal! Only the night before one had visited Mahmoud’s pantry, had succeeded in some mysterious fashion in opening the door, and had absconded with a cold chicken, a portion of a tin of sardines, and a piece of cheese. Another, even more original in his tastes, had stolen one of Professor Blackwell’s slippers.
Barry determined to return to the camp by a circuitous route which he knew, and which would bring him out at the lower end of the wâdi. Having satisfactorily lighted his briar, he set out, now walking more briskly and wondering if the night shift at work in the tomb of Zalithea had succeeded in penetrating to the second portcullis.
Danbazzar, an old hand at the business, had arranged a sort of bonus system which was a constant urge to the men, and effectively abolished any possibility of slacking. If the shift which changed at twelve o’clock or that which changed at four should be in a position to report that their immediate objective had been gained, they were instructed to awaken Danbazzar, or in his absence John Cumberland.
Barry, stepping out briskly upon the comparatively clear path which he had chosen, conjured up a vision of the chamber in which, if their hopes should be realized, they would find Zalithea.
Prior to their final departure from Luxor he had visited several characteristic tombs under the guidance of Hassan es-Sugra. He imagined that the chamber of the sleeping princess would be different from any of these. His impatience was so great that he could scarcely contain himself. He doubted if even his father’s enthusiasm was greater than his own. Danbazzar, whatever he felt, revealed little. Hassan es-Sugra seemed to be removed from all human emotions.
Coming to the lowest point in his descent, about half a mile below the excavation, he paused, looking about him.
By moonlight the place was different. But he recalled that it did not matter which of the several paths to the left he took, since any of them would ultimately bring him to his destination, and if one should prove impassable he could always return. Crossing a flat-topped mound, he descended the slope beyond and saw beneath him a rugged bowl dotted with minor ruins, probably of those stone huts which occurred in the Valley of the Kings. He stood looking down. It might be wise to avoid this valley, which no doubt contained pitfalls and across which he would have to climb rather than walk.
Then, as he hesitated, suddenly he saw something—something that caused him to shrink back, to inhale sharply—to wish he were not alone.
A figure was moving in the deep shadows of the hollow—a figure definitely horrible in such a place at that hour. It presented the appearance of a tall, gaunt man! There was a faint light, too, a fitful, elfin light which rose and fell—rose and fell—among the ruins!
All the old confidence with which Barry had walked through this place of the dead now deserted him. He recognized that he was afraid—and was ashamed of the recognition. But he retraced his steps swiftly, never pausing or glancing back until he had regained the main path.
Then, from behind him, far behind him, came a sound.…
Someone or something was climbing up from the bowl of the little valley!
In the profound silence of that place the noise was clearly audible. A jackal was out of the question; for no four-footed creature is more silent than a jackal in its comings and goings. He stood still, listening intently. Footsteps!—unmistakably those of a man and not of any four-footed beast!
Immediately facing him where he stood was an irregular mound of rock and sand, outlined on the right by the silver of the moon, but a place of ebony shadows on the left. He crossed into the shadow and waited. Nearer and nearer came the approaching footsteps. Whoever was coming up from the valley of the ruined huts was about to enter that narrow gully through which Barry had walked!
Half a dozen reasonable explanations presented themselves, but his mind rejected them one after another. Eeriness touched him with a cold finger. He watched the vague slash in a wall of darkness, which, from his present position, represented the entrance to the gully. Now, the one who approached was coming along it. In another moment he would be out. Three more paces must bring him into the light.
Barry’s heart was beating rapidly. He was afraid—and did not know of what he was afraid.
And now he realized that the one who walked had cleared the gap, although he could not yet see any movement in the shadow. A second—two seconds—three seconds elapsed… and a man came out into the moonlight.
It was Danbazzar!
Automatically Danbazzar’s hand dropped to his hip, the first intimation Barry had of the fact that he carried arms; then:
“All right!” cried Barry, and stepped out of the shadow, conscious of an almost ridiculous sense of relief.
But, for a moment, Danbazzar did not move.
“What are you doing here!” he demanded—for it was less a question than a demand.
Barry experienced a momentary vague resentment.
“If it comes to that,” he replied, “what are you doing here?”
Danbazzar smiled and came forward, shrugging his broad shoulders and dismissing the matter with a slow, graceful wave of his hand.
“I believe,” said he, “that we have both got the ‘jumps.’ I am here because my donkey boy refused to come beyond the end of the valley at this time of night. And as we have no accommodation for a donkey, I let him return to Kurna. As a matter of fact, I helped him start!”
“I see,” said Barry, meeting the fixed stare of those strange eyes. “For my part, I was taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep. But weren’t you prowling about in the hollow down yonder?”
“I was,” Danbazzar replied gravely. “I had an idea that someone was hiding there, watching me—and I won’t be spied upon.”
“That’s odd!” said Barry; “because I had a notion I saw someone there about five minutes ago.”
“Is that so? What was your impression—a tall thin man?”
“Yes,” Barry nodded, “unpleasantly like an unwrapped mummy!”
“Humph!” Danbazzar lighted a cigarette. “Very queer! Evidently you’re not aware of the fact that that little hollow is supposed by the Arabs to be haunted!”
Side by side they proceeded up the slope, Danbazzar heading confidently for the camp. He seemed to know these desolate hills as he knew every street and every alley in Cairo. For Danbazzar, Egypt had few secrets.
“However,” said Barry, “if we really saw anybody, it was probably some harmless eccentric who lives alone in one of the ruins.”
“It may have been,” Danbazzar murmured, “or it may not! What news of the tomb?”
“They are still enlarging the opening, but except for Hassan and the younger Said, no one has been through yet.”
“I’m very anxious,” Danbazzar declared.
“You can’t be more anxious than I am!” cried Barry.
“Possibly not,” the other admitted, “but my anxiety may be different from yours. I have spent several hours to-day with Mr. Tawwab.”
“Yes,” Barry prompted eagerly—“what do you think he knows?”
“I don’t think he knows anything. He’s just guessing. But he takes it for granted that we’re digging somewhere—for something. We’re going to be watched, or intimidated, or both!”
“Intimidated!” Barry echoed.
“Exactly!” Danbazzar nodded in his slow, grave fashion. “I practically made Tawwab an offer in the roundabout ceremonious fashion which alone they understand. He intimated with equal circumlocution that he didn’t think the price high enough. I told him in a complimentary speech of fifteen minutes to go to the devil. He pressed on me several cups of coffee and nasty musk-scented cigarettes. Then he gave me to understand in the course of twenty minutes or more that I had his official permission to go to hell likewise. We parted perfectly good friends, though. It was a question of terms. But I think he holds the winning card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well!” Danbazzar shook his leonine head. “Mr. Tawwab reverted to the story of these Hawwara Arabs reported from El Kharga. I thought it was just plain lying when he spoke of it at first, but as he came back on the matter to-day I knew there was more in it. He informed me, with deep regret, that a party of the Hawwara had been reported on the caravan road some five miles south of Araki.”
Coming from moonlight into shadow at that moment, Barry met the glance of the speaker’s eyes.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that they are coming in this direction?”
“That’s what Tawwab implied,” Danbazzar admitted. “They must have come from the Farshût road, and now they’re heading our way. He professed to be much concerned about our safety, pointing out that at this season our camp was a very lonely one. It’s true enough that, after leaving Kurna, except for a few scattered houses we’re pretty well isolated.”
“But what do you think he was driving at?” said Barry. “These Arabs are surely peaceable enough?”
“As a rule they are,” was the reply, “but a wave of fanaticism will sometimes pass through a tribe, or a section of a tribe, and then they go Mad Hatter. However, I certainly know why Tawwab kept coming back to it.”
“Why?”
“To drive the price up! He was good enough to mention that his relations with the sheik who seems to be at the head of this mysterious movement have always been of a most cordial character.”
“The devil take it!” Barry muttered. “Why can’t he mind his own business!”
“Well,” Danbazzar smiled, “departmentally speaking, this is his business! If he handled it properly we should find ourselves under arrest to-morrow! No!”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—“Mr. Tawwab holds the cards. We’ll play as long as we can play, after which we must pay.”
A beam of light shining out across the bottom of the wâdi and the unmistakable rattle of poker chips signified that John Cumberland and the Professor were still at their game. The appearance of Danbazzar, however, broke it up, and, eagerly listened to by the party, he gave a detailed account of his visit to Luxor.
“I can’t imagine any reason for the Arabs coming in this direction,” said John Cumberland, when Mr. Tawwab’s warning had been repeated to the party.
“There can be only one reason,” Danbazzar returned gravely.
“What is it?”
“This camp!”
He tensed his lips in a grim manner, reaching across for the bottle of Martell Three Stars, his favourite beverage in moments of reflection.
“Of course,” Professor Blackwell broke in, “they may assume that we have large sums of money in our possession.”
“They would assume rightly!” Barry remarked. “Can you count on the men, Danbazzar?”
“On the excavators?” the latter inquired, pouring out a drink and turning his eyes toward the speaker. “On every man of them.”
“We haven’t arms enough to go round,” John Cumberland murmured. “Oh! it’s unthinkable, anyway.”
“All the same,” said Barry, “I suggest we mount guard in future—here as well as at the tomb. And as it’s too late to make any other arrangements to-night, I think we ought to take watches ourselves. What do you say, Dad?”
“I agree,” John Cumberland replied quietly. His face was very grave. “This is something I had not counted upon.”
Professor Blackwell raised his gaunt form, ducking his head to avoid contact with the sloping roof of the tent.
“I appoint myself first guard,” he announced. “I’ll take the Lee-Enfield.”
“As you like,” said Danbazzar.
With the heel of his riding boot he pushed a long wooden chest in the Professor’s direction.
Stooping, Blackwell unlocked the box. It contained a moderately extensive collection of arms. And he selected a rifle of the British service pattern. The Professor was an old campaigner; and, having charged the magazine with care, he lighted a fresh cigar, and, nodding to the others, strolled outside the tent. His footsteps might be heard receding along the wâdi.
“For many reasons, I hope we break through in the next three days,” Danbazzar went on, ending a short, uncomfortable silence.
He nodded his massive head in the direction of his own tent, which lay to the south.
“It took years to collect the ingredients mentioned in the formula. Some of them are perishable. One oil I got from Persia six months ago is already changing colour under the influence of climate. Besides, if these things were destroyed, God knows when I’d assemble them again.”
“But you have the case well hidden,” said John Cumberland.
“It’s buried in the sand under the floor of my tent, but I don’t feel too happy about it, all the same.”
“The papyrus!” cried Barry eagerly—“you have that with you?”
“Not on your life!” Danbazzar returned. “No, sir, I have a photograph of it, and one of the formula as well. The originals are in the vault of my New York bank.”
“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded, turning to Barry. “I thought I had mentioned this to you.”
“No, Dad; I imagined we had them with us.”
“And now,” said Danbazzar, standing up, “I’m going along to look at the work. If that second portcullis is broken, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be down to the mummy chamber to-morrow. We’re reaping the benefit of what I did last year. It would be better if you both remained in camp till I return. We shall have to follow some rule of this kind for the present.”
He took a small repeater from his pocket and dropped it in the arms chest, taking in its place a heavy revolver. When he had gone, John Cumberland looked at his son rather blankly.
“I hope and believe, Barry,” said he, “that this thing is a big bluff. If it isn’t, I shall feel inclined to withdraw.”
“Withdraw!” cried Barry. “You surely wouldn’t do that!”
“I’m not thinking of the danger,” the older man went on quietly, “but of the impossible position we should find ourselves in if we definitely came to blows with these Arabs. The whole plan would be exposed. I can’t afford to take that risk, even if Danbazzar can.”
“You are thinking of the Egyptian authorities?” suggested Barry slowly.
“I am.” His father nodded. “Imagine the disgrace if we were arrested! No. If it comes to shooting, this party must break up. We could only hope to return at some future time, when the district was more settled.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” Barry declared. “Of course, I know nothing of the country. It’s most unusual, isn’t it?”
“Most unusual,” John Cumberland agreed. “I confess I can’t understand it. But I don’t like it.”
In short, Mr. Tawwab’s conversation with Danbazzar had created an unpleasant feeling of tension.
“I’ll take the next watch, Dad,” said Barry; “you might as well turn in. If nothing happens, we shall have a busy day before us to-morrow.”
John Cumberland hesitated for a moment, and then stood up.
“You are right,” he agreed; “I will. Good-night!”
“Good-night, Dad.”
For a few minutes afterward he could hear his father talking to Professor Blackwell at the top end of the wâdi. Then came silence again. He lighted a cigarette and helped himself to a nightcap, reflecting that he might as well have two or three hours’ sleep, although the novelty and excitement of the situation were by no means conducive to easy slumber.
Presently, however, he got up and walked in the direction of his own tent. Outlined against the sky beyond he could see the gaunt figure of Professor Blackwell, rifle on shoulder; and:
“Is all well, Professor?” he called.
“All’s well!” cried the Professor, his voice echoing eerily from wall to wall of the wâdi.
Barry turned in fully dressed, and lay on his bed for some time listening, although he did not know for what he listened. Somewhere in the distance a jackal howled—a second—a third—a fourth—a fifth: a regiment of jackals. Then silence fell. Once he heard a distant voice. Finally he fell asleep.…
He dreamed he was standing in the tomb of Zalithea. He was alone, and had reached the place by no visible entrance. On his right, against the wall was a wonderful gold sarcophagus. He found himself in a dreadful, pent-up condition. He was utterly panic-stricken. His heart was beating like a hammer. For the lid of this sarcophagus, which was hinged, was slowly, slowly, very slowly opening!
Then he saw a hand appear, and in the semi-darkness of the painted tomb chamber a light shone out from the interior of the sarcophagus. It grew brighter and brighter. The hand grasping the lid was a gaunt, long-fingered hand. He did not know what to expect. He was in that curious state in which one realizes that one is dreaming, yet is horrified by the incidents of the dream.
The lid had opened nearly wide enough to reveal the occupant, when Barry shook off the horror of the nightmare which had him in its clutch and sat suddenly upright.
A sharp sound had awakened him. He was bathed in cold perspiration. And, as he leaped from his bed to the sandy floor, this sound was still echoing in the hills around. He knew, in the very moment of awakening, what it had been.
The crack of a rifle! And now, here was an explanation of his half-waking dream.
Professor Blackwell was holding the tent flap aside. Outlined against reflected moonlight he bent, looking in. Barry heard dim voices.
“What is it?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Ssh!” the Professor warned. “The Arabs!”
The position of the moon had cast the greater part of the wâdi into deep shadow. There was a gap in the irregular wall nearly opposite to Barry’s tent through which a certain amount of light came, but right and left of it lay ebony darkness.
As he came out and joined Professor Blackwell:
“There’s a party of Arabs up on the caravan road!” said the latter in a low, urgent voice.
“Where is my father?” Barry whispered.
“Here I am, Barry!” came a reply out of the darkness. “Speak softly. Voices carry for miles in this place.”
Barry groped his way in the direction of the speaker.
“Is Danbazzar here?” he asked.
“I’m right here!” Danbazzar answered in a harsh whisper; then, speaking more softly: “Who fired that shot?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Professor Blackwell returned. “It came from high up in the mountains. It must have been one of the Arabs.”
“I wonder!” murmured John Cumberland. “I make the time half after two. The second shift comes on at four. So that no one is likely to have been moving—unless one of the watchmen may have seen something.”
“Sssh-ssh!” came a warning. “Look!”
High on the ridge above them, like some spirited ebony statue, the figure of a horseman appeared, a magnificent silhouette against the deepening blue of the sky! A moment he remained there. Then—no sound reaching their ears—he disappeared magically, as he had come!
“I want someone to go up to the excavation.” It was Danbazzar speaking in a suppressed undertone. “Shall I go and leave you in charge, Mr. Cumberland, or——”
“I’ll go!” Barry volunteered promptly. “You may be wanted here.”
“It’s just possible,” Danbazzar went on, “that something may have gone wrong there. It is also possible they mayn’t know the Arabs are here. Order everybody to stay under cover except the guards. All work to be suspended till further instructions. Got it clear?”
“All set,” Barry replied promptly.
“Be careful, my boy,” said John Cumberland; “and don’t forget the signal, or our own men may attack you, if they are on the qui vive.”
A big muscular hand grasped his.
“Here,” said Danbazzar, “take this.”
He found a service revolver thrust into his fingers. Thereupon he set off, rejoicing in the adventure yet wishing that Jim Sakers could have been there to share it with him. He moved with great caution. In this desert stillness, the slightest sound was audible for miles.…
At some points in the journey, the wâdi left behind, that ridge along which the caravan road ran was visible; at other points it became lost to view. But always Barry slunk in the shadows, sometimes dropping prone and wriggling for several yards, in order that he might take advantage of some narrow belt of shadow; ever conscious, when the dangerous ridge was in sight, of the possibility of being seen, or worse—of being shot.
Yet the very shadows that befriended him held their own terrors. Some spies of the fanatical Arabs might lurk there. But without sight of the band, and having heard no sound to indicate the presence of any living thing on the plateau above, he came to that midnight gully which opened out immediately above the tomb.
Peering from the end of it, he clapped his hands very softly.
An answering signal came from the top of the slope. He surmised that the guard at the lower end was out of hearing. Mentally reviewing what he knew of the course of the caravan road, he determined that from no point upon it was this valley visible.
He surveyed the rocky face of the mountain before him, his glance travelling along uninterrupted by any oddity due to Danbazzar’s screen—that miracle of camouflage. He crossed and hurried to the trap, pausing a moment before he raised it.
Very softly he clapped his hands again. An answering signal came from beyond the canvas.
Gently he lifted the shallow box of sand, turned, and groped with his foot for the first of the wooden steps below. Finding this, he stood upon it, ducked his head, and lowered the trap. He took three steps, walking backward, then turned, and stared up a little incline.
Above him, a lantern was set upon a heap of débris in the yawning entrance to the tomb. And where dim light shone upward upon his ascetic face stood Hassan es-Sugra, smiling with gentle melancholy. No sound came from the depths of the tunnel.
“Hassan!” said Barry. “The Hawwara Arabs are here!”
Hassan bowed gravely and extended his hand to help Barry up the slope.
“I know, sir,” he replied. “We heard the shot, and I ordered everyone to be silent.”
“Did they fire at one of the watchmen?” Barry asked, scrambling up beside the speaker.
Hassan shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said, “I do not know why the shot was fired, but everything was stopped until news came from outside.”
His gentle eyes, which were so like the eyes of a gazelle, held a curious light. Later Barry determined that it had been an indication of excitement. Now, squatting about among the débris of the excavation in the curious artificial cave created by the screen, he saw a group of workmen. Some chewed, one of them was smoking, and they all regarded him with glances in which only smiling curiosity could be read.
He stared down into the haunted depths of the shaft, and then back again to Hassan es-Sugra.
“It was written that we should succeed,” said Hassan.
“What?” Barry demanded, conscious of a new tingling in his veins.
“It was the work done last year,” Hassan continued calmly, “which made it possible. If we had known, sir, with a little more time and trouble we could have completed. The second portcullis is broken. I cannot say how it was broken. But we have made a way through.”
“Well!” Barry cried. “What’s below?”
“A small square chamber,” Hassan replied, “without any decorations. On the right is a doorway. It has been closed with square blocks and cemented up. We have removed one of these blocks without great difficulty. When the warning came I had just shone the light of a torch through the opening, sir, which the workmen had made.”
“Yes!”
Barry grasped his arm hard.
“It is the burial chamber,” Hassan went on calmly. “A great granite sarcophagus is there, untouched.”
Almost too excited for speech, Barry pointed, and Hassan, gravely inclining his head, took from beneath his robe a pocket torch.
Stooping, he led the way down the shaft.
At the side of the first portcullis was an irregular opening wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Hassan went first and then so directed the light of his torch as to assist Barry to follow.
“Now, sir,” he said, as the latter joined him in the lower part of the tunnel, “be careful here. The roof has fallen. It is this, I think, that broke the second door.”
Bending forward, and at one point going on all fours, the two pressed on. Presently, climbing through a gap not more than eighteen inches high, over a mass of broken granite which seemed to have fallen from a deep cavity in the roof, Barry suddenly remembered Professor Blackwell’s theory about the second portcullis.
The heat in the lower part of the shaft was oppressive, but having proceeded for another twenty feet the descent ceased. They found themselves in a small, square chamber hewn out of living rock, some three paces across, and perhaps nine feet high.
At first glance the wall upon the right resembled that in front and that upon the left; but the trained eye of Hassan es-Sugra had almost immediately detected the trick. It was plaster covering square blocks—in part at least. This plaster had been chipped away—it was several inches in thickness—over a space of a square yard or so. Beams of wood and all sorts of excavators’ implements lay about the apartment. And, presumably by means of these, one of the blocks had been forced into the chamber beyond. The effect was that of a small square window in a very thick wall.
“Take the torch, please,” said Hassan, “and shine it through and a little to the left.”
He passed the torch to Barry. And the latter was surprised to find that his hand was shaking slightly. Hassan es-Sugra smiled.
“Triumph is sometimes terrible, as well as defeat,” he said.
Barry grasped the light and thrust it forward into the opening. A beam shone out before him, upon a rose sandstone sarcophagus! The covering was accurately in place. Clearly no human hand had touched it for centuries.
He experienced a curious choking sensation. He turned the light slowly, so that the beam moved along the top of the sarcophagus lid and beyond, upon the wall of the chamber.
The wall was brilliantly and beautifully painted. Immediately before him, slightly to the right of the sarcophagus, the disk of white light came to rest. Barry could feel his heart thumping against the rough stone upon which he rested. He was staring at a symbol in high relief, exquisitely coloured. It was that which meant: “She Who Sleeps but Who Will Awaken.”