After dinner his mother convened an emergency council of war. Ramses had thought he was the only one to question the presence of so many unusual passengers, but he might have known his mother would be equally suspicious. "Any or all of them could be following us," she declared. "It looks as if we must go on to Meroe after all." "There's no doubt in my mind about Newbold's intentions," said Emerson, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "He's after us, all right. What precisely did he say to you that day at the club, Ramses?" Ramses had no choice but to repeat the conversation in its entirety. His hearers reacted precisely as he had expected, but once Emerson had got over his outrage at Newbold's implications about Nefret ("You didn't punch him in the face? Why the devil not?"), he was able to bring his keen intelligence to bear on the more dangerous implications. "Between what he picked up at Wadi Haifa and what he undoubtedly learned in Cairo, he's got enough--by his filthy standards--to justify following us. He won't get far," Emerson added smugly. "I have a plan--" "I trust," said his wife, giving him a baleful stare, "that it does not involve putting Mr. Newbold in hospital. You could get yourself in serious--" "Kindly refrain from interrupting me, Peabody," Emerson growled. "If worse comes to worst I would have no compunction about--er--temporarily immobilizing the fellow. But I do not believe it will prove necessary." "What about the girl?" Nefret asked. Her only reaction to Newbold's insult about her had been a shrug. "Why would he bring her along?" "To satisfy his own filthy appetites," said Emerson, with a snap of his teeth. He was only partly right. Ramses was reading in bed later that night, or trying to; the lamp flame swayed distractingly with the movement of the boat. The soft creak of a hinge made him look up; and he saw the door of his cabin open, just enough to allow a slim, dark form to slip through. He jumped up, dropping the book. "What are you doing here?" "What do you suppose?" She closed the door and came toward him. She wore only a simple shift, sleeveless and low cut, and she had left off her bangles and head scarf. Her hair fell in jetty waves over her bare shoulders. Ramses snatched up the shirt he had tossed over a chair and put his arms through the sleeves. "If he learns you have come here, he'll kill you." "He sent me." She stopped a few feet away. A flood of fury and disgust choked him for a few seconds. "I see." "Let me stay--for an hour--or two. Then I can go back and tell him I did my best, but failed." He tried to control his anger. It wasn't her fault, but at that moment he was almost as furious with her as with Newbold. "Let me get this straight," he said softly. "He told you to offer yourself to me in exchange for information about our plans. And you agreed?" The contempt in his voice brought a dark flush to her face. "I had no choice. I have told you the truth, instead of the story he ordered me to tell--that I fled from him because he was drinking and would have hurt me. I was supposed to plead for your protection, and embrace you, and . . ." She looked very young and helpless and desirable with the warm lamplight stroking her slim curves. Newbold had selected precisely the right woman to appeal to his protective instincts--and to the others that might have succeeded them if he had taken that slender, trembling body into his arms. Because he was fighting those instincts, he spoke harshly. "What makes you suppose I won't accept the offer and give nothing in return? I don't babble to the women I take to bed." The color in her face deepened. "You may believe me or not. I have told you the truth." "Wait," Ramses said, as she turned toward the door. Curiosity and a shamed consciousness of his cruelty had replaced anger. "I'm sorry. Sit down--over there, in that chair. You didn't have to tell me. Why did you? Sit down, please. I won't touch you, I promise." He perched on the edge of the bed, as far from her as he could get. She studied him thoughtfully and then a curious little smile curved her lips and she did as he had asked. "You don't have to stay with him," Ramses said. "My parents will help you." "To find a respectable husband, or become a servant?" The pretty mouth hardened. She looked, suddenly, a good many years older. "I have my own reasons for staying with Newbold. He is not unkind. When he twisted my arm today it was to get your attention." "I had already deduced that," Ramses muttered. She went on in the same detached voice. "I told you the truth because you would not have believed the lie. You are already suspicious of him--as you should be." "Who are you?" Ramses demanded. "You're no village maiden. Where did he find you?" She rose, tossing the black locks back from her face in a movement as graceful as it was practiced. "It has been long enough," she said. "He won't doubt that you refused me. He said you might take me because you are young and--how did he put it . . ." "Never mind," Ramses said, feeling his face heat up. "But he considers you weak and a naive romantic, as he expressed it. So he will believe me. Will you tell your parents?" "What?" The question caught him unawares. So Newbold considered him a weakling, did he? "Yes, I shall. Don't go yet. You haven't answered my questions." She moved with quick grace, reaching the door before he could rise. She looked back at him over her shoulder, frowning a little. "You wanted me, I could tell. Why did you refuse? Were you afraid of your mother finding out?" "That's right," Ramses said wearily. His other reasons would have made less sense to her. She was out the door before he could stop her. Just as well, he thought wryly. Newbold hadn't been so far wrong, damn the man. He had to tell his parents, but the very idea made him cringe; for it would mean admitting that his first, unthinking assumption had been based on a contemptible combination of male ego and physical desire. Nefret would certainly spot that, even if his parents didn't. He felt his face burning and picked up his book, but it failed to distract him. Her English was excellent and her appearance extraordinary. Where had she come from? There was European blood in her veins--or Persian, or Circassian. And was the "true story" only a subtler lie?

FOUR

The government steamers take two days to cover the stretch between Shellal and Wadi Haifa. It took us four. However, the region through which we passed was fraught with interest, and the prevailing north wind was pleasantly cool under a shaded awning. Without entering into details which the majority of my readers would find tedious as well as extraneous, I should explain that the area had been called by a number of different names over the centuries: the Land of the Bow, Cush, Nubia, the Sudan, to mention only a few. The Meroitic civilization flourished in southern Nubia after the fall of the earlier Cushite kingdom at Napata. Ruins of all periods abounded, for the conquering pharaohs of ancient Egypt had been succeeded by kings of Napata and queens of Meroe, and by Greek and Roman invaders; Christianity had raised its churches and Islam its mosques. Sitting on deck, we studied them through field glasses and Emerson mumbled discontentedly. "There'll be nothing left of them in another century, Peabody. Those villains at Aswan keep raising the water level." Additional entertainment was provided by bits of the boat falling off. Obviously this was not an unusual occurrence, for the crewmen remained unperturbed as they retrieved (most of) the bits and tied them back on. On one occasion we came to a dead halt in the middle of the river and it required some brisk steering by Farah to keep us from going aground while the engines were being repaired. Selim, who could not keep away from machinery of any kind, assisted in the repairs. He came back to us shaking his head in mingled horror and admiration. "I do not know how this boat has stayed afloat," he declared. "The engine is held together with wire and rust." Even this somewhat alarming encounter did not bring two of our fellow passengers on deck. According to our captain, they were missionaries, on their way to the southern Sudan. Wingate, the governor, had wisely restricted the ardor of these individuals in the Moslem areas, for Islam does not take kindly to proselytizers. Denizens of the "pagan" areas farther south were fair game, however, and it was thither our fellow passengers were bound. We did not set eyes on them until the last day, when we were only a few hours from Wadi Haifa. They had, as Captain Farah solemnly explained, bad stomachs. Alimentary disorder had not prevented them from exhibiting their religious zeal. The partitions between cabins were flimsy affairs; every evening, prayers and hymns echoed through the walls and went on so long that Emerson was eventually inspired to shout demands for silence. He could shout much more loudly than they could sing, so that put an end to the performances. Yet so uneasy had I become that I could not help wondering whether these persons were what they claimed to be. Sethos had a strange sense of humor, and it would be like him to disguise himself as a man of the cloth. When they finally appeared in the saloon on the morning of the day we were to dock, I stared unabashedly. They were not a married couple, but brother and sister--the Reverend and Miss Campbell. The lady was tall and slim and in my opinion rather too beautiful for a missionary. She was plainly dressed and her face was bare of cosmetics, but this only emphasized the delicate modeling of her cheekbones and the white brow framed by masses of auburn hair. Her voice was low, her accent well-bred, her manner frank and open, her smile engaging. She was certainly not Sethos. Nor was her brother, I decided. He was as ugly as she was beautiful, with scanty light brows and a pathetic wisp of a beard. Theeyebrows might have been plucked and bleached and the lumpy nose a result of putty and greasepaint, but the shallow jaw, only partially veiled by the beard, and the narrow shoulders were not those of the man I had known. I judged him to be a good many years her senior. His voice was almost as high as hers, and as I had discovered, neither could carry a tune. At first I could not understand why he should take such a girl, to whom he was clearly devoted, into such a remote and perilous region. Then psychology offered a clue. When she addressed a few courteous words to Ramses, her brother immediately interrupted. "You are traveling with us as far as Khartoum, I believe. What can you tell us about conditions in that region? Will we find the authorities receptive to our labors for the Lord?" Emerson had taken a dislike to Mr. Campbell even before he met him, over and above his general dislike of missionaries. With characteristic bluntness he replied, "The authorities, yes. Other conditions are not so receptive. I wonder, sir, why you would risk your sister's health, possibly her life, in such an insalubrious region." "Her life belongs to God, sir. She was called to this mission of rescue, as was I." "Rescue, bah," said Emerson. "How do you know it was God who called you?" "The heathen walk in darkness but must be brought to the light." The Reverend Mr. Campbell's eyes, magnified by the lenses of his eyeglasses, took on a fiery glow. "They are believers in black magic and fetishism. I have heard of practices of immorality that shocked me to the depths of my soul. Concubines! Orgies!" "Nakedness," Emerson said helpfully. "The women go about bare to the waist, and some of them are quite--" "Emerson," I exclaimed. "We must get our gear together," Nefret intervened tactfully. She had been looking at the other girl with sympathetic interest. "Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Campbell, in the way of medical assistance? Farah said you had been ill. I have a well-equipped medicine chest and some training." The young lady replied with proper expressions of gratitude,saying she was almost recovered. Mr. Campbell did not appear to be listening. His eyes were half closed and his lips moved as if in silent prayer. The man was a religious maniac. In his eyes his sister was as much a prisoner as any Moslem woman, belonging not to him or any other man, but to God. He had not complete faith in God as a chaperon, however; he would risk the health, even the life, of his sister, rather than take the chance of her meeting a young man whose attentions might weaken her zeal. As we chatted, there was a hail from on deck. "Did he say crocodile?" Miss Campbell asked eagerly. "I've never seen one." "Here's your chance, then," replied Emerson, who was looking for an excuse to end the encounter. "Shall we go up and have a look?" Everyone wanted to have a look. Crocodiles had almost vanished from Egypt itself, and they were becoming rare in this area. Passengers and crew crowded round the rail. The landscape had opened up and the river was broad. Behind the floodplain with its green fields and groves of palm trees the desert rose in a series of terraces, pale yellow in the morning light. Here and there, wadis had cut their way through the soft sandstone. The river had begun to subside, leaving long sandbars strewn with flood debris--reeds and pieces of wood and fallen logs. The German quartet aimed cameras, and Newbold pushed one of the sailors out of his way. His companion was not present; I had not set eyes on her the entire trip. "I don't see," Miss Campbell began. "There," said Ramses, pointing. She let out a gasp of delighted horror and leaned forward as one of the logs opened its jaws and slid from the bank into the water. Two others followed. Ramses, who happened to be standing next to the girl, put his arm round her waist. "Be careful." Campbell, on her other side, let out an exclamation of protest and snatched her away from Ramses, who immediately stepped back. Watching them, I failed to see what happened. I only heard a scream and a splash, and an outcry from the watchers. Selim's voice rose above the others. "Hassan! Help him, Father of Curses!" "Stop the engines!" Emerson called. He caught Selim in an iron grip and pushed him back. "No, Selim! Leave it to ... Curse it-- Ramses--!" Ramses climbed onto the rail and dived. He began swimming toward the flailing arms and distorted face of poor Hassan. The boat shuddered to a stop, but the pair were already some distance astern--and beyond them the surface of the water was broken by a triangular wake, with a long ugly head at its apex. "Throw them a rope!" I shrieked, though to be sure I feared it would not do much good. The crocodile and Ramses were converging on Hassan, or rather on the spot where he had been. There was no sign of him now. Ramses went down after him. And so did the crocodile. Blood stained the muddy surface of the water. Miss Campbell screamed and fainted gracefully into the arms of her brother, who stood staring in paralyzed horror. Then I realized Emerson was gone. Not into the water, surely; I would have seen him jump. I was about to call his name when he came running, thrust the watchers aside, including me, and stood with his feet braced and his arms extended. He was holding a heavy pistol. The water boiled and bubbled, and all three heads reappeared. Ramses appeared to be supporting Hassan, who appeared to be unconscious; the crocodile appeared to be in some distress. It rose half out of the water, jaws snapping. Emerson fired. There was a hideous bellow from the wounded animal. Ramses was swimming, strongly but too slowly, burdened as he was with Hassan. Emerson took careful aim and fired a second and third time. How he managed to hit the thrashing target I cannot imagine, but the third shot finished the creature. It sank like a stone amid a spreading crimson stain. "Get a rope to them, Peabody," said Emerson, moving neither his eyes nor the pistol. "I will just make sure the other beasts don't take a hand. Or should I say a jaw'?" "How can you jest, sir?" Campbell demanded in a shaken voice. "You should be praising God for his infinite mercy." "Well, you see, I don't know yet how merciful he has been," said Emerson coolly. "Peabody . . ." "Yes, my dear. At once." We got them on board. Hassan was a dead weight, unconscious and bleeding heavily. After a quick look at him, Nefret whipped off her belt and fashioned it into a tourniquet. Hassan's left leg ended in a bloody stump. "Oh, my God," I gasped. "The crocodile had him by the foot!" "Yes." Ramses dropped to a sitting position, knees raised and head bowed. He was streaming with water and gasping for breath. "How is he?" "Daoud, Selim, get him to my cabin and put him on the bed," Nefret ordered. "I'll operate there. Hurry!" "He's lucky to be alive," Emerson said grimly. "Once a crocodile gets hold, he rolls and drags his victim down. Ramses, how did you persuade the creature to let go?" "Knife," said Ramses briefly. He was still short of breath. "Lost it." "We will get you another, a better, the best that can be found," said Selim, his voice unsteady. Hassan was his first cousin. "You saved his life." "Not me," said Ramses. "All I could do was . . . distract the brute." He pushed the wet hair back from his face. "Never believed those white-hunter stories . . . Hassan and I would both be crocodile food but for Father." "I was too damn slow," muttered Emerson. "Should have carried the damned pistol instead of leaving it in my suitcase. But who would have supposed . . . You aren't hurt, my boy?" "No, sir. Thank you for asking," he added. "Praise God from whom all blessings flow!" exclaimed the Reverend Campbell. I took Emerson away. At Wadi Haifa we had to go through the laborious business of unloading and transporting our baggage a second time. The steamers lie to close to the railroad station, but thanks to Emerson's preference for a semi-derelict vessel, we had missed the Saturday train. There was not another until Thursday. "All to the good," declared Emerson, unquenchably optimistic. "It will take a while to make arrangements for Hassan's care. We cannot simply walk off and leave him." "Obviously not," I replied. "There is a hospital here, I believe? What is it like?" "I leave it to your imagination, my dear." "I would rather trust the evidence of my own eyes, Emerson," I retorted, mopping my brow. There had been a nice breeze on the river, but now that we were standing still, the heat was really horrid. "The market at Haifa is one of the best in the Sudan," Emerson said. "You will want to do some shopping, Peabody." "Will I?" "You always do, my dear. Remember, this is the last good-sized town we will encounter. Kalabsha, the stop for Meroe, hasn't much beyond a railroad station and a rest house." "What about Berber?" Ramses asked. "Oh. Well, we won't be getting off the train at Berber, will we? No sense in wasting two or three days there. Straight on to Meroe, that's the plan." "What are you shouting for, Emerson?" I inquired. "Was I? No, I wasn't." He tried the door of the station house and found it locked. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the arrival of the steamer and the hope of earning a few piastres. They were talking excitedly among themselves; then one of them advanced and bowed. "Welcome, Father of Curses. Is it indeed you?" "Aywa," Emerson replied. "Myself and no other. Salaam aleikhum, Yusuf Sawar. Send someone to fetch the station master, will you?" It was not long before this individual came hastening up. He was, of course, an old friend. While Emerson exchanged greetings and gave instructions to him, I felt a touch on my arm and looked round to see Mr. Newbold. His hat was in his hand and behind him stood a veiled female figure. "May I beg a favor, Mrs. Emerson?" Newbold asked. "I must make arrangements for the transfer of our luggage, and I don't like to leave my daughter unattended in such a crush of men." "Your what?" I exclaimed, staring in open curiosity at the slender, silent figure. "Ramses said--" "Oh dear," Newbold murmured. "I'm afraid I yielded to the temptation to tease your son just a bit. Daria is my child, whom I have only lately found again. It is a sad story, which I will tell you one day. Would you look after her, only for a few minutes? Your presence will deter anyone from approaching her rudely." He moved away before I could answer, but of course only one answer was possible. Curiosity as well as compassion demanded acceptance. "It is kind of you," said a soft voice from behind the fabric she had drawn across her face. "You speak English?" An unnecessary question, since she obviously did. "Let us step aside," I went on. "Out of the way of all these people." There were a number of questions I wanted to ask her. Why was she a practicing Moslem when her father was Christian? (Not that he was much of a Christian, if the rumors I had heard were true.) What was the "sad story"? Why, if modesty of attire were her aim, was she wearing garments that set off rather than concealed a nicely rounded figure and comely features? It was costly attire, linen as fine as the fabric worn by queens and pharaohs in ancient times, a thin silken scarf covering her head and the lower part of her face--and she was absolutely clanking with jewelry. Courtesy prevailed, however, and as we withdrew I contented myself with saying only, "You are on your way to Khartoum, I presume. It is a long, arduous journey. Is there anything that I can do to make it easier for you?" She lowered the fold of silk that had concealed her nose and mouth and looked at me in surprise. Ramses had understated the case. "Pretty" did not do the delicate features and tinted lips justice. Her skin was as fair as that of a southern European. The wide dark eyes were skillfully outlined with kohl. "Why should you offer to do that?" she asked. "Good," I said, pleased. "You are direct. I like that. Why, because you are a woman, and young, and a fellow human being. Nomatter how thoughtful your--er--father may be, he is a man, and men do not always understand the needs of women." My brief hesitation before the word "father" passed without comment. I felt certain Newbold had lied to me about the relationship and that the story he had told Ramses was the true one. Even he would not have had the temerity to introduce me to his concubine. Most ladies would have refused in withering terms. In that he did me an injustice, of course. "You are kind," she said again. "But I need nothing. Your son was kind to me too. Did he tell you that I came to him in his cabin?" "Yes, he did," I replied. The big dark eyes widened; I believe she expected the question would come as a shock, which it certainly would have done had Ramses not told us what had happened. It hadn't been easy for him. I understood why, of course, and now that I had seen the girl, I understood even better. He had been attracted, and tempted. Quite natural, in my opinion, and all the more credit to him for resisting. Unfortunately Nefret had not seen it that way, and I had to insist she apologize. "He said he intended to, but I wondered if he would have the courage." "No one could accuse my son of lacking in courage," I replied somewhat acerbically. "Nor in the instincts of a gentleman. Do you wish to be free of that man? I assure you that my husband and my son, to say nothing of myself, are capable of ensuring that, if you wish it." "Mother," said a voice behind me. Ramses walks like a cat, and I had been too interested in the conversation to notice him approaching. "Please come with me. Father is ready to leave." "I can't just yet," I explained, turning to meet a scowl almost as dark as one of his father's. "Mr. Newbold asked me to stay with-- er--the young lady until he comes back." Ramses looked round. It was certainly a rather rough crowd, and a noisy one, as would-be porters shoved and shouted, vying for the attention of the passengers. Torn between his chivalrous concern for females--instilled in him by me--and his obvious dislike of the young woman, he hesitated. The girl had not replaced her veil. "There are your friends, come looking for you," she said with unmistakable mockery. "Another . . . young lady." The young lady was Miss Campbell, accompanied, of course, by her brother. Miss Campbell was buttoned up to the chin, her prim white collar and cuffs wilted by the heat, and her hair concealed by a broad-brimmed hat. She looked miserably hot compared with Daria, in her loose garments and light head scarf--and her conspicuous respectability made the other girl look even less respectable. They eyed each other and then, as if a signal had passed between them, both turned and stared at Ramses. Mr. Campbell noisily cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Emerson, but would you be good enough to come and talk to those porters? I can't seem to make them understand me." "I'll come, sir," said Ramses, with relief. "Mother?" Daria murmured, "There is my . . . father coming. Thank you, Mrs. Emerson, for protecting me, though it was unnecessary." "You are welcome," I said. "Good-bye and good luck." Miss Campbell took out a limp white handkerchief and wiped her perspiring face. "Is she really . . . Oh dear. I feel rather . . ." "Come out of the sun," I said, putting an arm round her swaying form. "Your attire is quite unsuitable for this climate, you know." "It is suitable for her position," said Mr. Campbell, and let out a bleat of alarm as she sagged heavily against me. I could do no more than keep the girl from falling, for she was a dead weight. "Ramses," I gasped. After a wary glance at Mr. Campbell, who was wringing his hands ineffectually, Ramses lifted the young woman, who had gone quite limp. "Now what shall I do with her?" Ramses demanded. "There's no place to put her down." "Sit on that packing case and continue to hold her," I instructed. "Mr. Campbell, if you wish to be useful, open my parasol and hold it over her. Over her head, you silly man!" As I spoke, I unfastened Miss Campbell's collar, took the pins from her hat, removed that article of clothing, and began fanning her with it. Ramses had laid her as flat as possible, across his knees, one arm under her shoulders. Her head had fallen back and she looked quite pretty and pathetic with her loosened hair framing her face and her lips half parted. I fully expected Campbell to protest, not only the loosening of the girl's clothing but the intimate proximity of a young man; however, he obeyed my orders without comment, his face anxious. Perhaps, I thought, it has finally dawned on the idiot that he is risking her health, even her life. She was showing signs of returning consciousness when Nefret came hurrying toward us. "What on earth . . ." she began. "It is just the heat, I think," I said, as, with an exclamation of concern, she bent over the young woman. "Get some water." The application of this substance to face and throat soon brought Miss Campbell round. When she became aware of her position, a deep blush warmed the pallor of her face and she tried feebly to stand. "Mary . . . Mary, dear," her brother cried, attempting to support her. "Lord, we are in your hands. Help us, guide us!" "You would be better advised to ask me for help," I said irritably. "I presume you have made no arrangements for lodgings here? No, I didn't suppose you had. Take your sister to the government rest house, get her out of those hot clothes, and apply copious amounts of water internally and externally. Ramses will carry her if she cannot walk." "Daoud," Ramses said shortly. "Oh," I said. "Yes, that would be better." We got them off with their luggage, such as it was--two suitcases and a small valise. Daoud carried the girl as easily as if she had been a kitten, his large friendly face wearing a reassuring smile. When he came back to announce they had settled in, Emerson-- who had completely ignored the little drama--was ready to proceed. Our packing cases had been stored, except for our bags, which our own fellows had taken in charge. "Peabody, my dear, I expect you are anxious to--er--change your clothing and bathe." "I bathed this morning," I retorted. "Not much of a bath, inmuddy water in a basin, but I doubt the government rest house here offers more elegant facilities." "Who said anything about the rest house?" Emerson offered me his arm. "Oh, no, Emerson," I said firmly. "Not your dear old friend Mahmud--what was his name?" "El Araba," said Emerson. "I don't know why you should protest, my dear. He was most hospitable. However, the poor old fellow is dead these many years." "Well, wherever we are going, let us go," Nefret said impatiently. "I want to make Hassan comfortable, and I refuse to deliver him to the hospital until I have seen what it's like." Wadi Haifa marks the border between Egypt and the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan; once a bustling military depot, it was now a pleasant, placid little town, capital of the mudiria (province) of the same name. We left the German tourists arguing with the station master and proceeded on foot toward the center of town, which boasted a hospital and several government buildings. Over one of them, a low structure of whitewashed mud brick shaded by trees, flew the British and Egyptian flags. My spirits rose at the sight. "Is the mudir an old friend, Emerson?" I inquired hopefully. "Good Gad, no," said Emerson, as shocked as if I had implied he was well acquainted with Satan. "The mudirs are all British officials. The local ma'mur is Nur ed Din, splendid fellow, met him while he was running guns to Kordofan. His place is down this way." We were expected and were greeted with flattering enthusiasm by the ma'mur himself. The Nubians are a very clean people; the only exceptions I have known happened to be friends of Emerson's, which says more about my husband's notions of sanitation than about his friends. The ma'mur's house was spacious and tidy enough to suit even me, with thick walls of mud brick, some of which were adorned with elegant painted designs. His servants led us to a pleasant little suite of rooms reserved for guests, which included an actual bath chamber and several sleeping chambers. We got Hassan settled in one of them; he was full of morphine and only vaguely aware of his surroundings. "There," said Emerson. "Isn't this better than the cursed government house? Plenty of privacy, you see." He gave me a meaningful smile. "And no cursed missionaries singing hymns." Ramses had picked up his suitcases and gone off to find a room for himself. He was back almost at once, sans luggage. "You'll never guess who I found," he said. "That's not difficult," retorted Emerson. "I told Merasen to meet us here and asked the ma'mur to look after him. Where is he?" "He was asleep. Bare and innocent as a baby. I took the liberty of waking him and announcing our arrival. He'll be along as soon as he puts on some clothes." Merasen professed himself as delighted to see us, and indeed his broad smile and deep bows confirmed it. He had arrived in Haifa only two days before us. When Emerson inquired why it had taken him so long, he replied with wide-eyed candor that he had stayed over for a few days in Aswan, "to see the sights." Observing, from Emerson's expression, that this was not well received, he reached into the breast of his galabeeyah and produced a handful of coins. "Here is the rest of the money you gave me, Father of Curses." "Your expenses were heavy," said Emerson dryly. "I bought gifts." Again he dipped into a pocket. "For Nefret and the Sitt." Strings of beads, very pretty and very cheap. Nefret and I went off to inspect the hospital. It consisted of two widely separated buildings, the smaller of which was the native hospital. I daresay the doctor was doing his best, but we declined his kind offer to add another bed to the overcrowded ward. The flies were as thick as raindrops in a brisk shower, and the temperature was in the high nineties. When we returned I summoned the others, including Selim and Daoud, to a council of war. "The first thing is to make arrangements for Hassan," I said, as Emerson dispensed whiskey. (He had assured me our host had no objection to our indulging in this deplorable practice so long as we did it in private.) "The hospital is impossible. He must be sent home as soon as he is able to travel, andone of us must stay with him. I wouldn't trust a stranger, however well intentioned, to look after him properly." "I can't," Nefret said wretchedly. "You know I can't, Aunt Amelia." "But you can tell Ibrahim what to do," said Selim. "And give him medicines." Among the medicines, I felt sure, would be the green ointment made by Daoud's wife Kadija from a secret recipe passed down by the women of her Sudanese family. Hassan would have demanded it even if Nefret had not come to believe in its efficacy. So it was agreed. After Selim and Daoud had gone off to discuss the matter with the others, I said soberly, "We will now be without two of our men. Was it an accident?" Nefret looked up. "Hassan said someone pushed him. He couldn't tell who. He may have been mistaken." Ramses was stretched out on the soft cushions of the divan. He was as agile as an eel underwater. Only that, and the fact that the crocodile had been busy with Hassan, had saved him from serious injury, but I suspected he had not come out of the encounter entirely unscathed. He had refused to allow me or Nefret to examine him. However, he had accepted a pot of the green ointment before he went to his room to change his wet clothing. "There was a great deal of pushing and shoving," he said without raising his head. "It is an odd coincidence, though." "And too cursed many suspects," Emerson muttered. "Ramses mentioned several groups of people who might be aware of our ultimate goal, and by Gad, two such persons have already turned up. The Great White Hunter and the military, in the person of that fellow who, by another strange coincidence, was at the camp when Reggie Forthright was confiding in all and sundry. The only ones we haven't encountered are representatives of the Egyptological community and the slavers!" "You could hardly expect the latter to show themselves," I said. "My dear, a number of highly respectable persons deal on the sly with slave traders." "You aren't suggesting that those stout German tourists are among them, are you?" "I don't like their looks," Emerson grumbled. "They are too stereotypical to be genuine. As for the missionaries--" "You always suspect missionaries." "That is because religious persons always use God as an excuse for unprincipled acts," Emerson retorted. We dined with the ma'mur that evening and, as courtesy demanded, stuffed ourselves with lamb and rice and couscous, dates, and heaven knows what else. Repletion did not prevent Emerson from taking full advantage of our newfound privacy. The following day we sallied forth to visit the market. These markets are fascinating, and very enjoyable once one gets over European squeamishness about bloody carcasses of butchered animals swarming with flies, and streets littered with a variety of refuse. Our purchases were limited by practicality; any perishable item, such as fruit and vegetables, would have rotted before we reached Meroe. Nefret indulged herself in a few strips of bright fabric, declaring that as soon as we were away from civilization she intended to return to native costume. While we were drinking tea in a cafe, at the invitation of the Greek proprietor (an old friend of Emerson's), a procession went by, heading for the mosque. The personage of chief importance was riding a handsome black stallion and was escorted by several guards wearing gaudy uniforms and carrying long lances with gold-and-green pennants fluttering from their tips. Unlike the guards, who were upstanding, sturdy men, he was fat and puffy around the face, which was marred by deep lines of overindulgence and temper. Next to him rode a younger man, dressed as richly in silk and brocade. Emerson said, "Hell and damnation!" Emerson's normal speaking tones are quite loud, and he did not bother to lower his voice. The older man turned his head. I had the feeling that he had been aware all along of our presence; his expression did not alter nor did he stop, but the younger dignitary examined us curiously, turning his head and continuing to stare as he went past. "Now there," said Emerson, saluting him with an ironic flip of his hand, "is a fellow you should avoid if you can." "Another old friend of yours?" I asked. "That would be stretching it a bit. The last time I ran into him we ... er ... had a slight difference of opinion about--er--well, I was forced to incapacitate him and make a hasty departure from Darfur, where--" "It was about a woman, I suppose," I said. "You make me sound like some sort of philanderer," Emerson protested. "She was only a girl, who had been stolen from her young husband and her family. When she appealed to me, I had no choice but to help her." "I know, my dear," I said affectionately. Emerson's soft heart and chivalrous nature are immediately apparent to any female. So are certain other attributes of his, but I had sworn never to reproach him for anything he had done before we met. "Who is he?" Nefret asked. "Mahmud Dinar, the sultan of Darfur. The fellow next to him is his eldest son. He's the only independent governor in the Sudan-- a reward for his remaining loyal during the Dervish revolt. He pays a sizable tribute, though." "He looks as if he can afford it," Nefret remarked. "The slave trade pays well," said Emerson dryly. "He turns a blind eye and collects his cut. Well, well. The only ones we're missing are a journalist and an Egyptologist." When we returned to the ma'mur's house we found a message from the mudir, a Captain Barkdoll, inviting us to tea. "Shan't go," said Emerson, removing his hat and unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt. "Oh, yes, we shall. I had intended to call on him. All open and aboveboard, remember? You may be sure that if we don't turn up he will come looking for us." Captain Barkdoll was young and very conscious of his authority. His mouse-brown hair looked as if it had been parted by a razor, and his mustache was so perfect it might have been painted on. Since he had no hostess, he asked me to pour, which of course I did. "You did not notify the Sudan agent in Cairo of your intentions, Professor Emerson," he began. "Why should I?" Emerson stirred sugar into his tea. "I don't need his permission to excavate at Meroe, and I certainly don't require assistance from fellows like you." Standing stiff as a poker, his cup in one hand and the other behind his back, Barkdoll pressed on. "I must ask you for a list of the supplies you brought and for your papers." Ramses, who was also standing, looked from his father to the young officer and allowed a faint smile to curve his mouth. He knew what was coming. "Papers be damned," said Emerson amiably. "You know who I am. Everybody knows who I am." "Are you aware, sir, that the importation of rifles and ammunition of .303 caliber is absolutely forbidden and that you require a license to hunt with other weapons?" Emerson rolled his eyes heavenward. "License A," he retorted with an audible sneer, "entitles the holder to shoot elephant, hippopotami, rhinoceros, giraffe, antelope, and any other unfortunate animal that passes by. We, sir, do not hunt." Barkdoll was, as I have said, quite young, and no match for Emerson's tactics. "Then what have you got in those damned long wooden cases?" he shouted. "I believe, sir," said Emerson in freezing tones, "that you have forgotten there are ladies present." The young man glanced at Nefret, who was trying to look shocked. At my insistence she had attired herself in a proper frock and flower-trimmed hat, and she looked like what she was not--an innocent, well-bred young English lady. "I--I beg your pardon. I didn't mean--" "How does it happen that you are familiar with the contents of our baggage?" Emerson demanded. "We are British citizens, sir, and are not accustomed to being spied upon by our own people." "No! I was told--" "Go down to the station, then, and rip the cursed boxes apart," Emerson shouted. "I will hold you personally accountable for any missing item or for any damage to our cameras and surveying equipment." "Really," I said, rising. "I had expected more courteous treatment from a British officer and a gentleman. Pray excuse us." Barkdoll wilted. "Naturally, Professor Emerson, if I have your --- "My word," said Emerson grandly, "is my bond. Come, Peabody." Once we had left the house, "What is in those cases, Emerson?" I inquired. "Rifles and ammunition of .303 caliber, of course," said Emerson, stamping along with his hands in his pockets. The ma'mur was more than happy to offer his hospitality to Hassan and Ibrahim for as long as they liked. Ibrahim was a quiet, easygoing older man, very much like his second cousin Daoud, and he listened intently and intelligently to Nefret's directions. We left him amply supplied with funds for the journey to Luxor, which would take place as soon as Hassan was able to travel. Thanks to Nefret's quick and vigorous intervention, the wound was healing without any sign of infection, and Selim had already begun designing an artificial foot for Hassan. On Thursday we bade them farewell and betook ourselves to the railway station, where we found our goods undisturbed. All the passengers from the boat were there. There was nothing surprising or suspicious about that, since they were all on their way to places farther south. I exchanged a few pleasant words with Captain Moroney before he took his place in the train. Newbold nodded and tipped his hat, but did not approach us. He hurried his companion into one of the cars. Her face was veiled and her form completely concealed by her garments. The train was described as deluxe, with supposedly dust-proofdining and sleeping cars. Compared with my earlier travels by train in the Sudan, it was deluxe. There were actually windows in the carriages and reasonably good food to be had in the dining car. After luncheon we went back to our compartment, taking Merasen with us. I didn't want him swaggering up and down the train smirking at the women and inspiring the interest of people like Newbold. On the east ran a chain of bare, violet-colored hills and an endless stretch of stony desert, quivering with heat. The view was not inspiring and the cars were not, in fact, entirely dust-proof; I put my head on Emerson's shoulder and closed my eyes. I was just drifting off when Emerson got to his feet. "Sorry, Peabody," he said, as I tipped over sideways. "I did not realize you were asleep. We're almost there, so get your gear together." I sat up and stared out the window. There was nothing to be seen but sand, rock, and a few spindly palm trees. "What do you mean, we are almost there? Almost where? Not Meroe, it is at least--" "Abu Hamed," said Emerson. "Or, to be more precise, Station Number Ten, just outside Abu Hamed, where we connect with the branch line to Kareima." "Kareima," I muttered, being still somewhat befuddled by drowsiness. "What? Why?" Nefret handed me a dampened napkin. Though somewhat rumpled and glowing with perspiration, she was as bright-eyed as ... as I was not. "Wipe your face, Aunt Amelia. So we are going straight to Napata and Gebel Barkal instead of on to Meroe? Very clever, Professor!" "Well, I thought so," said Emerson modestly. "Throw any pursuers off the track, you see. They will be expecting us in Meroe, and by the time they realize we aren't there, we will be on our way. And if any of our fellow travelers get off here, we will know them for what they are." The dampened napkin was most refreshing. I looked from Emerson, who was smirking in a particularly annoying fashion, to Ramses, whose thin brown face, for once, betrayed his feelings. Theywere not those of surprise. Amusement, rather. As a rule I like seeing Ramses's imperturbable countenance soften. Not on this occasion, however. "You took Ramses into your confidence," I cried accusingly. "But not me. How could you, Emerson?" "No, Mother," Ramses protested. "Honestly. Father said nothing to me. It was, however, a predictable and logical course of action-- er--as you no doubt--um. I'll go and alert Selim and Daoud and the other fellows, shall I?" The train was slowing. I looked longingly at the seat, which opened into a nice comfortable bed, a bed which I was destined not to enjoy; and put on my hat. "Give Merasen a poke, will you, Nefret? Goodness, I believe that boy could sleep through a sandstorm." Since the railway to Abu Hamed cut across the arid desert, miles from the river, a series of wells had been sunk to supply needed water. Station Number Ten marked one of these. It merited no worthier name. There was nothing there except the station itself, a gray wooden building from which any paint had long since been scoured away by sand and sun. The train to Kareima was certainly not a train deluxe--in addition to the aged engine, there were only half a dozen carriages and a baggage car--but at least it was there, waiting for passengers, when we drew to a stop. The inevitable small merchants hawked fruit and water and sand-sprinkled bread. At my suggestion Ramses bought a supply of food and Nefret persuaded the dining-car steward to fill our water bottles with cold tea. The transfer of our by now mountainous heap of baggage took some time. A few of the other passengers took advantage of the delay to get off and stretch their limbs. Among them were the Germans, who strode up and down, swinging their arms as if they were running a footrace. Several men in native garb bargained with the food sellers. They were the only ones who boarded the Kareima train. While we waited, I saw a horse and rider, motionless atop a low dune some distance away. They were the most interesting objects in that dismal scene, and well worth looking at--figures of pure romance, the noble steed poised as if ready to break into a gallop, therider straight in the saddle. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but the sun, now past the zenith, shone on his long robes and the folds of the white khafiya that covered his head. In one hand he carried a long lance. As I stared, raising my hands to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun, the man raised the lance and shook it in greeting or--which seemed more likely--menace. "Emerson," I said, tugging at his sleeve. "Look there." "Not now, Peabody, not now. Quickly, my lads, get those boxes aboard. Be careful with that one, Selim, it has the camera and plates. Well, Peabody, what is it?" The horseman had gone. "Nothing, Emerson." We took our places in the train. I have seen worse, though some of the windows would not open and others would not close. There were only two classes--first and worst. Except for our party, the train was almost empty, so we were able to spread out. Merasen announced he was going to find an unoccupied compartment and have a little sleep. "You may wake me when we arrive," he informed Selim, who curled his lip but refrained from retort. "How long?" I asked Emerson wearily. "Only ten hours or so." "You may wake me when we arrive," I informed him. I thought sleep would be impossible, because of the jolting and the insufferable heat. It did not seem to me that I slept; but suddenly, between one heartbeat and the next, I was in another place, a place I knew well. A cool breeze touched my face, and the sky was the pale, translucent blue that precedes the rising of the sun. That rising was behind me, for I faced west--the western cliffs of Thebes, with the stately ruins of Deir el Bahri to my left, and straight ahead the winding path that led to the top of the plateau and onward to the Valley of the Kings. I began to climb, as I had done so many times before. It is a steep climb and I was breathing quickly when I reached the top. And there, coming toward me with long strides, was a man, tall and straight, black-bearded, his turban snowy white, the long skirts of his galabeeyah wafting round him. "Turn, Sitt, and see the sun rise," he said. I pressed my hand to my heart. It was beating hard, and not withthe effort of the climb. "Abdullah. Is it really you? You look so young!" He stopped a few feet away and smiled, his teeth white against the unmarked black of his beard. "There is no time here, Sitt. It is a dream. Did you not know?" "The happiest dream I have had for many a month," I replied, and it was the truth. Joy filled me like water overflowing a cup, leaving no room for grief or surprise or doubt. I laughed aloud and held out my hands to him. Still smiling, he shook his head, and something told me I must not move closer, or touch him. "Turn, Sitt," he repeated. "And we will watch the sunrise again together." Of all the memories I had of Abdullah, this was the strongest, for as the years went on and his beard whitened, he found the climb harder. Being Abdullah, he would never have admitted it, so I had got into the habit of pretending I needed to stop and catch my breath before following the others to the Valley where we were working. To see the molten orb of the sun lift above the eastern cliffs across the river and watch the light spread across green fields and rippling water, ruined temples and modern villages was a glorious experience. I had sometimes thought that if I were allowed to return to the world of the living, this was the place I would choose. (After, of course, making sure Emerson was where I wanted him to be and the children were doing well.) I turned obediently and felt his presence close behind me. He whispered something that sounded like an invocation and I said, "Are you a sun worshipper, Abdullah? I always suspected you were something of a pagan." "Then so are you, Sitt Hakim. But let us not talk religion, which is a waste of breath. What in the name of God (whichever name it may be) has taken you on the road you now follow? Turn back before it is too late." "So you have returned to warn me, have you?" "I have. Though that too is a waste of breath," said Abdullah grumpily. "You do not heed warnings. You take foolish chances." "It wasn't my idea," I retorted, and laughed again, his scoldingand my defense were so wonderfully, realistically familiar. Impulsively I turned to face him. He moved back a few steps. "Why do you laugh like a silly girl, instead of listening to me?" he demanded, scowling. "Because I am so glad to see you. I have missed you, Abdullah." "Ah. Hmmm." He stroked his beard and tried not to smile. "The time allotted me is almost over, Sitt. If you will not turn back, at least take care. Trust no one, not even the innocent. You are followed by enemies, more than you know." Hot air replaced the cool breeze of a Luxor morning. I felt Emerson's arm round me and the wet cotton of his shirt under my cheek. So wonderful had been that vision that I was loath to see it vanish. Vision or dream--or something more?--it had taken away some of the pain of Abdullah's death. I smiled to myself, remembering his complaints. "She's smiling," said Nefret's voice. "Don't wake her." Emerson's grumble was his best attempt at a whisper. "The heat seems to bother her quite a lot," Ramses said, his even voice softened by concern. "Father, can't you persuade her to remain at Gebel Barkal instead of--" "Certainly not," I said, and sat up. "What time is it?" A single lamp, with a cracked shade, smoked redly, casting gruesome shadows across the faces of my companions. "Time for a bite to eat," said Emerson, avoiding the question of how much longer the jolting journey would take. "We have waited for you, my dear. It was clever of you to think of purchasing food." "I knew you wouldn't think of it," I retorted. "Have Selim and the others been supplied?" Ramses assured me they had, and we tucked into the food with good appetite. "You look much better, Aunt Amelia," Nefret remarked. "You were smiling in your sleep. Did you dream of something pleasant?" "Quite pleasant, my dear. I saw--" My voice cracked, and Ramses at once handed me a cup of tea. Sipping it, I reconsidered what I had been about to say. There wasno way I could convey the potency of that dream and its effect. They would think me silly and sentimental if I spoke of Abdullah. Emerson might pat me on the head. He means it to be comforting, but he pats too hard and musses my hair. "I dreamed about Luxor," I explained. "The cliff above Deir el Bahri. The air was beautifully clear and cool and the sun was rising." Emerson cleared his throat noisily. "It won't be long before we are there again, Peabody, my dear. I promise." He patted me on the head. "Ouch," I said. The interminable trip dragged on. I dozed fitfully in the circle of Emerson's strong arm. Nefret had also succumbed, curled up on the seat with her head on Ramses's lap. He was reading, or trying to, by the dim light, but he seldom turned a page. At last the first faint blush of dawn lessened the darkness. "There it is!" Emerson shouted in my ear. "Gebel Barkal!" In fact it was not. The great mountain temple of the ancient Cushites was still several miles away. However, the train was slowing, and I was willing to make allowances for Emerson's imagination. Ramses closed his book and put his hand lightly on Nefret's shoulder. She murmured sleepily and turned her head, her face rosy with sleep. "Wake up," Ramses said. "We are arriving. Mother, how are you feeling?" "Perfectly fit," I assured him. "What now, Emerson?" "Everything is quite in order," said Emerson proudly. "You remember my old friend--" "Not Mustapha, Emerson! I hoped he was dead!" "Peabody!" said Emerson in shocked surprise. "I meant--that is to say--I thought he must be dead." Ramses had turned away, his hand raised to hide his mouth. He remembered Mustapha and my blistering comments on that gentleman's ideas of a comfortable dwelling. A tent in the desert--a cave in the cliffs--would have seemed like Shepheard's compared with the house Mustapha had furnished us. "Oh," said Emerson. "Well, he's not. And there he is, right on time. Admirable chap!" The years had left no mark on Mustapha, possibly because he had already been as wrinkled and cadaverous as he was likely to become--and as dirty. As before, he was so very glad to see us, it was difficult to resent the old fellow. There were real tears in his eyes when he embraced Emerson and saluted me. He praised Nefret's beauty and grace, looked wonderingly at Ramses, who had been a boy of ten at their last meeting, and burst into a litany of praise with which I was becoming only too familiar. "Just like your honored father! Tall and handsome and strong, pleasing the women with your--" "Quite," said Emerson, with a little cough. "Well, Mustapha, I see you have a number of stout fellows ready to help us. This is our reis, Selim, and his cousin Daoud, and his cousin Ali." Kareima was the end of the line. I watched the train empty. Apparently Emerson's ruse had succeeded, for I saw no European travelers. The other passengers were locals. During the train ride I had tried several times to make Emerson tell me how he planned to proceed once we reached Napata. He had simply smiled with insufferable smugness. "You said you would leave it to me, Peabody." I really regretted having done so, though to be fair I do not suppose I could have improved on Emerson's arrangements. The route we had followed was not the one we had taken ten years earlier, when we arrived by steamer from Kerma--in other words, from the opposite direction. This part of the extensive region known as Napata was new to me and I cannot say I liked the looks of it. Except for the depot, there was nothing at Kareima except a collection of the round huts known as tukhuls. The palm branches of which they are woven offer hospitality to a variety of insect and rodent life. The inhabitants are very generous, and most would willingly turn out of their own houses in order to lend (hire out, I should say) them to visitors; but intrepid travelers who visit this region are well advised to bring their own supplies, including tents. We had brought tents. It was a cheering thought. "We will set up our first camp at Gebel Barkal," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "It is only a few miles farther on. Unless, Peabody, you would like to rest for a while. Mustapha has offered his--" "No!" I exclaimed. "That is--it is good of Mustapha, but I would rather go on. By what means of transportation, may I ask?" Mustapha proudly indicated a variety of means. I declined to ride in the carts, which were already being laden with our belongings, and rejected a camel in favor of a gloomy-looking donkey. Mustapha had also provided two horses, which kept prancing and rolling their eyes in a menacing manner. I had the feeling Mustapha expected some entertainment from watching us attempt to ride the creatures. His face fell when Ramses, who can ride anything on four legs, sprang into the saddle and brought the balky beast under control with knees and hands. Emerson took the other horse. He had no trouble either. Even an obstreperous horse knows better than to argue with Emerson. Leaving the men to finish loading the carts, we proceeded on our way through the village. Before long, the Holy Mountain came into sight. It was an impressive natural feature, a flat-topped mountain of sandstone rising up over two hundred feet from the plain. At its base were the ruins of temples that had stood on that spot for over a thousand years, raised to the glory of the god Amon-Re and numerous other deities. As we drew nearer, I saw that there was movement among the tumbled stones. "What is going on?" I asked Mustapha. "They are digging, Sitt Hakim." He added, in a tone of mild disgust, "Digging for broken stones and empty pots, like you. They have found no gold." Emerson and Ramses were some distance ahead, but I heard Emerson's "Hell and damnation!" clearly. I believe Ramses attempted to restrain him, but he was in such a passion he paid no attention. He set the horse to a gallop. It was not a sensible thing to do, considering the broken ground. We went after him as fast as we could, but before we caught him up the horse stumbled and Emerson flew over its head, landing with a thump at the feet of a manwho had appeared from behind one of the broken walls. He was wearing European clothing and a pith helmet. With an exclamation of concern he assisted Emerson to rise. Our worst forebodings had been fulfilled. The tally was now almost complete. The man was a confounded Egyptologist!

FIVE

"You aren't going to wash the damned camels, are you?" Emerson inquired, in the tone of one who hopes for a negative answer but does not really expect it. "Certainly I am. Have you ever known me to shirk my duty to man or beast?" "These camels look extremely clean," said Emerson, in a last-ditch effort to stop me. "Without wishing to be rude about a friend of yours, Emerson, I refuse to take on faith any object, animate or not, brought to us by Mustapha." "Curse it," Emerson muttered. "Well, don't expect me to help you. Bloody nonsense!" It was only a token protest. Emerson would never mistreat an animal or allow it to be mistreated. Besides, he knew I would go ahead anyhow. On my first visit to Egypt I had discovered that most of the little donkeys bestrode by tourists suffered from sores and mistreatment, and I had made it a point ever since to wash and doctor all the animals we employed. I had to give Emerson credit; he had refrained from mentioning the dismal fate of the last batch of camels I had doctored. I have to give myself credit; it was not my fault that someone had put poison in my camel medicine. "It won't take long, Emerson. I believe I have the hang of it now." This proved to be a somewhat optimistic assessment. I havereached the conclusion that it is impossible for anyone to wash a camel quickly and easily. Camels have perfectly vile tempers and, I could almost believe, more joints than a normal quadruped. Ropes around the camel's legs and around its neck were held by our men, two to each rope, but this did not prevent the creature from protesting in its mournful howl and kicking for all it was worth. I stood on a little mound with a bucket of soapy water and my brush, and scrubbed whatever part of the camel came within reach. Ramses and Nefret helped by rinsing the beast off while trying to avoid its flailing feet. They were both good with animals, but as Ramses remarked once the job was done, even Saint Francis would have come a cropper with a camel. It was a rather vulgar way of putting it, in my opinion, but since he was wet to the waist and rubbing his shin, I allowed him a little leeway. We had been at our present camp, at the pyramid field of Nuri, for two days. It was across the river and several miles downstream from Gebel Barkal. Emerson had insisted we move on as soon as he identified the "confounded Egyptologist" (he had employed a more emphatic adjective). Fortunately he had been somewhat winded by his tumble off the horse, so I was able to get to him before he burst into a denunciation of the unfortunate man, who, I felt certain, was guilty of nothing more than being where Emerson did not want him to be. I stuck to that opinion even after Mr. MacFerguson, shaking hands all round and smiling broadly, mentioned that he had worked this past summer at the British Museum. "Budge," growled Emerson, this being the first word he had breath enough to utter. "No, sir, MacFerguson," said that gentleman in surprise. "May I say, sir, what an honor it is to meet you--and Mrs. Emerson--and young Mr. Emerson--and Miss Forth--" "Selim and Daoud," I said, indicating those two stalwarts. "Our reis and his able assistant." Mr. MacFerguson shook everybody's hands again. He was a comical-looking man, with a round blob of a nose and a long chin, and ears that had spread out to remarkable dimensions as soon as he removed his pith helmet. "Dear me, this is an unexpected pleasure!"said he, in a prim little voice like that of someone's maiden aunt. "I had heard you planned to work at Meroe." "Had you, indeed?" said Emerson, who had been in receipt of several sharp pokes from my parasol. "Yes, yes, word of your plans gets about, even to such a remote spot as this. I received a communication from Mr. Reisner only last week." "Ah," I said. "So you are connected with Mr. Reisner's Nubian Survey, not with the British Museum." "No, no. That is--yes, yes, the Nubian Survey, under Mr. Reisner. But how rude I am to keep you standing here in the sun! Allow me to offer you a glass of tea while you tell me how I may assist you. This is a huge site, and I would be absolutely delighted to share it with individuals of such distinction." Emerson shook his head irritably. Then a new idea seemed to occur to him. His eyes moved from Mr. MacFerguson's preposterous nose to his equally remarkable ears. "Hmmm," he said. "That is--thank you. Most kind." While MacFerguson bustled about, finding seats for us in the shade of his tent and directing his servants to make tea, I whispered to Emerson, "I know what you are thinking, Emerson. You are mistaken." "How do you know what I am thinking? How do you know I am mistaken? That nose is too good to be true." "Be that as it may, Emerson, and be MacFerguson who he may, he is not Sethos. For one thing, Sethos is almost as tall as you, and MacFerguson is several inches under your height. For another, his eyes are dark brown. For a third thing, he has short stubby fingers and broad palms. It is impossible to change the shape of one's hands. Sethos's hands are narrower and more flexible, with long slender fingers." Emerson's glare informed me that I ought to have omitted this last criterion. I said hastily, "And his shoulders are much narrower than yours, my dear. So please don't pull his nose." "Bah," said Emerson, convinced against his will but still aggravated. "All the same, he may have been sent here by Budge." "Nonsense, Emerson. His being here is pure coincidence. Be nonchalant, my dear. Be agreeable. Smile. Do not arouse suspicions which are, in my opinion, as yet unaroused." "Ermph," said Emerson, thereby acknowledging the justice of my remarks. I cannot say that his attempt at a smile was particularly convincing, though it did show quite a number of teeth. He declined Mr. MacFerguson's eager offer to share the site, however. "We mean to have another go at the pyramids of Nuri," he explained. "Finish the job we started ten years ago. Better be on our way, eh, Peabody?" MacFerguson's face fell. "At least let me show you round the site, Professor. There has been a great deal done since you were last here." "Another time," said Emerson, with a longing glance at the looming bulk of Mount Barkal and the ruins that stretched out around its base. They had never been properly excavated, and it was Emerson's contention that they were the remains of temples of various periods, stretching back in time to the sixteenth century B.C. or even earlier. Emerson loves temple ruins, the more complicated, the better. I gave him an affectionate pat on the arm. The resourceful Mustapha summoned up a small flotilla of boats and we got ourselves and our baggage across the river. My attempts to persuade Emerson to postpone this activity until the following day fell on deaf ears. "May as well get it over, Peabody. I want to be on our way within forty-eight hours, before that fellow MacFerguson can report we are here." "I cannot believe he is one of the vultures, Emerson. Our change of plans was so sudden, no one could have anticipated we would head for Napata, and he had been there for almost a week." "So he claims," Emerson muttered. "I have never heard of the fellow. Have you?" "No, but perhaps he is new to the field." "Hmph," said Emerson. We left the animals behind. There would be, Mustapha assured us, other donkeys and camels awaiting us. I sincerely hoped so. Thepyramids were on the plateau, a mile and a half from the river, and the sun was hot. However, Emerson was in the right; the crossing had to be made sooner or later, and unpacking and repacking our goods would be an unnecessary waste of time. It was late afternoon before my donkey ambled up the slope and I saw the pyramids ahead, black against the blazing reds and purples of the sunset. An even more welcome sight were the flatter pyramid shapes of tents. The men had gone on ahead, with the baggage camels and what appeared to be half the local population, and many willing hands had made light work of preparing camp. A quick look round told me that Budge, or someone of his ilk, had been at Nuri since we worked there in '98. The poor pyramids were even more dilapidated than they had been then. "There's Mother," called Ramses, as I and my escort approached. "All right, are you, Mother?" "She'll be fine as soon as she gets her whiskey," said Emerson, assisting me to dismount. "See to it, will you, Ramses? This way, Peabody, my dear."

(These letters and the ones that follow, from Nefret Forth, were not found among the papers of the persons addressed, but in a separate bundle once in the possession of Mrs. Emerson.) My dear Evelyn, In my opinion it is highly unlikely that you will ever receive this letter. When we return from our projected expedition, you will hear of our adventures from our own lips. However, a sensible individual takes even remote possibilities into account. We are returning to the Lost Oasis. An unexpected visitor brought us a plea for help from our friend Tarek, of whom you have heard me speak. I need not explain to you why we felt obliged to respond. I will leave this sealed packet with my excellent solicitor, Mr.Fletcher, with instructions to deliver it when and if he deems it appropriate. (Gargery would most likely steam it open.) It contains this brief account and a copy of the map of which you have heard so much. Emerson strictly forbade me to enclose the map, remarking in his bluff fashion that Walter might be fool enough to dash off to the Sudan looking for us, and die of thirst in the desert. I have more confidence in Walter. Should he decide to act, it will be with all due deliberation and caution--and the choice, in my opinion, should be his. You will, I expect, take David into your confidence. Persuade him if you can that our failure to include him was due to our great affection for him. Do not assume if we fail to return within a reasonable time that we are no more. It sometimes takes us a little longer than we expect to carry out our plans.

Dearest Lia, I don't know whether you will ever receive this letter. It seems unlikely, but I felt the need to write it. There is a chance we may not return, and I would hate to vanish without a word of love to someone who means so much to me. Aunt Amelia has written your parents. If you don't already know about my life before I came to England, and the epic journey that brought the Professor and Aunt Amelia--and Ramses--I mustn't forget Ramses--to the Holy Mountain, your parents will tell you when they deem it advisable to do so. We have always been confidantes, Lia dear, but on this one subject I have been mute. I had promised I would not speak of it, but that wasn't the only reason for my silence. As the months andyears went on, the memories faded until they seemed as unreal as a strange dream. Aunt Amelia would probably claim I didn't want to remember. It may be so. We are about to set out on the same journey. There are still great gaps in my memory, Lia, I don't know why. But I remember Tarek, who was my foster brother, kind and gentle and brave. I loved him very much. Yet I had forgotten what he looked like until his young brother, Merasen, arrived at Amarna House with an appeal for help from Tarek. Tarek and his son, his only heir, are suffering from a strange illness which none of his people can cure--not too surprising, when one considers that their notions of medicine are derived from the mixture of magic and unscientific theory that characterized ancient Egyptian medicine. I've read everything I could find on tropical diseases and I hope and pray I can be of assistance. In any case, we had to make the attempt. I owe Tarek my very life, for I doubt I would have survived long in the City of the Holy Mountain. I had wondered, now and then, what happened after we fled, leaving Tarek still fighting for his throne. What was the fate of my despicable cousin Reggie Forthright, who had done his best to prevent me from returning to England to claim the inheritance he hoped to get? Was Tarek able to alleviate the suffering of the common people, the enslaved and downtrodden rekkit? Did he marry and have children? For all I knew, the City of the Holy Mountain itself might have fallen into ruin, overrun by enemy tribesmen or destroyed by some unforeseen natural catastrophe. I know the answers to some of those questions, and soon (inshallah) I will find out the other answers. The journey will be difficult and hazardous, and yet I look forward to its culmination with an eagerness you may find hard to understand. Whatever happens, I will be glad I attempted it. Remember that, dear Lia, if the worst should befall us. I don't for a moment believe it will, though. Aunt Amelia would never allow such a thing.

"The die is cast," said Emerson in reverberant tones. "The time has come." We were seated round a campfire, which had been kindled for comfort rather than warmth, though the sun had set and the air was already cooler. The moon had not yet risen, and the outlines of the tents glimmered palely in the darkness. "What die?" I demanded irritably. "What time? We will not be ready to leave for several more days. You sound like the oracle of Amon Re." "How do you know what it--" Ramses broke into his father's complaint. "What Father means is that the time has come to tell Daoud and Selim the truth. Up until now they have heard only the story we told the hired drivers-- that we are looking for ruins west of here." "And a cursed unconvincing story it is too," I declared. "The number of camels and drivers we have hired is far too great for such a short trip. The men are already speculating." "Let them speculate to their hearts' content," said Emerson. "They don't know anything. Good Gad, Peabody, you are in an excessively critical mood this evening. Get her another whiskey, Ramses." I accepted the offering in the spirit in which it was meant. "You are both right," I admitted, after a cheering sip or two. "Ramses, will you ask Selim and Daoud to join us? You might see if you can locate Merasen too. He has rather avoided us lately." "He's been making friends with our men," Nefret said, as Ramses went off toward the little camp our fellows had set up. "I told him his autocratic manner wouldn't serve him well with them--or us--and he seems to have taken my lecture to heart. He and young Ali have become chums." I couldn't help laughing a little, the word "chum" sounded so incongruous in connection with Merasen. Ramses was back almost at once, with our two stalwarts. "I couldn't find Merasen," he explained. Selim scowled. "He and Ali have gone off together. You must speak to the boy, Emerson; he is too interested in the women of the village, and Ali is young and a fool." "We won't have to worry about the women of the village any longer," said Emerson. "This is our last night here. Er--our last for some time to come. Selim--Daoud--my friends--the journey on which we embark tomorrow is longer and more hazardous than I have led you to believe. I am about to tell you of our true purpose, so that you may decide whether or not to accompany us. The choice will be yours." Placid and unmoving as a monumental statue, Daoud said, "There is no choice. Where the Father of Curses goes, we follow, even into the fires of Gehenna." Emerson cleared his throat noisily. "Hmph. Thank you, my friend. But you have not yet heard the facts." "There is no need," said Selim. The moon had risen; its cold light outlined his sharp handsome features with shadows. "Daoud has spoken the truth. Your words come as no surprise, Emerson. The boy is no villager, and the weapon he carries is no Arab sword." Without further ado, Emerson launched into the story of the Lost Oasis. Daoud listened with interest but without surprise; he had an almost childlike sense of wonder about the world, which meant that nothing surprised him--or that everything did. Selim's mobile features expressed a variety of emotions, but the predominant one was delight. "It will be a great adventure," he exclaimed. "Think well, Selim," said Emerson, in sepulchral tones. "At the end, our bones may lie whitening in the sand." Daoud's deep voice replied, "Or they may not. It is in the hands of God." Emerson had been speaking his fluent and somewhat florid Arabic. I now said, in English, "We have a proverb: God helps those who help themselves." Selim threw his head back and laughed aloud. "And so we will, Sitt Hakim. How can we fail, with you and the Father of Curses to lead us?" I could think of a number of ways, but there was no sense in raising doubts. It is a well-known fact that courage is based to some extent on the failure to recognize danger (stupidity, in other words) and also on self-confidence. After swearing Selim and Daoud to secrecy, we went early to bed. Emerson dropped off to sleep at once, but I could not. Forebodings seldom trouble my husband; he does not believe in them, or so he says. They troubled me that night. Small wonder, considering what the morrow would bring. At last I gave up the attempt to woo slumber; rising quietly, I put on my dressing gown and slipped out of the tent. The moon was nearing the full. Its silvery rays were bright enough to illumine a familiar form standing still as a statue some distance away. His back was toward me; he looked toward the west. He must have heard the rustle of my skirts as I approached, but he did not turn. "Is something the matter, Ramses?" I asked. His voice was as soft as mine when he replied; the stillness forbade loud speech. "I was remembering a certain night ten years ago, when you found me outside my tent, and I told you I had heard a voice summoning me. A voice I took to be yours. It was on this very spot." "Or near it," I agreed cautiously, for he sounded very strange. "Please don't tell me it has happened again. That imagined voice was the result of a post-hypnotic suggestion planted in your mind by Tarek in order to--" "I know why." His face looked like stone, his eyes sunk in pits of shadow, his high cheekbones and firm mouth sharply outlined. In a sudden panic I caught hold of his arm and was ridiculously relieved to feel warm, hard human muscle. He shivered. The air was cold. Then he looked down at me and said lightly, "No, Mother, nothing has happened, not even a ghostly voice from the past. I couldn't sleep and stepped out for a breath of air. I hope I didn't waken you." "I couldn't sleep either." "It will be all right, Mother." "I know." 'Good night." 'Good night." I was drinking my tea when Selim came striding toward me. "Ali has not come back," he said, too worried to give the conventional greeting. "The boy is not in camp either, unless he is with you." I turned in silent inquiry to Ramses, whose tent Merasen shared. He shook his head. "He didn't come in last night." "Send someone to the village to look for them." Emerson's teeth snapped together. "If they are sleeping off a night of--er, well, if that proves to be the case, I will make them run behind the camels for a day or so." They were not in the village. Daoud returned to report that they had been there, but had left shortly before midnight. "The boy (he had adopted Selim's contemptuous name for Merasen) drank much beer and boasted to the girls. Ali drank too." Selim sprang to his feet with a furious exclamation. "Never has he done such a thing. He knows the Law. When he returns I will--" "I don't think we should wait for him to return," Ramses said in a curiously flat voice. "I'll go back to the village and start from there. Perhaps someone saw which way they went." This seemed the most sensible procedure, so we all accompanied him. We got little information from the locals; the virtuous among them had been asleep and the habitues of the illicit tavern too drunk to be observant. We spread out, searching behind every outcropping and hillock. It was Ramses and I who found Ali, in a little gully only ten feet from the path. One look was enough. The pool of blood in which poor Ali's body lay had already dried. Ramses made me look away when he turned the body over, and I did not protest. Ali's throat had been cut. There was no trace of Merasen. "That takes care of coincidence," said Ramses, after we returned to camp. Selim and Daoud were preparing Ali's body for burial, which must be done before sunset. The villagers had offeredall possible assistance, including a grave in the cemetery near the small mosque. The poor souls were afraid they would be blamed, and horrified by the brutality of the murder. "It wasn't one of the villagers," Ramses went on. "They had everything to lose and nothing to gain by such an act. And Ali is the third of our men to be taken from us." "Yes, yes, Ramses, we all understand that," Emerson grunted. He was smoking furiously, which would have been a sure sign of distress and anger even if his scowling countenance had not made his feelings clear. "When I get my hands on that boy--" "Merasen?" Nefret stiffened. "Why do you assume he is guilty? He may have been carried off by the people who killed Ali." "It is possible," Ramses said. Nefret's pale cheeks regained some of their color. "You're against him. You always have been." "That will be quite enough, Nefret," I said firmly. She had been badly shaken by the death of Ali, a merry, laughing lad whom we all liked. "The situation is too grave for recriminations," I went on. "We now have proof that someone is working actively against us. Who that person may be, we do not yet know. There is one strong point in Merasen's favor: he was not on the boat when Hassan fell, or was pushed, overboard." "That's right," Nefret said eagerly. "However," I said, "I suggest that we look through our baggage and that of Merasen. I would like to know whether anything is missing--money, personal possessions, papers of any kind." "Well done, Mother," said Ramses. "How good of you to say so, my dear." At first glance Merasen's precious suitcase and other bundles appeared to have been undisturbed. But when we opened the former we found that most of the clothing was gone, along with the sword and its scabbard. Ramses so forgot himself as to use bad language. "Goddamn it! I thought I was being so clever when I insisted on his sharing my quarters, but I obviously wasn't clever enough. He must have squirreled his things away earlier, I'd have waked up if he had come crawling in last night." "You did suspect him," Nefret said. "A pity no one else did," said Emerson, in the cool, quiet voice that was more ominous than his bellows. "Not your fault, my boy. Let's see what else he has taken." Emerson had already dispensed part of the money, in return for the hire of the camels and their drivers, and a considerable baksheesh to the obliging Mustapha. The rest, according to his count, was intact, which did not surprise me, since he had kept it close to his person throughout. Our next concern was for the weapons. The heavy boxes, which had been in Selim's charge, appeared to be untouched; but Emerson wrenched them open. "All here," he said. "I meant to hand them round before we left, but I may as well do it now." He lifted one of the rifles, a great heavy thing longer than my arm, and handed it to Ramses. "Load it. Now." "Yes, sir." Ramses refused to hunt and preferred not to carry firearms, but after an incident a few years earlier he had taken up target shooting, explaining in his cool fashion, "There are circumstances under which proficiency in this particular skill might come in useful." I reached for another of the weapons. Emerson slapped my hand away. "It's too heavy for you. The recoil would probably break your shoulder, even if you could hold it steady. You too, Nefret." Nefret was watching Ramses, who had taken shells from another box and was expertly loading the weapon. "I don't want it," she said in a choked voice. "What about the pistols?" I inquired hopefully. There were seven of them, large, efficient-looking weapons. "You are the world's worst shot, Peabody," said my husband without rancor. "You have never even managed to hit anything with that little pistol of yours--anything you aimed at, that is." "I could learn, Emerson." "Not with this," said Emerson. There were enough weapons to arm all of the men, with several extra. We left Ramses to mount guard over them and went to carry out the next stage of our search. I had a horrible foreboding of what we would find--or rather, not find. It was Nefret's copy of the map that had disappeared. At first she refused to accept this, tossing papers all over the floor of the tent in a frantic search. "Face facts, my dear," I said, putting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "He had ample opportunity to take it." "So did others," Nefret muttered, as she knelt, head bowed, among the scattered papers. "We are wasting time," said Emerson. "The sooner we get off, the better. Masud is watering the camels. I will hurry him up and tell him to start loading. Nefret, get your gear together. Peabody, find Selim and tell him we are leaving immediately after the funeral." "You mean to go on, then?" I asked. "Have we any other choice?" In fact, we did not. It would have been unthinkable to abandon Tarek if there was the slightest chance that we might be of service to him. As Ramses had been the first to point out, Merasen had carried no written message, and his behavior since had given us good cause to question his veracity. Yet I had known men to be proved innocent with even stronger evidence against them. The evidence against another, unknown party was mounting. Merasen could not have been responsible for Hassan's injury; Ali's brutal murder and the theft of the map from Nefret must be part of the same deadly plot. The map in itself would be of no use to Merasen; he could not read the compass bearings; yet, as we had realized, he could not find his way to the Holy City, or guide another there, without such an aid. Whoever this "other" might be, his intentions could not be honorable or harmless, toward us or toward Tarek. We knew only two things about him. He could use a compass and follow a map; and he had been on the boat to Wadi Haifa. The missionaries, the Great White Hunter, the garrulous German tourists, the agreeable Captain Moroney? Or someone else, cleverly disguised as one of the crewmen? The sun sank slowly in the west. (Or, to put it in scientific terms, the turning globe on which we stood revolved slowly in the oppositedirection.) Like most sunsets in sandy regions, this one set the horizon ablaze with streaks of brilliant color, and the last rays of the solar orb cast a theatrical effect of light and shadow over the forms of man and beast. It was a scene to capture the imagination of the most romantic--the line of heavily loaded camels, their long shadows even more grotesque than the beasts themselves, and the men attired in long robes and a variety of exotic headgear. Except for the incessant grumbles of the camels, an eerie silence reigned. We were to travel at night, avoiding the daytime heat, while the moon was at the full. It was the evening of the day following our discovery of Merasen's treachery. Emerson's intention of leaving that same night had been overly optimistic. Camels cannot be hurried when they are being readied for a long expedition; they must be allowed to drink their fill and rest afterwards. Proper loading also requires time and deliberation. Zerwali had politely pointed out these facts to Emerson. He was the leader of the Bedouins we had hired to accompany us. Most of our men were Nubians, but the Bedouin know the desert well and were valuable additions to our crew. Zerwali was a slight, wiry fellow who had--of course--known Emerson before. When he joined us that evening, he was wearing the usual Bedouin garb of shirt and long calico drawers, with the voluminous woolen jerd wrapped round him to ward off the chill of the night air. He was accompanied by Masud, the Nubian, who was to accompany us, and from whom we had hired the majority of the camels. We had just returned from seeing poor Ali laid to rest, as was his due. When the brief service was concluded, Selim had been the first to turn away. Daoud's eyes were red-rimmed, but there was no sign of grief on Selim's face, only a fierce determination. It bore the same expression as he sat listening to the exchange of compliments between Emerson and Zerwali and Masud. Finally the latter got to the point. "It is said, Father of Curses, that our destination is farther distant than we believed." "I contracted with you for thirty marhalas (days' travel)," Emerson replied. "I did not inform you of our destination." Masud accepted this snub with a shrug, but persisted. "Is it to the southwest we go?" "Yes." "Wallahi, it is a dangerous route," Masud muttered. "And many a caravan has been eaten up by the wild men of the hills along the way. They do not fear God. They are like birds; they live on the tops of mountains . . ." "We made an agreement," Emerson replied, monumentally calm. "If you are afraid to keep it . . ." Zerwali let out a derisive laugh. "Yes, let the cowards depart. We are with you, Father of Curses." Masud turned on him with a snarl, and Emerson said, "There are no cowards here, and I will not allow quarreling among you. Go now. We will load the camels tomorrow, after they have rested." There was no further dissension, but I saw trouble ahead. When I mentioned this to Emerson he made a rude remark about forebodings and then went on, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as you are so fond of saying, Peabody. We will deal with difficulties as they arise." The camels were brought in about midday and the loading was about to begin when Daoud spoke to Emerson. "We must bless the baggage, Emerson." "What? Oh, curse it," said Emerson. "But, Daoud, there is no holy man--" "I have brought him," said Daoud. The wrinkled old man who had conducted Ali's funeral service stepped forward, his fingers on the amber beads of a rosary. With a polite nod at Emerson, the old gentleman went from pile to pile of baggage, saying little prayers over each. Then he turned to the men who had gathered round him and raised his hands, palms up. "May God guide your steps. Allah yesadded khatak. May he give success to your undertaking." "It was a good thought, Daoud," said Ramses, who, like myself, had seen the faces of the travelers brighten. "Hmph, yes," Emerson muttered. "Thank you, Daoud." He rewarded the imam extravagantly and then ordered the loading to begin, courteously asking the advice of both Masud and Zerwali. When the loads had been carefully arranged and balanced, he rode back along the long line for a final check. He had hired a pair of riding camels which we were to use in turn, and several of the pack camels' loads had been lightened to accommodate other riders. The men would walk most of the time, mounting a camel periodically in order to rest. A camel's pace, of approximately two and a half miles per hour, is not hard to match. Emerson came back, followed by Daoud. "Ready, my dear?" inquired my spouse. "As ready as I will ever be," I replied, shifting position slightly. The new position was not much of an improvement. In my opinion there is no comfortable position on a camel. "But first, Emerson--I know you do not share my belief in Divine Providence, but--" "Oh, good Gad, haven't we had enough praying?" Emerson demanded. "Very well. Make it short." I bowed my head and murmured a few words, then turned to Daoud. "Will you say a blessing, Daoud?" "I have already asked for His mercy, Sitt," said Daoud calmly. "But one can never pray too much, is it not so?" His reverberant voice rose up over the grumbles of the camels (and, I am sorry to say, those of Emerson). "Praise be to God, the Master of the Universe, the Compassionate . . ." Other voices joined his in the recitation of the Fatah. Ramses's was among them, and I am not ashamed to admit that mine was also. It made a good impression on the men, but that was not why I did it. It was a long night. The sun had been up for several hours before Emerson let out an exclamation and pointed. "There it is--the rock outcropping where we stopped last time after the first day's journey. We'll make camp there." I didn't know how he could be so certain it was the same place. There were a number of outcroppings, for this was not the Great Sand Sea or the Sahara with their great rolling dunes, but a region of red and black hills interspersed with stretches of sand like poolsof gold. However, I was more than ready to get off the cursed camel. Pride forbade I should admit weakness; I waved Ramses away when he offered me his hand to help me dismount--and waited until he had turned his back before I slid stiffly to the ground. The men made haste to erect the tents, for there was not much shade, and that little would shrink as the sun rose higher. Selim started a small fire to boil water for tea, and we gathered round it to eat bread and extremely warm oranges and soft goat cheese that would be rancid before the day was over. From now on we would subsist on the basic supplies of desert travelers: rice and flour, baked into unleavened bread, sugar and tea, with a handful of dates now and then. The dates were not the sweet, soft fruit to which we were accustomed; the camels lived on them when there was no fresh fodder available, and we ate them only for nourishment. I had packed some tinned food--tomatoes and bully beef and fruit--but the weight of such items prohibited excess. Physical fatigue sent me quickly to sleep, but I woke gasping for breath after what seemed only a brief nap. It was later than I had thought; the sun had sunk down the west, brightening one side of the tent. Emerson sat cross-legged nearby, writing in his notebook. Perspiration trickled down his cheeks and dripped onto the paper, but he went on with his scribbling as placidly as if he had been in his study at Amarna House. Whereas I felt like Saint Lawrence on his griddle, toasted on front, back, and both sides. "Ah, awake, are you?" he inquired when I stirred. "Did you have a good sleep? Dear me, you appear a trifle warm. Would you like a drink?" "I would like a cold bath," I croaked. "But I will settle for a sip of water and a damp cloth." Emerson supplied these luxuries, and after I had wiped my face and throat I felt quite myself again. I looked out the open flap of the tent and saw that the others were stirring. The red rays of the declining sun turned the baked ground into a fair imitation of the infernal regions. A hot wind blew hair into my eyes. "Did you sleep at all?" I asked, removing the pins and shaking out my heavy locks. "It was too hot." "Oh, really?" Emerson looked up. Seeing what I was doing, he came to my side and lifted my hair, spreading it across his big hands. "Not now, Emerson," I mumbled through a mouthful of pins. "Just helping to dry it, my dear. The sun will be down soon, and then the air will be delightfully cool. A perfect night for a ride in the moonlight." "What a poet you are, Emerson." Emerson grinned. "Don't swallow your hairpins, Peabody." After a supper of tinned peas, tinned beef, and bread baked on hot stones, we reloaded the camels and were ready to ride when the moon rose. The effect is quite magical; in the clear, dry air of the desert, the light of the lunar orb is so bright one can see almost as clearly as by day, and the stars blazed with diamond fire. The ground that had been a sullen red was now silver. I felt quite refreshed, but Emerson was not inclined toward conversation, so for a while we rode side by side in silence and I contented myself with admiring the strong outline of his profile and the glimmer of moonlight in his black hair. We stopped once to stretch our stiff limbs and have a sip of water, and then we went on . . . and on . . . and . . . A hard hand closed over my upper arm. "Here now, Peabody," said Emerson, in some alarm. "If you fall asleep you will topple off the damned camel. I'll take you up with me, shall I?" "No, thank you," I said, my energy restored by the suggestion. If there is anything more uncomfortable than riding a camel, it is riding in front of someone who is riding a camel. "I am wide awake now. Quite a refreshing little nap. Thank you, for looking out for me, my dear." "I was about to indicate a point of interest. Over there." They shone as if luminescent, bleached to a pearly white by moonlight--a pile of tumbled bones. We had seen the remains of a few small animals, gazelle and hare and antelope, but these were not those of a small animal. They had been stripped bare by predators of some kind. Reflected moonlight twinkled in the empty sockets of the skull as we passed. "A camel?" "Not just any camel," said Emerson. "One of ours. Formerly one of ours, I should say. The first of the lot to die." "Not a good omen, Emerson," I said, remembering how the cursed beasts had perished one by one, leaving us stranded. "You and your omens! It is a good sign. We are on the right track." Leaving the desolate heap of bones behind, we went on until the stars faded and the sky began to lighten. We were making good time, better than we had on our first trip, but Emerson gave no indication of halting. The sun rose behind us, sending our shadows leaping forward across the ground. One elongated outline grew more rapidly and I saw that Ramses had come up beside us. "Father. Look there." At first it was only a little puff of pale yellow, but it soon expanded, like a moving cloud. "It is a sandstorm?" I asked apprehensively. "Worse," said Ramses. "Can you tell how many?" Emerson asked. "No. They're still too far away." "Hmph," said Emerson. He yanked violently on the head rope of his camel, turning it. "You know what to do." "Yes, sir." Ramses set his beast to a trot and rode toward the end of the caravan. I do not approve of cruelty to animals, but the only way to get the attention of a camel is to whack it. The men needed no such inducement; they too had seen the approaching cloud and knew what it portended. With blows and shouts they formed the recalcitrant beasts into a rough circle and forced them to kneel. "Quite like the Old West, is it not?" I said to Nefret. "Camels instead of wagons, but it is the same principle, and--" "Get down, Peabody," Emerson said, reinforcing the suggestion with a push that made my knees buckle. "And pay attention." "Let me have one of those guns," I demanded. It was possible now to see moving forms in the dust, the forms of mounted men. "Not on your life," said Emerson. "Selim, Daoud, here, on my right. Ready, Ramses?" The armed men knelt behind their camels, their weapons aimed. Most of them had rifles, and some of the Bedouin prided themselves on their marksmanship. However, according to Emerson, they were inclined to exaggerate their skill, and many of the guns were old, verging on antique. We appeared to be outnumbered by at least ten to one. I crept closer to Emerson and took out my little pistol. "Don't fire until I give the word," said Emerson coolly. He repeated the order in Arabic. "That includes you, Peabody. Aim high, over their heads. On second thought, Peabody, don't fire at all. Ready? Now." A somewhat ragged volley shook the clear air. "Again," Emerson said. The second volley slowed them, but the leader came on. He was brandishing a weapon--not a rifle, a huge sword. So it was to be hand-to-hand fighting! I heard Nefret gasp and saw her grip the hilt of her knife. I wondered if Emerson would have the decency to shoot me after all hope had failed. I wondered if I could bring myself to shoot Nefret rather than let her endure the hideous alternative--capture and slavery in a Turkish harem. They might not bother taking me prisoner, since by their standards I was a trifle elderly, but Nefret was a prize worthy of a pasha. To my horror, Emerson suddenly bounded to his feet. Exposed from the waist up, he raised both arms and shouted something in Arabic. The leader was now so close I could make out his face-- hawk-nosed and bearded, decaying teeth bared in a ferocious fighting grin. The blade of the sword flashed as he whirled it over his head. Emerson dropped the rifle, folded his arms, and stood motionless. "Shoot," I shrieked. "Ramses, shoot the bas------the man immediately, do you hear me?" His finger was on the trigger and the gun was aimed at the rider's breast. Then it shifted, just a little, and he fired. The bullet struck the raised sword blade with a ring like that of a gong, and the weapon flew out of the rider's hand. With a howl of pain and surprise, he jerked at the camel's head rope and the beast veered off, followed by the rest of the attackers. They swept past in a cloud of sand. "Well done," said Emerson, giving his son a clap on the back. "Thank you, my boy, for ignoring your mother's hysterical order." "Yes, sir," Ramses said. He lowered the rifle and sat down rather suddenly. "It was a wonderful shot," Selim said. "Now what do we do?" "Wait," said Emerson, still upright. "Here, Peabody, what's the matter? You aren't going to faint, I trust." "No, I am going to kill you. How dare you, Emerson? How dare you frighten me so?" "I am beginning to suspect," said Ramses, wiping his wet forehead with his sleeve, "that my flamboyant gesture was unnecessary." "No, no, it was a nice added touch," Emerson said soothingly. "Well, let's make camp, shall we? Stand down, all of you," he added in resounding Arabic. "The Father of Curses will protect you." A short time later Selim, who had appointed himself sentry, let out a hail. "A rider approaches, Emerson." "Ah," said Emerson. "One man, Selim?" "Yes, Father of Curses. He stops. He holds up a white flag. Does that mean I cannot shoot him?" "I'm afraid so," said Emerson. "Keep him covered, though." "Aren't you going to invite him to join us for breakfast?" I inquired with, I believe, a pardonable touch of sarcasm. "Presently. I want my tea first. Is it ready?" I handed round the cups and went to join Selim. The envoy was the leader himself. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a sword stuck through his sash, but his hands were empty except for the makeshift flag of truce. Emerson continued to sip his tea. He was delaying for two reasons: first, to annoy me, and second, to assert his superiority over the envoy. Finally he stood up and stretched. "I am going with you," I said. "No, you are bloody well not. Good Gad, Peabody, how would it look to have a woman trailing at my heels?" "Ramses, then." Ramses, who had not risen, said evenly, "There is a kind of etiquette in these matters, Mother. He'll have to go alone. Not on foot, but unarmed." "Quite right," said Emerson. He mounted one of the kneeling camels and induced it to stand up. We crowded round Selim, watching Emerson ride slowly toward the waiting man. "I do not approve of this," I announced. "Who are these people, anyhow?" "Tebu, I think." Ramses did not take his eyes off his father. "Of the Guraan tribe." Emerson reined up beside the other man. I couldn't hear what they said, but after a brief exchange the raider burst into a peal of laughter and the two rode back toward us, side by side. Ramses said softly, "Mother and Nefret, go into one of the tents and stay out of sight." "Why?" Nefret demanded. "I have never behaved like a proper Moslem lady and I won't do it now!" "The majority of the Tebu are peaceable enough, but the renegades among them are the most dangerous raiders in the Western Desert. They still take slaves," Ramses said through tight lips. "This fellow may be another of Father's old friends, but I see no sense in waving a tempting morsel like you in front of him. Get inside." "But--" "Mother, make her go, or I will." "You are right," I said. "Come, Nefret. We can peek through a crack." We beat a hasty retreat and just made it inside the tent before Emerson and his "guest" entered the camp. At the sight of the latter, Nefret's resentful scowl faded. Of medium height, dark-skinned as a Nubian, and lean as a feral dog, he was not an impressive figure physically, but there was a certain look about him--the look of a man who acts as he chooses with no inconvenient interference from his conscience. He seemed to be in quite a jovial frame of mind, his bearded lips parted in a smile; but as he settled himself on the rug and accepted a glass of tea, his eyes moved around the camp, as if taking stock of our numbers and our gear. Then they fixed on Ramses, who was sitting cross-legged next to him. "Your father tells me it was you who shot the sword out of my hand. A lucky shot." "I hit what I mean to hit," Ramses said, looking down his nose at the other man. "I could have put the bullet through your head if I had wished to. You were wise to turn aside when you did." It wasn't like him to boast, but, as he knew, modesty is wasted on Arabs. The man, whom Emerson had introduced as Kemal, acknowledged the retort with a nod and a grin. "It was the sight of your father that turned me aside, boy. They did not tell me this was his caravan." They were all speaking Arabic, except for an occasional aside in English from Emerson to Ramses, or vice versa. "Who hired you?" Emerson demanded. "A man of honor does not betray his employer" was the smooth reply. "Secrecy was part of the agreement." "It seems an unnecessary part," said Emerson, equally bland. "If your aim is to leave none alive to tell the tale." "But no, Father of Curses, that was never our aim." He widened his eyes and shook his head. "We were told you had money--many camels--weapons . . . Other treasures." He looked toward the tents--the only places of concealment. Ramses stiffened, and Emerson said in English, "Don't look round." To Kemal, he said, "So you were to have these . . . treasures as your reward for--what? For massacring the lot of us?" "But I said it, Father of Curses--I did not know it was you." He grinned. "If I had known, I would have asked for payment in advance." "And now?" Holding his glass as delicately as a lady might hold her cup, Kemal finished his tea before he replied. "We would overwhelm you in the end, but you would kill many of us first." He pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. "I ask myself whether the cost would be too high." "This is becoming tiresome," said Emerson to Ramses. "And time is passing. Have you any suggestions?" "He wants a bribe." "Naturally. The question is, will he stay bribed?" He turned back to his guest and shook his head. "My son is young and hot-tempered. He tells me that if your men attack, you will be the first to die. In the name of our old friendship, I would regret that." "So would I," said Kemal, with admirable candor. His eyes shifted sideways, toward Ramses, who stared stonily back at him. "Hmmm. Perhaps we can come to an agreement." After some discussion, a barbaric little ceremony ensued. At Emerson's request, Ramses handed over his knife. Emerson drew the blade across his palm and handed the knife to Kemal, who did the same. They clasped each other's hand and maintained the grasp for several long seconds, while their mingled blood dripped down onto the sand. Then Kemal offered the knife to Ramses. It was clear that he was not simply returning the weapon, but proposing a similar ceremony. Eyebrows raised, Ramses looked at his father. Emerson, who was (confound the man) wiping his bleeding hand on his trousers, nodded and watched benignly while Ramses and the bandit also became blood brothers. The look of barely concealed distaste on my son's face would have been amusing if the situation had been less grave. "In the name of God the Great," said the marauder piously. He made another leisurely survey of the camp. I could almost hear him counting to himself. A dozen armed men--and Daoud, who had not taken his eyes off Kemal and who looked willing and able to murder him with his bare hands. "So," he said. "It only remains to seal our friendship with an exchange of gifts." After further discussion and the presentation of a heavy leather bag, Emerson escorted his dear old friend to his camel, and Nefret and I emerged from our hiding place. "Is it safe to come out now?" I inquired--somewhat belatedly, since we were already out. "He's riding off," said Ramses, who had been watching them. "But you might have waited until I told you it was all right." "Bah," said Nefret, brushing sand off her front. Emerson came back, looking somewhat pensive. "Well?" I demanded. "I didn't understand everything that was said, you were both talking so rapidly toward the end, but I saw you hand over what appeared to be most of our remaining money. How are you going to pay the drivers? Shouldn't we move on at once instead of waiting for nightfall? Why didn't you insist he tell you who hired him? How do you know you can trust him to stay bribed?" Emerson sat down, his back against the nearest camel, and took out his pipe. "I beg you will keep quiet for a while, Peabody, while I explain the subtler nuances of our encounter." "I saw nothing subtle about it. His meaning was clear; he had been told to intercept and rob us, if nothing worse; his reward would have been money, modern weapons, camels--and Nefret." "And you," said Emerson. "He said 'treasures.' Plural." "Oh, bah," I exclaimed. "Don't tease, Emerson, I really cannot endure your idea of humor just now. He couldn't get much of a price for a--er--mature lady like myself." "Now there you are mistaken, my dear. There is one individual who would pay any price, including his fortune, his life, and his sacred honor." In the intense warmth of those keen blue orbs my vexation melted. I could even forgive him the florid rhetoric. One gets into a certain verbal pattern after speaking a formal language like Arabic. And I knew he meant every florid word. "More than one," said Ramses matter-of-factly. "Kemal's primary purpose was robbery and abduction, though he would not have balked at killing a few people. We would have been taken prisoner and held for ransom. The drivers--those who survived-- would have been left here without transport or water. Some of them might have made it back to the river." "Might," Nefret repeated. "The man is completely without conscience!" "Not at all," said Emerson, smoking placidly. "His moral principles are different from ours, but he will not break them, always supposing one can pin him down in such a way that he cannot squirm out of a promise. I believe I have done that. Anyhow," he added, smiling at Ramses, "that flamboyant gesture of yours wasn'twasted. He has a very healthy regard for his own skin, and a very healthy respect for your marksmanship. It was quite a compliment for him to offer blood brotherhood." "It was a lucky shot," Ramses said flatly. "But next time, if there is a next time, I am reasonably certain I can put the bullet into his body." "That's horrible," Nefret exclaimed. "Not nearly as horrible as what might happen to you if you fell into his hands," Ramses retorted. "You aren't in jolly old England, Nefret, nor in Egypt, where your person is sacrosanct." "Now, now, don't quarrel," said Emerson. "There won't be a next time. He was honor-bound not to betray the name of the man who sent him, but he dropped a few hints. It was Mahmud Dinar, the governor of Darfur. We would have been handed over to him, and he wouldn't run the risk of taking English persons prisoner for the sake of a paltry ransom--or even for Nefret, though I expect he would regard her as a pleasant bit of lagniappe. He must be after Merasen's gold, or rather the location of the place from which it came." "He would have questioned us," Nefret murmured. "Torture?" "Oh, yes," said Emerson placidly. "And we would have told him." His eyes moved from Nefret's white face to Ramses, who sat with head bowed, staring at his clasped hands. "You owe Ramses an apology, Nefret; he was not being vindictive, he was being practical." After I had cleaned and bandaged the cuts on their palms, Emerson ordered us all to our tents. Though he had expressed confidence in the honor of his bandit friend, he took the precaution of arranging for sentries. He took the first watch himself. Nefret, who had spoken very little, went off without further comment, and as I watched her drooping little figure vanish into her tent, I decided I would have to have a word with her if she did not snap out of it. We could not afford girlish qualms or sulks. It was so unlike her! I supposed she was still upset about Merasen--unwilling to accept the evidence of his treachery and resentful of the rest of us for suspecting him. Especially, and unfairly, of Ramses. He had been quite right to scold her. Sleep did not come easily, but stern self-discipline prevailed. I did not even hear Emerson return. When I woke, later in the afternoon, he was snoring placidly beside me. I crawled over him and went out, to find most of the men in the same state of somnolence, and Ramses standing guard behind a convenient camel. "All quiet?" I inquired. "I assure you, Mother, that if it had not been, you would have been made aware." His eyes, squinted against the glare of light, continued to sweep the horizon. "Do you share your father's belief that we can trust in that scoundrel's word?" Ramses lowered the rifle and turned, leaning against the camel. "You didn't hear what he said just before he left?" "I heard, but I did not understand all of it." "It was a warning. The word has spread among the Bedouin that a group of Inglizi are heading west with a rich caravan. Some of them consider infidels fair game." "That is very comforting, I must say." "You would not accept a comforting lie." "No." I cleared my throat. "Er--I have a little favor to ask." "Of course, Mother." He spoke absently, without looking at me. "If we are attacked and overrun, and all hope is lost, will you be obliging enough to shoot me?" That got his full attention. He whirled round, the orbs that were usually half veiled by lowered lids and long lashes wide with consternation. "For the love of God, Mother!" "Don't tell me the possibility of some such contingency arising had not occurred to you. I saw how you looked at Nefret this morning. Nefret too, of course," I added. "Nefret too," Ramses muttered. He passed his hand over his mouth. "Do you mind which I do first?" "I know it is asking a great deal of you, my dear," I said, undeceived by his attempt at insouciance. "But I cannot depend on your father to do it. He is such a confounded optimist that he might wait too long. I feel sure I can count on you to assess the situation accurately. Premature action would be equally ill advised." "That is certainly one way of putting it." Ramses rubbed his bristly chin. He had neglected to shave that morning. I reminded myself to keep closer tabs on him and his father. Emerson would certainly grow his confounded beard again if I let him. "You realize, don't you," Ramses said, "that if I miscalculated with--with you and Nefret--and escaped death at the hands of the bandits, I would have to turn the gun on myself? Assuming Father didn't shoot me." His voice was uneven, and his mouth was twitching. "Ramses, are you laughing?" "No! Well . . ." He got his mouth under control. "It was such an appalling suggestion that I couldn't ... I couldn't take it seriously." "Laughter can be a defense mechanism," I explained. "I was quite serious, of course, but perhaps I was asking too much. Never mind, I will just do it myself." "I'll try, Mother." If I had not known better, I would have said there was a trace of moisture in his black eyes. "I can't promise more. But it won't come to that." "I don't suppose for a moment that it will. It is only that I believe in planning for all contingencies." "Yes, I know." His hand rested on my shoulder in a grip as hard as it was brief. "There's Father." "Say nothing of this to him." Emerson came striding toward us. The sun was sinking westward. After a comprehensive survey of the terrain he nodded with satisfaction. "You can relax now, Ramses. Come along, Peabody, don't stand here chatting, we must be on our way as soon as the moon rises." Our rather nasty meal of tinned tomatoes and rice was enlivened by a discussion with Masud. He was so terrified of Emerson that his voice kept breaking into falsetto, but he persisted in his complaints, which were, I was bound to admit, legitimate. He and his men had seen Emerson hand over a bag of money--their money. How were they to be paid? They deserved more than they had been promised. They had agreed to drive camels, not fight raiders. "Well, you didn't have to fight, did you?" Emerson demanded. "The power of the Father of Curses saved you, as it will continue to do. You knew and accepted the dangers of desert travel. You will get your money--more than you were promised, if you are faithful. And if you should fall, I will be a husband to your widows and a father to your children." "I'm not sure that was the right thing to say, Emerson," I murmured. Daoud cleared his throat, like a small rumble of thunder. "The word of the Father of Curses has never been broken." "Aywa," the wretched man mumbled. "Yes." "And," said Daoud, "the curse of the Father of Curses will follow a man to his death." "That's a good one," Ramses said appreciatively. "New, is it?" Daoud beamed and Masud backed off, wringing his hands and nodding energetically. Whether it was the promise or the implicit threat, he had been cowed, and although the rest of the men did not look happy, I did not believe they would rebel, as our former crew had done. Emerson agreed. "These fellows are loyal; they are only a bit timid. Ah well, tomorrow will tell the tale. By morning we will be halfway between the river and the first oasis. If we can get them past that point, they will have to come on with us or risk getting lost and running out of water. Let us hope there are no more untoward incidents tonight." "Untoward incidents, indeed," I said sarcastically. "Another attack, you mean." "The Tebu do not attack at night," said Emerson, with a certainty I wished I shared. As it turned out, they did not. Morning dawned clear and bright and the first rays of the sun illumined the landmark we sought: a tumble of black stone, marked by a pair of columnar shapes. As Emerson had discovered on our first trip, it was the ruin of a small building, most probably a shrine, dating from Meroitic times. The desert had been less arid when the noble families of that vanished civilization traveled westward. There may have been waterhere two thousand years ago, though there was certainly no evidence of it now, nor of any life. The fact that the night had passed without "untoward incident" had restored the confidence of our drivers. I had thought they might entertain superstitious fears of the ancient ruin--which, as all men knew, were haunted by ghosts and afrits--but as I overheard one of them remark, "The Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim know how to drive off demons, and if evil men come, we can hide behind the stones." It was a very sensible way of looking at the matter. So there was relieved laughter and even a snatch of song as the men set up the tents and tended to the camels. As I had expected he would, Emerson immediately discarded his coat and began crawling round the tumbled stones, emitting little yelps of excitement like a dog nosing out rabbit burrows. Ramses paced restlessly back and forth, while Selim and I boiled water for tea. I did hope Ramses was not still brooding about my request. It did not seem likely. My son was not one to let his imagination run away with him. "Father," he said suddenly. "Have a look, will you?" "What is it?" I exclaimed, rising to my feet. "Oh dear, not the Tebu again!" "No, it's all right," Ramses said. "But something's coming this way. I can't make it out, the sun is in my eyes. Father?" Emerson's eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger. "An animal of some sort." "Yes, sir," Ramses said patiently. "Well, curse it, your eyes are better than mine. If you can't tell what sort of animal, how do you expect me to? It's not moving very fast. A gazelle?" "Out here?" In my opinion this was no time for idle speculation, however much they appeared to enjoy it. "Use the binoculars," I said, somewhat sharply. "What? Oh," said Emerson. "Where are they?" "Where you left them, I suppose. Never mind, I will get them." I went back to the tent and located Emerson's binoculars, underhis coat and hat, which he had thrown on the ground. When I returned to the group, the men, including Selim, were still arguing. They had agreed that the animal must be a camel, but could not identify the nature of its rider. "It is a strange shape," Selim said somewhat nervously. "Not like a man. Does it have--does it have two heads?" Honestly, I thought. Men. Raising the binoculars to my eyes, I adjusted the focus. The animal was a camel. There were two heads, which was not surprising, since there were two people. I recognized one of them immediately--Mr. Newbold, the Great White Hunter, who did not look very great at that moment. In one arm he held the other individual, who lay limp in his grasp. The features were hidden, but I felt sure I knew who it was.

SIX

Ramses couldn't get the image out of his mind: Nefret, sprawled on the sand at his feet, her shirt crimsoned by her heart's blood . . . not dead but dying, slowly and in agony, because his hand hadn't been steady enough to do the job right. The surer alternative was a bullet through the head, but he doubted he could bring himself to do it. He had seen men die that way. It was not a pretty sight. Shooting his mother wouldn't be much fun either. If worse came to worst, a quick death was preferable to slavery, especially for a woman . . . Wasn't it? Or was that one of those hoary old sayings that people recited but never really thought about? Like "England expects every man to do his duty" and "Better death than dishonor." Did women really believe that, or was it something men wanted them to believe? At least he was no longer in doubt as to how his mother felt. Hearing that brisk, matter-of-fact voice propose the unthinkable had shaken him. But he oughtn't have been surprised; that was his mother for you. She could look a fact in the face without flinching, no matter how unpalatable it was. Which was more than he could do. He closed his eyes, as if that could shut out the image of Nefret; and then it wasn't Nefret,but the girl Daria, her blood soaking into the sand and her wide, dead eyes staring emptily, and he knew he had killed her . . . And he started out of a half-doze to see dawn pale in the eastern sky, and close ahead the twin black columns that had been their first landmark. Knowing his father would want him to spend most of the day investigating the miserable ruin, he walked back and forth, stretching his legs and trying not to look at Nefret. Emerson had apparently decided his old acquaintance had "stayed bribed," but Ramses wasn't so confident. His eyes kept straying toward the east, hoping not to see an ominous cloud of sand. What he did see eventually was not so much ominous as strange. The beast could only be a camel, but what was a single camel doing here? His mother's surprised identification ofthe camel's rider brought them all to attention. "He appears to be in distress," she added, raising her voice to be heard over Emerson's curses. "And he is holding someone before him on the saddle. Someone who is unconscious or ... Oh dear." She started impetuously forward. So did Nefret. Emerson threw out his arms and barred their path. "Stay back, both of you. What the devil did I do with my . . . Give me that, Selim, and keep the women back!" He snatched Selim's rifle and stalked off to meet the approaching riders. Ramses followed more slowly. Unlike his father, who had divested himself of binoculars, weapon, and extraneous clothing, he was armed, but he didn't draw the pistol. Newbold was not fool enough to start trouble with an enraged Emerson. He had both arms round the girl. She was a limp white bundle, wrapped in dusty garments, except for her head, which had fallen back against his shoulder. "What the devil are you doing here?" Emerson demanded. "Following you, what do you suppose?" Newbold's haggard face twitched as if he were trying to smile. "Ran into trouble, though. Barely got away. No water. Please . . ." Emerson nodded at his son, and Ramses caught the girl as she slipped through Newbold's failing hold. She was as light as a bird. Her eyes opened, and a dreadful ripple of deja vu ran through him. It was the face he had seen in his dream, pale and empty-eyed. Then her eyelids fell and she turned her face against his breast. "Take her to your mother, Ramses," Emerson ordered. He held the heavy rifle in one hand, as easily as he would have held a pistol. "Come ahead, Newbold. You can stick on for another twenty feet, I presume." Nefret broke away from Selim and came running to meet Ramses. "Is she hurt? Poor little thing, that brute had no business forcing her to come with him on a trek like this. Put her in my tent, Ramses." Ramses left her crooning reassurances as she divested Daria of her muffling garments. The girl hadn't spoken, but she was awake and aware; the wide dark eyes followed him as he went out of the tent. His mother was ministering to Newbold--in her own fashion. She prodded the bruise on his face with sufficient force to wring a grunt of protest from him and then snatched the cup of water from his hand. "Your injury is superficial. Not too much water; you ought to know better." "This isn't my kind of country," Newbold said. "Thank you, Mrs. Emerson. Now may I lie down and get some sleep? I've been on that camel for almost twenty-four hours." Ramses had to admire the man's nerve; he was behaving as if he were an invited guest. His nonchalance had no effect on Selim and Daoud, who stood over him like prison guards. Emerson's scowl grew even darker. "So was the--er--young lady, I presume. How is she, Ramses?" "Just tired and thirsty, I think. Nefret is looking after her." "Very well, Newbold, start talking," Emerson said. "You can rest after you've told us what you are doing here. It will probably be a pack of lies, but I believe I can winnow the truth out of it." "There's no point in trying to lie about why I'm here," Newbold said coolly. "I've been on your trail ever since Cairo, where I heard a number of things that made me believe you were after something more lucrative than a wrecked archaeological site. Your sudden departure from the train at Abu Hamed caught me unawares--but it also confirmed my suspicions. You wouldn't have lied about your destination if your purpose had been what you claimed." His voice had grown hoarse. "Mrs. Emerson, may I trouble you for another sip of water?" Face grim, she provided it. "Go on, Mr. Newbold." "We left the train at Berber and hired camels and drivers. You had left Nuri by the time we arrived there, but the obliging villagers told me which way you'd gone, and it wasn't difficult to follow your trail, since you were only a few hours ahead. Then we ran into the trouble I mentioned--a band of raiders. They killed my men--shot some of them in cold blood after they had surrendered. Their camp is a day's ride to the southwest--there's a well, which they keep cleared." Again his voice failed. He took another sip of water. "They intended to hold me and Daria for ransom, or so they said. I thought it wiser not to take that for granted. Early yesterday morning, several hours before dawn, most of the men rode away, and I saw my chance. Stole back one of my camels and Daria, and made my escape." "Daring escape, don't you mean?" Emerson inquired. "Why didn't you head back to the river instead of trying to locate us--a needle in a haystack, so to speak?" Newbold looked back at him without expression. "Followed the raiders' trail, I suppose," said Emerson. "Lucky you were able to elude them when they were on their way back, eh? Oh, the devil with it. Find him a blanket and a bit of shade, Daoud, and stand guard over him until I relieve you." Already the sun was high enough to make the ground shimmer. Ramses heard his mother humming to herself. The melody was one of her favorite Gilbert and Sullivan songs: "Here's a state of things--here's a pretty mess." "You've got that right, Mother," he said. "What shall we do with the bastard?" "Tie him up and leave him here," Selim said promptly. "We can make the knots so he can free himself after we have gone, and we will leave one of the camels and enough water for him to reach the Nile." "The girl too?" Ramses inquired. His mother gave him a look of mild surprise, and he realized she had been about to ask the same question. She hadn't expected him to make it first. Neither had he. To cover his confusion he took out a cigarette. It was an indulgence he seldom permitted himself, since his supply was limited, and smoking dried the throat. "I fear that idea is not feasible, Selim," Emerson said, filling his pipe. "In addition to the objection Ramses has raised, supposing he wasn't able to free himself? He would die horribly and slowly of dehydration. Much as I despise the fellow, I don't want his death on my hands. And if he were able to free himself soon enough, he would be right back on our trail." He shook his head regretfully. "I can only think of two alternatives. Either we take them along or we send them back with enough of our men to make sure they do go back. Well, Peabody, what is your opinion? I feel certain you have one." "I am not certain I do, Emerson." Her husband gave an exaggerated start of surprise, and she went on, with less than her usual assurance. "Neither alternative is ideal. Showing him the way to the Holy Mountain is precisely what we wanted to prevent and what he hoped to achieve. On the other hand, providing an adequate escort would mean divesting ourselves of at least half a dozen men and camels. That would leave us dangerously short-handed." "There is a third alternative," said Emerson, puffing thoughtfully. "Not alternative, Emerson. There can only be two. The derivation of the word--" "Never mind the confounded grammar lesson, Peabody. We could take them as far as the first oasis and leave them there, along with the slowest and most timid of our drivers." After a moment Ramses said, "I think you've hit on the only possible solution, Father. From the oasis we will be escorted by Tarek's men." And, he added to himself, we'll have fewer deaths on our conscience if something goes wrong. If only they could persuade his mother and Nefret to stay too. "Are we agreed, then?" Emerson asked. "Good. Get some rest, Peabody." "You too, Emerson." "Shortly, shortly. Ramses and I want to do a bit of excavating, isn't that right, my boy? You too, Selim." "Yes, sir," said Ramses. "Yes, Father of Curses," said Selim resignedly.

From that point on, Emerson changed the routine of our march. The bitter cold of the night and the steaming heat of midday were equally unbearable, so he broke the trek into two parts, the first from around midnight until nine or ten A.M., the second from late afternoon until men and camels both gave out, which usually happened around eight. As we went on, day after steaming day and night after starry night, there were fewer bones and other evidences of life along the trail. The men were tired. More and more frequently they dropped out of line to snatch half an hour's sleep before running to catch us up. We were delayed for several hours when one of them failed to return; he had "walked to his fate," as the desert men put it, losing his head and his sense of direction after unremitting hours of sand and heat. Emerson finally located him, wandering aimlessly at right angles to the trail, and brought him back. Emerson kept riding back, looking for signs of pursuit. He returned from one such foray with a furrowed brow, and I inquired apprehensively, "Did you see anything suspicious?" Emerson shook his head, and Ramses, who was walking with me, said, "That's good." "I'm not so sure," Emerson replied. "We've had encounters with the slavers and Newbold. We have yet to hear from the military and the Egyptological community." "Surely not now," I protested. "We are too far from the river." "I'm not so sure," Emerson repeated. "And what about Merasen and his confederates, whoever they may be?" "They have the map," Ramses said. "They wouldn't have to keep close on our trail." Newbold plodded along in sullen silence. Nefret had kept Daria with her, and Emerson had refused Newbold's demand that she be returned to him with such eloquence that the request was not repeated. The girl now shrank from Newbold, hurrying to whichever one of them was closest to her when he approached. I wondered what the fellow had done to her. She had claimed she wasn't afraid of him. Forth's second landmark, the dead tree, had fallen at last. Its bleached white branches looked like the skeleton of a mythical monster. As we sat round the campfire that night, Emerson said, "Only three more days to the oasis. I wonder what we will find there." "Water, I trust," I said. "The stopper came out of one of the fatasses today and several gallons were lost before anyone noticed." "There is plenty of water," Emerson replied. "I was wondering whether Tarek has sent an escort to meet us." "He surely will," Nefret said eagerly. "He must be as anxious to see us as we are to see him." Ramses, who had been tracing abstract designs in the sand with a stick, looked up. "He may have given us up by now. It took Merasen--" He stopped, with a snap of teeth, at a warning gesture from Emerson. Newbold was not a part of the group--he never was, since we had made it plain his company was not wanted--but he was sitting a little distance away, listening. We had told him nothing about our final destination or the circumstances that had prompted our journey, only that we proposed to leave him in safety and relative comfort within a few days. He had not given up trying to learn more, however. After his attempts to ingratiate himself with Selim and Daoud had failed miserably, he took to chatting with the drivers. This too was a failure; they knew even less than he did, and his attempts at bonhomie were not convincing, since he considered "natives" beneath him. The terrain began to change, becoming rougher and more broken. Walking was difficult, and the men complained of sore feet. Theirheel-less slippers were not suitable for country like this. Even the hardy Bedouin were showing signs of uneasiness. One morning, while the men were unloading the camels, Zerwali the Bedouin approached Emerson. After the formal greetings, he asked how much farther Emerson meant to go. "I hired you for thirty marhalas," Emerson reminded him. "We have only been seven days on the march." "But you did not tell us where we were going. This is new country to me. We do not come this way." "We have only encountered one group of raiders," Emerson pointed out. "And as you saw, they surrendered as soon as they recognized me." "It is not ordinary raiders that keep us from this path." He hesitated, reluctant to admit fear, and then went on, "Years ago, some of the young men among our people heard of a rich oasis to the west and set out to find it. They did not come back. Others went forth. None came back. And there are legends . . ." "Ah yes, the customary legends," said Emerson to me. "Told by those who never saw the fearsome sights they describe." He went on in Arabic, "What sort of legends, Zerwali?" "Of burning mountains and fiery rain, O Father of Curses. Of men--if they are men and not afrits--eight feet tall whose arrows never miss their mark and who can outrun the fastest stallion." "Hmmm," said Emerson, stroking his by-now horrible beard. "Well, Zerwali, you have my word--the word of the Father of Curses--that we will meet no such dangers as you have described. Don't tell me you are afraid--you, who jeered at the Nubians for cowardice?" Zerwali gave him an evil look but left without further comment. We had been amazingly lucky, in fact. We had not lost a man or a camel, and despite the slight accident to the fatasse our water supply was holding up, even if it did taste vile. Late on the following day we passed a grotesque jumble of dried skin and white bones. "Could that have been our last camel?" I asked Emerson, who was walking with me. "I have been keepingtrack of the time, and it seems to me that we have just about reached the point where it collapsed." "It's possible," Emerson said indifferently. "Not that . . . Here, Peabody, where the devil are you going?" He followed me, of course. I stood by the miserable heap, remembering that terrible day, when the demise of our last camel had left us stranded miles from water, with little hope of reaching it before dehydration and exhaustion overcame us. Yet my strongest memories were of courage and loyalty--Tarek, who had never deserted us and who was to save us in the end; Ramses, only ten years of age, plodding doggedly through the sand without a whimper of complaint; Emerson, the bravest of men . . . "Are you going to say a prayer over it?" inquired the bravest of men disagreeably. I forgave him his little joke. If it was a joke. "I only wondered if the things we had to leave behind were still here." "Hmmm," said Emerson, his interest revived by the prospect of digging. We found nothing, though we excavated all round the cadaver. "No great loss," said Emerson. "Changes of clothing and a few books--that was about all we abandoned, wasn't it?" "Do you suppose Tarek came back and retrieved them? He was a great reader." Emerson gave me a long look. "Peabody, don't tell me you loaded us down with a supply of trashy novels for Tarek." "Naturally I brought gifts," I replied composedly. "Mr. Rider Haggard has written several other novels in the interim, and I also thought Tarek might like The Prisoner of Zenda and The Scarlet Pimpernel." "I don't doubt he would," Emerson muttered. "He had a weakness for romantic twaddle! It is getting dark. We had better catch the rest of them up." He persuaded me to ride for a while, so I mounted his camel and he walked beside me, his long strides easily matching the pace of the beast. I had been about to ask him how much farther we hadto go, but he kept mumbling to himself--the word "twaddle" was oft repeated--so I decided to work it out for myself. We had been approximately one marhala from the first oasis when the last camel perished, but our pace from then on had been slowed by my feverish malady and Ramses's short legs, to say nothing of a deficiency of water. When we stopped that night, Emerson had predicted it would take us two more days to reach the oasis, and Kemit had replied--how well I remembered!--"Half a day for a running man." We had waked next morning to find him gone. Though of course we went on, we hadn't got very far before even Emerson's giant strength at last failed, and I was unconscious when the rescue party Kemit led back along the trail arrived in the nick of time to save us. So then . . . with a strange little thrill I realized we were within a few hours of our destination. I could not recall much about the place; on our initial journey I had been in a coma, which lasted until after we reached the Holy Mountain, and on the return trip-- which might more accurately be called a "flight"--we had stayed only long enough to rest for a few hours and acquire fresh camels. It had been a pleasant spot, with flourishing palm trees and rich grass. One could easily understand why the desert men fought over such places, their emerald grass more precious than emerald gems in the midst of the wilderness. Would we reach it by the end of this night's march? Now that we were so close, my impatience could hardly be contained. I yearned for greenery and shade, for cold, pure water instead of the foul-tasting liquid in the fatasses--and, of course, for word of our friend. When Emerson called a halt shortly after midnight I protested. "Surely we can reach the oasis by morning if we go on, Emerson. I yearn for greenery and shade, for cold, pure--" "Yes, yes," said Emerson. "Come now, Peabody, you ought to know better than suggest we ride blithely up to the place in the dark. Tarek keeps a garrison there, and its purpose is to intercept curious travelers--by one means or another." "Oh. You are in the right, Emerson," I admitted generously. "It is just that I yearn--" "So does Nefret," said Emerson, as the men began barrakking and unloading the camels. "I had to speak firmly to her. Try to talk some sense into the girl, will you? And get into your blankets, the cold is bitter. As soon as it is light Ramses and I will go on ahead and reconnoiter." By now the men had become adept at efficient unloading, so it was not long before the tents were set up and our personal baggage placed in them. Excitement filled me with energy, and I wanted a cup of tea before I retired, so I joined Selim by the fire he had started. He had already begun brewing--or stewing--the tea. The Arab method of making tea is to boil the leaves until the liquid is dark brown. "This is almost the last of the firewood, Sitt," he said. "It does not matter, Selim. Tomorrow we will be with friends, who will supply us with everything we need." At least I hoped so. We had been proceeding on the assumption that though Tarek's messenger might be untrustworthy, Tarek's need of us was genuine. For our friend's sake we dared not assume otherwise. Tarek knew we would come if we could, but he had no way of knowing when. "Ah," said Selim. "And we will be rid of him, is it not so?" He nodded at Newbold, who was edging up to the fire. He had let himself go rather badly. None of us was fit for polite society, since bathing was impossible, but we had made the best use of the small amounts of water we allowed ourselves for washing, and Ramses had shaved every day, without having to be reminded more than three times. I had also reminded Emerson, who chose to take my remarks as suggestions which he felt free to disregard. His beard was now luxuriant, but at least he kept it clean and trimmed, which Newbold did not. "Am I to be allowed a cup of tea?" the hunter asked. "Or am I still persona non grata?" "You have had the same comforts we have had, so don't whine," I replied, handing him a cup. I had planned to have a little chat with Nefret, but she had retired with Daria into their tent, and when I approached it I saw theflap was closed. I understood how she must be feeling; all these long weeks she had worried about the little boy, Tarek's heir, and whether or not she would be in time to help him and his father. In a few hours she would find out, and the suspense was terrible. It was obvious that she preferred to be alone, so I did not force my company upon her. The moon was on the wane and the air was icy cold. Shivering, I retreated to my tent. I knew I would not sleep a wink . . . I was rudely awakened by a loud shout. Removing Emerson's arm from my person, I snatched up my parasol, crawled over him to the flap of the tent, and emerged into the chilly predawn light. The camp was ringed round by motionless forms, black against the paling sky. They were taller than any human could possibly be, their heads were oddly deformed, and each carried a long lance. "Friends?" said Selim to me. He had waked early in order to start a fire, and his shout had aroused the sleepers. I could hardly blame him for crying out in alarm, though as the light strengthened I realized that the seemingly abnormal height of the newcomers was caused by the fact that they were mounted on camels and that their heads were covered by helmetlike caps crowned with feathers. The spears were very long, and the quivers slung over their shoulders bristled with arrows. Emerson was among the last to appear, rubbing his eyes and cursing, but the sight brought him awake in a hurry. "Friends, yes," he said. "They do not look friendly," said Selim dubiously. Emerson turned in a circle, examining the riders. None of them had moved. "They are unquestionably from the Holy Mountain," he said, stroking his beard. "The headgear is unfamiliar--Tarek must have changed his guards' uniforms--but the shields are the same, and the bows." "If they are friends," said Daoud, who had been thinking it over, "why do they not greet you?" "Hmmm, well, I'm not sure," Emerson admitted. "Hold your fire, you damned fools," he added. "Ramses, will you--" A loud explosion interrupted him. Zerwali and the other Bedouin had crowded round, their weapons in their hands. It was Zerwali who had fired. Before the echoes of the shot died, he screamed and fell, clutching at his throat. An arrow had gone straight through it. "They are the demons of whom we told you," one of the Bedouin cried. "Are you men or children?" Emerson demanded. "Put down your weapons. They are human beings, like yourselves, and Zerwali was a fool who deserved his fate. Is he dead, Nefret?" "Yes." A single look had been enough. Nefret straightened. "Let me talk to them." Emerson frowned at her. "Go inside the tent and dress yourself," he said. "Ramses, come with me." He seldom used such a brusque tone with her. When he did she knew better than to disobey, but her face was mutinous. "My dear, it is a man's world," I said with somewhat forced cheerfulness. The immobile forms were beginning to get on my nerves. "Leave it to Emerson and Ramses. Ramses's Meroitic is not as good as yours, but it should be adequate." With his customary (when he is fully awake) acuity, Emerson had identified the leader of the troop. The man had more feathers on his hat and a medallion or pectoral depending from a cord round his neck. It shone like gold, as did the heavy armlet on his right arm. Like all the others, he was young and strongly built, with a thin, keen face and piercing dark eyes. Emerson and Ramses walked slowly toward him. The men had gathered round me, like nervous chicks around a mother hen. Emerson's orders, or, more likely, Zerwali's fate, had had a distinctly sobering effect. "So I was right," Newbold said, his eyes glittering with greed. "Even a lowly soldier wears a fortune in gold." "You don't know how lowly he is," I retorted. "Do be quiet." Ramses and Emerson were only a few feet away when the captain suddenly called out, "It is he. It is the Father of Curses. The Great Ones have returned!" All the camels knelt, with remarkable precision for a group ofcamels, and the riders raised their spears in salute. The captain dismounted and dropped to his knees before Emerson. I had not realized I was holding my breath until it left my lungs in an explosive sigh.

Emerson's Meroitic vocabulary was limited, but as Ramses pointed out to him, he wasn't required to do anything but look lordly. It had not been necessary for Ramses to translate the captain's announcement; his action had spoken louder than words, and most of the words had been familiar to Emerson. Emerson drew himself up and accepted the homage with a gracious wave of his hand, remarking in English, "Quite an impressive performance, eh? It was meant to honor us." "Zerwali didn't get that impression," Ramses said. "Poor devil." "Damn fool," Emerson corrected. He had little patience with stupidity or with insubordination. "He might have brought a rain of arrows down on us." "I think the leader is waiting for you to address him, Father." "You do the talking, my boy. Introduce yourself, ask his name, tell him how delighted we are to see him, and that sort of thing." Ramses couldn't help being somewhat flattered at the captain's reaction when he mentioned his name. The fellow had risen when Emerson indicated he might do so; he promptly knelt again. The "great lady of the house"--and her parasol--were acknowledged with equal respect, but when the captain--whose name was Har---saw Nefret, he bowed so low the feathers in his headdress dragged in the dust. "Since I am not allowed to speak," said Nefret in cutting tones, "ask him about the little boy." At first Har didn't seem to understand what Ramses meant. When Ramses elaborated--the child, the prince, who had been ill--he repeated, "The prince. Yes. He is well. Now will you come with us, you and your servants?" The men were obviously not keen on the idea. In daylight the true nature of their would-be escort was apparent, but the warlike aspect of the troop was hardly reassuring. However, there was really no alternative, as Ramses pointed out to one of the waverers. "Would you prefer to stay here? The camels are weary and so are your men, and the water is running low." It was a rhetorical question; they wouldn't have been allowed to stay behind, even if they had been foolish enough to choose that alternative. Masud went off, muttering, to join the burial party. Emerson allowed them time for prayer and a few glasses of tea before urging them to load up. "There is fresh water and fresh meat ahead, and shade where you may rest. They are preparing a feast for us!" Ramses couldn't remember hearing Har mention a feast, but it went over well. Even the camels appeared to sense that they were nearing water. They moved faster than they had for days. Emerson promptly urged his riding camel to the head of the procession, slightly in front of Har, and Ramses grinned to himself. No one had to teach his father new tricks. He walked alongside the camel on which Nefret and Daria were riding and tried to make conversation. "Not far now," he said encouragingly. Nefret only nodded, but Daria turned and looked down at him, her eyes wide. "Who are these people? They do not ride like tribesmen, but like soldiers the British have trained." "I can assure you the British had no hand in their training," Ramses said. "They live far away and have no contact with the outside world. You'll be all right, Daria, I promise." She withdrew rather quickly. Ramses saw that Newbold was close behind him. The hunter's gaze was fixed on the nearest soldier, one of the youngest of the troop, who sported a thin golden armlet. Ramses felt as if he could read Newbold's mind. There was the gold he sought, worn by a common soldier. He'll try something, Ramses thought. But what can he do? If he hadn't known the oasis was near, he would have taken thevision of palms and verdure for a mirage. The men saw it too; a low chorus of amazement and relief arose. "So the Father of Curses spoke truth," exclaimed Masud, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. "The Father of Curses does not lie," said Daoud. The place was larger in extent than Ramses remembered--acres of lush grass, with several small pools and trees of various species. They rode for a quarter of an hour into the green heart of the place before the escort halted in a clearing. In the shade of the date palms was a cluster of huts, constructed like the Nubian tukhuls of branches and mud brick. Ramses hurried to his father, who appeared to be having some difficulty understanding the officer's remarks. As soon as Har saw Ramses he made his camel kneel and dismounted, bowing and raising his hands. "These have been made ready for the Great Ones," he said, indicating the huts. "All that you need and wish will be brought to you." "I wonder if Selim and Daoud rank as Great Ones," said Ramses, watching the troop lead the rest of the caravan away. "And Daria." He addressed the officer in Meroitic. "Where are they taking our people?" "To a place where they can camp. It is not fitting that they should be close to the Great Ones. Now, will you go within? Rest well tonight, for tomorrow we will go on. Servants will come to you." "Tell him we want Selim and Daoud with us," Emerson ordered. "What about Newbold?" "Him too," said Emerson ungrammatically but forcibly. "I want to keep my eye on the bastard. There are enough huts to go round." "You aren't going to let him take Daria--" "No," said Emerson, in a voice like a large boulder slamming onto stone. He helped his wife dismount and led her to the largest of the huts. She gave it a quick inspection. "Excellent," she said happily. "One of them must have ridden on ahead to warn of our arrival. There are even basins of water for bathing!" Emerson proceeded to allocate houses, directing Newbold to one on the edge of the group. Nefret and Daria shared another, next to the elder Emersons, and Daoud and Selim a third. Half a dozen servants turned up while Ramses was selecting his abode. They wore kilts and a few strings of beads, and they were carrying a miscellaneous lot of luggage. Bent over from the waist in a token of deep respect, one of them murmured something which Ramses translated. "He says if we give them our clothes, they will wash them." "Splendid," said Emerson. "That should make you happy, Peabody. Come in and freshen up a bit, eh?" He lifted the curtain over the door invitingly. "Everything appears to be quite satisfactory," his wife conceded. Except for one little detail, Ramses thought, watching his parents vanish into comparative privacy. All the servants were men. He hadn't set eyes on a single woman. This was a military encampment, after all; no doubt the garrison was changed at regular intervals, and the men were expected to get along without distracting female companionship while on this duty. How could they leave Daria here, alone with Newbold and several dozen soldiers?

After a refreshing if limited bath, I assumed the least grubby of my garments and settled onto a stool with my journal. I had fallen rather behind with it and there was certainly a great deal to write about. We had been served a light repast--dates, so sweet and fresh they might have been an entirely different fruit than the hardened objects we had eaten along the way, fresh-baked unleavened bread, and wine. The servants assured us better and more ample food was being prepared. Emerson went to the door and raised the curtain. "Would you care to take a little stroll, Peabody, or do you want to rest for a while?" "As you can see, I am not in need of rest, my dear. But I suppose my journal can wait a bit longer." When we emerged we found Ramses deep in conversation with Selim. There was no need to ask about Daoud; reverberant snores issued from the hut he shared with Selim. The girls must be resting too, for the piece of matting over the door of their house was lowered. We decided not to disturb them, but Ramses and Selim were pleased to join us. We walked more or less at random, through a grove of date palms and past a stream of clear water that flowed into a large stone basin, enjoying the shade and the cool air. In the distance I heard the bleating of goats and the quacking of ducks. "It is as large as Siwa and Kharga," Selim exclaimed. "How is it that this place is unknown?" "Not so large," replied Emerson. "But sizable enough to support herds and raise crops. They have quite an effective irrigation system," he added, as we passed several small plots of vegetables. "It is unknown because the people who control it take pains to make sure it remains unknown." The trees had thinned out and fingers of sand intruded onto the green grass. "We had better go back," I said. "Nefret will wonder what has become of us." We followed another route on the way back, along a well-trodden path that led from the fields to what seemed to be the servants' village. It was a bustle of activity--meat turning on spits and pots boiling. Our unexpected appearance threw the cooks into complete disarray. One of them dropped a roasting fowl into the ashes, and the others exhibited such consternation that we went on without stopping. Nefret was pacing up and down in the little clearing when we reached it. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "That bastard Newbold has gone wandering off too. I wanted to follow him, but I was afraid to leave Daria alone." "I doubt he can get into mischief here," said Emerson, though he frowned a little. "We only saw the domestic quarters," I explained with a smile. "I fear dinner may be late; we disturbed the cooks." However, it was not long before a procession arrived bearing food and drink, low tables, and mats on which to sit. Looking quiterefreshed after his nap, Daoud tucked into the food with good appetite, and Daria was persuaded to venture out of the hut. I suggested we ask the captain to join us, but was voted down. "One musn't be polite to inferiors," said Emerson with a grin. "Leave it to him to sue for an audience." "Newbold hasn't come back," said Ramses. "Where do you suppose he's gone?" "I don't give a curse where he's gone," said Emerson. "I have his weapons, and if he thinks he can corrupt Har's lot, he will get a rude surprise." Some of us--I must include myself--ate more than we ought to have done; the roast fowl and fresh bread were so tasty after our sparse diet. The sun had sunk below the tops of the trees before we finished, and the servants began clearing away the remains of the food. Emerson leaned back with a sigh of repletion and began filling his pipe. "Perhaps I ought to locate our men," he said lazily. "Make certain they are comfortable, and have a little chat with Masud on the subject of afrits." "It can wait," I said, stifling a yawn. "We won't be able to go on for a few more days. I won't mind resting awhile. This is such a pleasant place." Nefret opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. I knew what she had intended to say. She wanted to go on as quickly as possible. The captain's reassurance about the sick child had not entirely convinced her. Ramses glanced at her and then said, "Far be it from me to spoil your plans, Mother, but I'm not sure we will be allowed to linger. Har means to press on tomorrow." "But the camels," I exclaimed. "They will need to be watered and fed." "Our camels, yes," said Ramses. "Theirs are rested and ready. Do you suppose Har will allow any of our men to go on to the Holy Mountain? He's here to prevent that very thing." Emerson let out an exclamation. "By Gad, you may be right. It's high time we had a talk with Har. Here, you--" He caught one ofthe unfortunate servants by the arm. I feared for a moment that the fellow was going to faint, but he rallied long enough to listen to Emerson's order. Emerson had enough Meroitic to say, "Fetch Har to me." He was particularly familiar with the imperative form of verbs. When Har appeared he was not alone. Two of his men were with him; struggling in their grip, teeth bared, was Newbold. "We found him hiding behind one of the houses, listening to you speak," said Har, without so much as a preliminary bow. "If he is a friend, why was he not with you?" "He is no friend," Nefret exclaimed indignantly. Har glanced obliquely at her and averted his eyes. It occurred to me then that he had never looked directly at her. The women of the Holy Mountain were not required to seclude themselves, or go about veiled--except for certain priestesses, the handmaidens of the goddess Isis, who were swaddled from head to foot when they appeared in public. Har's attitude toward Nefret must be a token of respect. "Hold on a minute, Nefret," said Ramses. He proceeded to translate what Har had said. He didn't have to translate Nefret's response. Emerson gave her a stern look. "Contain yourself, Nefret. Ramses, tell them to release him. He is no friend, but he is our responsibility. If there is such a concept in Meroitic," he added. "Newbold, what the devil were you doing?" Newbold shook himself free. He had not bothered to freshen up, and he looked like a wild man with his unkempt beard and long dirty hair. "Sparing you my unwelcome company," he said with a sneer. "I wanted to see what this place is like, since you intend to leave us here at the mercy of these savages." Daria, who was, as usual, close to Nefret, murmured something to her, and Nefret burst out again. "Professor, you can't mean to--" "You can trust me, I believe," said Emerson, "to do what is right without advice from you. Let me remind you--all of you--that we have a certain dignity to maintain. Squabbling and disagreement do not help." Nefret's eyes fell. "I'm sorry, sir." "Hmph," said Emerson. "Newbold, sit down over there andkeep your mouth closed. Ramses, ask Har to share his thoughts with us." It was as Ramses had surmised. We were to move on at once, under military escort, for the king's heart ached to see us. "We" being our four selves only. "That won't do," said Emerson, who had lit his pipe--a procedure that made the imperturbable captain stare in wonder. "I suppose it makes a certain amount of sense to leave our fellows here; they will be comfortable, and we will be amply escorted. We intended to leave Newbold behind anyhow. But Selim and Daoud must come with us. And, of course, Daria." "See here," Newbold exclaimed. "You can't--" "I fail to see how you can prevent me," said Emerson with excessive politeness. "Good Gad, man, there are no women here. At least I haven't seen any. Do you claim you could keep Daria safe from these savages, as you have been pleased to call them? Even if she wanted to stay?" "May I speak, sir?" Nefret inquired with equally excessive sweetness. "Daria has already told me--" "Let her speak for herself," said Emerson. "Well, Daria?" "Please don't leave me here." Her expressive dark eyes moved from Emerson to Ramses, and, after a long moment, to me. "Please." "Certainly not," I said. "That settles that," said Emerson. "Ramses, you may inform Har of our decision. Don't ask him," he added. "Tell him." "Using the imperative form of the verb?" Ramses inquired. "As often as possible," said Emerson, returning his smile. The people of the Holy Mountain are a courteous lot. Har had listened to the discussion in silence, with no sign of impatience and without attempting to break into it--which would have been a waste of time, since he had not the least idea what we were talking about. He listened with equally attentive silence to Ramses's speech, and then nodded. "It shall be as the Father of Curses says. With his permission, we leave tomorrow at dawn." "That was easier than I expected," I remarked, after Ramses had translated. "We had better get some rest if we are to leave so early." "Not just yet," said Emerson. "Ramses, tell him I must talk with our men first. I want his word, the word of an officer and--er--a devout follower of the gods--that no harm will come to them while we are away." "I am fair game, I suppose," Newbold said with an ugly twist of his lips. "Him too," said Emerson regretfully. He got the oath he had demanded. I recognized the word "Aminreh" and knew the officer had sworn by the chief god of the Holy Mountain, the most binding of promises. By the time we had everything settled, darkness was complete and the moon had risen--a waning moon, which gave little light. Selim, indignantly refusing the assistance of the servants, started a nice little bonfire and began stewing tea--a commodity which was not included in the cuisine of the oasis. Emerson returned from his visit to our men, escorted by soldiers carrying torches. He had refused Ramses's offer to come with him, remarking that he was beginning to pick up some of the language and that he knew the words for "protect," "safe," and "swear," along with the essential pronouns. "I made him swear again," he announced, looking quite pleased with himself. "And say he would protect them and that they would be safe." Emerson does have a way of making himself understood, even in a language he speaks poorly. "How did the men take it?" Ramses asked. "Masud wasn't well pleased," Emerson admitted. He accepted a cup of tea from Selim and sipped it appreciatively. "I had to point out the obvious: that even though he and his men had rifles, it wouldn't do them a particle of good to overpower the garrison, even supposing they could. They don't know the way back. The others were less resistant. They had just gorged themselves on the first meat they have had for days, and some of them were washing their clothes. I assured them they would be paid for the days they spend here, and that seemed to satisfy them." "You seem pretty cheerful yourself," I said. (Self-satisfied wouldhave been closer to the mark.) "Emerson, are you sure we are doing the right thing?" "What do you mean?" Emerson asked in surprise. I lowered my voice and glanced over my shoulder, at the hut to which Daria had retired, pleading weariness. "Taking her with us." I was the recipient of three outraged stares--no, only two. Ramses's fixed gaze was less condemnatory than speculative. "You don't mean it, Aunt Amelia," Nefret cried. Emerson shouted her down. "For God's sake, Peabody, we cannot leave a defenseless young woman at the mercy of--" I shouted him down. "Don't bellow!" Emerson subsided, simmering, and Ramses anticipated Nefret's protest. "Mother meant nothing of the kind. We must take her with us, there is no question of doing otherwise. She was simply expressing doubts--doubts I share--as to Daria's real motives." A peremptory gesture from me reminded Nefret that Newbold was nearby. Her voice was not loud, but it was acid-sharp. "You've always been against her. I never thought I would find you so puritanical." Ramses made no attempt to defend himself against that unjust charge. "May I remind you," he said patiently, "of what she said the night she came to my room. She said she had her own reasons for staying with Newbold. She rejected my offer of help." "She has changed her mind," Nefret said. "Women are prone to that weakness, you know. Perhaps it was your charm that influenced her to change it." "That will be quite enough, Nefret," I said. "I cannot think of any way in which she could constitute a danger to us, but I am in full agreement with Ramses that we must be on our guard. Trust no one, not even the innocent. That was what Abdullah--what Abdullah always said." "I don't recall his ever saying that," remarked Emerson. "He said it to me." I spoke the literal truth. I never prevaricate unless it is absolutely necessary.

SEVEN

Newbold did not come out of his hut to bid us farewell. No one expressed disappointment. Escorted by a few of the servants carrying our hand luggage, we were led to the place at the edge of the oasis where the caravan awaited. The camels had been loaded, and as the stars paled and the rim of the sun peeped over the horizon, I saw that the men of our escort had exchanged their uniforms for long, hooded robes woven of camel hair. They were practical garments for desert travel, and in the dim light the tall shrouded forms were eerie enough to strike terror into the heart of the superstitious. Then I observed a strange, balloonlike structure on the back of one of the camels. It rather resembled the bassourab used by Bedouin women when they are on the march with their men. "Curse it," I exclaimed. "Are we expected to ride in that contraption?" Har indicated that we were. I gave in for the moment, since the captain was obviously impatient to be off, but I had no intention of occupying it for the entire time, and I knew Nefret would feel the same. It was comfortable enough, though extremely cramped for three; rugs and cushions formed a soft surface on which to sit, and the curtains could be adjusted to admit air. When Emerson announced his intention of checking the loads, to make sure nothing had been left behind, Daoud nudged Selim, and the latter said somewhat apologetically, "It is the time for prayer, Emerson." "Curse it," said Emerson. "Get on with it, then. Ramses, come with me." I apologized to Selim, who replied with a grin that there was no need. I calculated that approximately half of the original escort was now with us, the rest presumably having been left to guard the oasis. Emerson confirmed this when he returned, and went on to say, "Everything seems to be in order. Here, Peabody, let me hoist you up." I will not test the Reader's patience by describing the last part of our journey in detail. In fact, there was nothing much to see once we had left the palms and greenery of the oasis behind--sand and stony ground, rock outcroppings, and an occasional vulture swinging through the empty sky. One event broke the monotony: a sandstorm which went on from midmorning until shortly before sunset. There was no thought of stopping; a stationary object would soon be buried. The camels knew this. At times, when the force of the wind and sand was at its fiercest, they moved at a snail's pace, but they never stopped. As the interminable hours wore on, one came to think of the sand not as a natural force but as millions of tiny, malevolent beings, attacking the bent heads of men and camels, driving through the drawn curtains of the bassourab and penetrating even the cloth we had wrapped round our heads and faces. When the wind finally died, as suddenly as if someone had pressed a switch, our camel came to a halt. Naturally I immediately parted the curtains and put my head out. The first sight my anxious eyes beheld was the face of Emerson. He had assumed one of the hooded robes, which had protected him to some extent from the driving sand, but his face was red and raw. "All right, are you, Peabody?" he inquired hoarsely. "Yes, my dear. What about the others?" "Still with us and still on their feet. Brace yourself, I believe your camel is about to kneel. Can't blame the poor brute." Har came plodding back along the line of camels. He inquired solicitously after the well-being of Nefret and me and announced we would stop for a while. For once I was in full agreement with the camels, some of whom had already knelt. We gathered round the little campfire Selim had started. The sullen crimson of the sun was dulled by fine falling dust. "Are we still on the right path?" I asked. "I cannot imagine how he could see where we were going, and the storm has obliterated any landmarks." "There haven't been any signs of life for several days," said Ramses. "No bones, no tracks, not even a pile of camel dung. I wouldn't be surprised if these patrols are ordered to obliterate such signs. They probably have their own private landmarks." As soon as the dust had settled, Emerson checked the compass, but when he approached Har with the information that we were off course, he was politely but firmly brushed aside. "I know that, Father of Curses. We will return to the right path tomorrow." As usual, Har and his men left us to ourselves, settling down in their blankets a little distance away. This vexed Daoud, who was a sociable soul and wanted to make friends. "They are strange people," he announced. "They are people like us, Daoud," Ramses said. "They speak a different language and their customs are not like ours, but they are good men." "They do not pray," said Daoud, who had punctiliously observed the times of fatah when it was practicable. "They pray to their own gods," Nefret explained. "They are not gods, but false idols," declared Daoud. "No doubt that is true, Daoud," said Emerson. "But do not say so to these men." "That would be discourteous," said Daoud. "If Allah wishes to show them the right path, he will do so in his own way." "The world would be a better place if everyone thought as you do, Daoud," I said, patting his arm. "Now what about a language lesson?" At my insistence we had tried to do this every evening, and I had beguiled some of the long hours of riding by speaking Meroitic with Nefret. I should add that although I have used the word for convenience, strictly speaking, the language of the Holy City was neither Egyptian nor Meroitic, though it contained elements ofboth. It had once been Nefret's native tongue, but I confess I was surprised at how quickly she had regained her former fluency. Ramses's gift for languages stood him in good stead; I realized he must have begun studying Meroitic even before we left England, and he became even more proficient as the days passed. His father did not. However, as I have said, Emerson generally gets his point across in one way or another. Next day we passed through a region of heavy sand dunes. It was hard going for men and camels, and very boring. Squatting uncomfortably in the bassourab, I had fallen into a half-doze when an outcry from Emerson awoke me. I put my head out. "You must see this, Peabody," he exclaimed. "Let me help you down." We were nearing the top of one of the higher dunes. The sun was setting. At first I saw nothing except more cursed sand, but as we plodded onward and upward, a fantastic vision seemed to rise up out of the ground ahead: towers and battlements, black against the crimson sunset, like the ramparts of a medieval castle. "There it is," said Emerson. "The Holy Mountain." We stood staring in fascinated silence until we were joined by Ramses and Selim. The sight was magical, and a trifle ominous. Daoud, slightly behind the others, gave voice to my feelings. "Surely it is the castle of the King of the Afrits. We are going there?" "Yes," said Emerson. "Ah," said Daoud. And down he went, onto his knees to rub face and hands with sand in lieu of water. It was the proper time for prayer, but I suspected he would have done it anyhow. After a sidelong glance at Emerson, Selim joined him. We waited in silence, while the patient camels plodded past; and when our friends had finished their prayers Emerson said, "We had better catch them up now. Take my arm, Peabody, it's all downhill from here." Though the mountains had appeared so close, we were still a full day's journey away, and I began to suspect that Har was in no hurry to get there. He camped at the foot of the last large dune and allowed everyone a full night's sleep. His men were in a more cheerful mood now that home was in sight; there was laughter andeven some song round their fire that evening. Our own assemblage was not so merry, despite Daoud's efforts to cheer us up. With full confidence in Allah and, if I may say so, in us, he had decided afrits presented no threat and related several stories about how evil demons had been routed by devout and clever people. Nefret was quiet and thoughtful, and Daria stayed close to her. Ramses avoided both of them. He appeared to be brooding about something, but when I asked he denied that there was anything on his mind. We went on next day through the foothills of the massif that loomed ahead. Early in the afternoon, eyes weary of stony ground were cheered by the first sight of greenery--a few patches of grass and a single tree, of a species unknown to me. We were by then at the foot of the massif. It was an impressive sight, over five hundred meters in height, fringed with fallen boulders about its base. Only the most intrepid climber would have tackled those cliffs. There was only one way through them, and it took us another two hours to reach it: a long, slow ride round the southwest corner of the mountain mass. The entrance was barely wide enough to admit one camel at a time, and as my beast passed through, the framework of the bassourab scraped the rocky walls, which were of masonry, crudely but solidly built. That was the last I saw for some time, for dusky darkness closed in as we went on. The path twisted and turned. High above, the slit of twilit sky darkened and stars shone out. Torches flared along the length of the caravan; the camels quickened their pace. They sensed they were close to the journey's end, to food and water and rest. Then I heard a grating rumble, like the voice of a great beast. I knew what it was, but I did not blame Daria from seizing my hand and crying out. "What is this place? What is happening?" "Don't be afraid." Nefret's voice was remote, eerily distorted by echoes. "This entrance is secret and well guarded, but we are with friends." The sound had been that of the great rocks that barred the inner entrance being rolled aside. We rode through into a place I remembered well--a cleft open to the sky, which had been widened to serve as an animal corral and storage place. It was brightly lighted bytorches and crowded with people. Daria kept tight hold of my hand, and Nefret said impatiently, "There is nothing to be afraid of. Come, Aunt Amelia, let's get out of this horrible contrivance. Goodness, but I'm stiff." "Hang on a moment, my dear. I suspect the cursed camel is about to--" It did. Stiff as Nefret, I rolled out into the arms of Emerson, who gave me a quick squeeze before he lowered me to my feet. Ramses was there to lift Nefret down. He left Daria to Emerson. "Good to be back, eh, Peabody?" said Emerson, smiling broadly. "Hmmm," I said. "In my opinion, Emerson, that statement is a trifle premature. Many things may have changed since we were last here, and not all for the better." "One thing at least has not changed," Ramses said. He indicated several carrying chairs. The bearers stood beside them: short, heavily muscled men, dark of skin and bare of clothing except for a loincloth. Heads bowed, they waited passively for their orders like beasts of burden--which was what they were. Ramses went on, "The rekkit are still enslaved." We were now handed over to the civilian branch, in the form of a portly individual wearing the elegant pleated garment and rich ornaments of a high official. After he had exchanged a few words with Har, the latter gave us a generalized bow and went off. I had the distinct impression that he was relieved to get us off his hands; though perfectly courteous, he had avoided my attempts to strike up a conversation, and he had been no more forthcoming with Ramses. Nefret he had not addressed at all, except for brief, formal inquiries as to her well-being. The official approached us, bowing and smiling, and launched into what I took to be a speech of greeting. He spoke very rapidly, and my intellectual faculties were dulled by fatigue, so I asked Nefret to translate. "He said, 'Welcome to the Holy City, O Great Ones. The king and your loyal people await you.' " "How nice," I said, nodding graciously at the gentleman. "Tell him we--" "Ask him what he means by bringing those poor devils here," Emerson broke in, frowning at the litter bearers. "I will not be carried on the shoulders of slaves. And furthermore--" "Father, if I may?" Ramses did not wait for a response but went on quickly, "I suggest we postpone questions and complaints until we are with Tarek. I have a feeling the situation is more complicated than it appears." "Hmph. Well, I won't ride in one of those damned litters. It is a matter of principle," Emerson added loftily. The official, whose name is irrelevant to this narrative, had to accept this, since wrestling Emerson into one of the litters presented obvious difficulties, but I thought he would burst into tears when Nefret also declared her intention of walking. "Forget your confounded principles for the time being," said Ramses, who appeared to be in a state of mounting exasperation. "Let's just get to where we are going. Mother is tired, and Daria is about to drop in her tracks." I was a trifle surprised that Tarek had not come himself to greet us, but Ramses had the right of it. So we proceeded, we three women and the official in the carrying chairs, and the men walking behind and beside us. The winding passages through which we passed were rock-cut and narrow. The ramparts of the Holy Mountain were honeycombed with such passages, leading under and into and through the cliffs, excavated over the millennia by thousands of hands. Impossible to tell whether we had traversed this particular part of the maze before; the walls all looked the same. I expected we would emerge into the open air, with the city spread out before us, framed and hidden from the outside world by the heights all around. Instead, the rock-cut passage changed into a wider corridor, which debouched into a series of antechambers and at last into a large pillared room where the bearers stopped and lowered the litters to the floor. A single glance told me that this was not the same house in which we had dwelled on our first visit. Even after ten years I couldrecall every detail of that place; I had spent many weary hours in its confines. This room was airy and cool and prettily furnished with chests and tables and low bed frames piled high with embroidered cushions. Carved pillars supported the roof, and there were several curtained doorways along the walls. The litter bearers took up their burdens and went out through the doorway by which we had come. The official was about to follow them when Emerson interposed his person. "Take us to Tarek," he demanded in his primitive Meroitic. Visibly intimidated by the large form towering over him, the official began flapping his hands and talking very fast. "The king will send for us tomorrow," Ramses translated. "Tonight we are to rest and refresh ourselves after our long journey." "That makes sense, Emerson," I said. "We are travel-stained and weary, and Tarek has courteously allowed us time to rest before he greets us." Emerson abandoned his aggressive stance and came at once to me. "Are you tired, Peabody?" "Tired, hungry, thirsty, and filthy, Emerson." "Oh." Emerson rubbed his chin in mild perplexity. He hadn't shaved for days, and his beard was at its worst, thick and bristly. I meant to see to that later, but at the moment all I could think of was water--cool, clean water, quantities of it, running over my entire body. I had fond memories of the baths of the Holy Mountain-- one of my few fond memories, I should add. "Let us settle in and make ourselves comfortable," I urged. "Where are the servants, do you suppose?" "Perhaps they are waiting to be summoned," said Nefret. She clapped her hands. "I refuse to deal with those swaddled handmaidens of the goddess," Emerson grumbled. "If one of them turns up I will send her away." The women who sidled in were not swathed in veils, nor were they the little dark-skinned rekkit who had waited on us before. We had had attendants like these too: women of what one might loosely term the middle class, wives and daughters of minor officials. Theirornaments were of copper, not gold, and their garments were of coarser linen than those worn by the nobility. An equal number of male attendants followed them, eyeing us warily. Nefret issued orders in Meroitic, and I saw that Ramses was watching her with that hooded look of his. She spoke with fluent authority; her tone and manner had changed in a way I could not quite define. The servants scattered, and Nefret said to us, "I have told them to bring our luggage and prepare food. Do you want to bathe before we eat, Aunt Amelia?" "I believe we all should," I replied. "Go ahead, Father," said Ramses. "I believe the menservants are indicating that our quarters are through that door. I will join you shortly." "Going to have a look round, are you?" Emerson inquired. "Hmmm. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, my boy." "Don't do anything he might do," I corrected. "Are we to go this way, Nefret?" "There are several suites of rooms here," Nefret said with the same unnerving assurance. "Come with me, Daria." Our suite consisted of several small bedrooms and a bath chamber. Daria pleaded to enter the bath with Nefret; she had scarcely spoken a word since we arrived and shrank away from the servants. Nefret, who did not suffer from false modesty, readily agreed. I, who did suffer from it, took my turn after they had finished. Pure physical pleasure drowned all thought as I allowed the women to minister to me with the skill I remembered, washing and drying my hair, rubbing oil into my dry skin after weeks of perspiration and dust had been removed, wrapping me at last in towels of linen. When I joined Daria and Nefret, I found them examining the clothing that had been laid out for us: robes of sheer pleated linen held in place by colorful sashes. "Dear me," I said. "This won't do. We will have to wear clean undergarments beneath them." "I haven't any clean undergarments," Nefret said with a grin. "And I doubt you do, Aunt Amelia." The bags containing our clothing and other personal necessities had been brought to the bedchamber. I didn't have to open them toknow Nefret was unfortunately correct. "Well, you cannot appear before persons of the male gender in that transparent garment. The men are joining us for dinner, I presume? Yes. Hmmm. Let me think . . ." It took a while to convince the servants that I meant what I said, but they finally brought us robes like their own. We put the pleated linen on over these, and after I had inspected Nefret and Daria, I decided it would do. "You have been very silent, Daria," I remarked. "I am in wonderment" was her low-voiced response. "I had heard ... I had heard tales of such places, but believed they were only stories." I patted her shoulder. "You are adapting admirably to these new experiences. Continue to do so. Now let us see what there is for supper. I do look forward to a proper meal." As I had expected, the men were already in the sitting room, if I may so term it. Emerson's beard was as ebullient as ever, but Ramses was clean-shaven and Selim had trimmed his beard. A thrill passed through me at seeing my spouse once again attired in the costume that became his stalwart form so well: a knee-length kilt of white linen fastened at the waist by a jeweled belt. Ramses and Selim wore similar garments, but Daoud, modest man that he was, had wrapped himself in a large piece of linen--probably a bedsheet. Nefret clapped her hands again, and the servants began to carry in small tables and stools, two to each table, and dishes of food. Daoud sniffed appreciatively. "But I cannot sit on one of those," he protested, indicating the little stools. "Sit on the floor, then," I suggested. "The tables are low enough. Do sit down, all of you, you needn't be so formal." "There is nothing formal about this costume," Emerson grumbled. "They wouldn't give me a shirt." The fixed regard of Daria-- fixed, to be precise, on the magnificent musculature of his bare chest--seemed to disconcert him. He turned red and subsided onto one of the stools. "My dear, you look splendid," I said, carefully not looking at his bare legs, which were of a considerably paler shade than the rest of him. "So do you all." "Yes," Daria murmured. She had transferred her interested stare to Ramses. In the becoming but barbaric costume he bore an uncanny resemblance to the ancient Egyptians shown in statues and reliefs, broad of shoulder and slim of waist, his skin the same shade of reddish brown. The moisture of the bath chamber had caused his thick black hair to cluster into curls, and the result was strikingly like one of the short Nubian wigs worn by noblemen of the New Kingdom. At first we were too hungry to converse. Roast goose and fresh vegetables, bread still warm from the oven were a welcome change after days of short rations. Even the thin, rather sour wine was refreshing. Daoud refused to touch it until I explained that the local water was probably not safe to drink. "Does not the law admit exceptions in cases of necessity?" I asked. Daoud allowed that perhaps it did, and after a time we all became very cheerful. Selim, who had spent most of his life working in the tombs and temples of ancient Egypt, was intelligently fascinated by everything around us. He kept jumping up to peer closely at a row of hieroglyphs or a painted bird, and bombarded Emerson with questions, which the latter was of course delighted to answer. While the others were laughing over one of Daoud's stories (which would probably not have been quite so funny without the wine), Ramses got up and began prowling round the room. I joined him. "Is something troubling you?" I asked. "A good many things trouble me." He glanced at his father and lowered his voice. "There is something wrong here. Can't you feel it?" "You intended to do a little exploring, I believe. Did you find anything to make you uneasy?" He drew me behind one of the columns and leaned against it. "I didn't have time to explore the whole place. It's even larger than the other palace we stayed in, with a confusing maze of rock-cut chambers at the back. I suspect there is a back entrance, as was the case inthe other house, but it is well hidden, and when I started prodding at the walls, I was politely but decidedly urged to leave." He hesitated for a moment and then said, "The front entrance through which we came is now closed by a heavy door. It is locked or bolted on the other side." "That could be for our protection." "Against what? Oh, I agree it means nothing in itself, but . . ." I patted his arm. "Perhaps such uneasiness is solely the result of fatigue. "We have been welcomed as honored guests--they didn't even blindfold us when we passed through the tunnels." "Yes." His face softened. It was not quite a smile, but close to it. "I didn't mean to cause you uneasiness, Mother. You must be very tired. Why don't you go to bed?" "All that food and wine has made me uncommonly drowsy," I confessed. "We should all retire, I believe. I do not doubt that all our uncertainties will be resolved in the morning." Emerson gave me a reproachful look when I sent him off with the other men, but he was too shy about such things to announce his preference publicly, or to take me by the hand and lead me into my bedchamber with everyone looking on. As for me, I had no intention of going to bed with that beard. The two girls took one of the sleeping chambers and I another. The room was cool and dim, lit by a single lamp. The bed had springs of woven leather with pads of folded linen atop; after the surfaces on which I had reclined of late, it felt as soft as a feather bed. Weary as I was, I had no trouble in falling asleep, but my slumber was not sound. Fragments of dreams slipped in and out of my sleeping mind. Once I thought I saw Abdullah's face, but he did not linger or speak. Another image was that of Nefret, clad as I had first beheld her in the white robes of the High Priestess of Isis, with her loosened hair falling over her shoulders. There were birds too--the jewel-bright birds of the fabled city of Zerzura, fluttering and swooping and uttering high-pitched cries, more like human voices than birdsong. I woke quite refreshed, however, to find rays of sunlight piercing the shadows through the high clerestory windows. The firstcreak of the leather springs brought one of the serving women, who helped me into a loose robe and bowed me into the next room, where breakfast was being brought in. It was not long before Emerson joined me, similarly attired and rubbing his eyes. "What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee," he mumbled. "I dreamed I could smell it." "So did I," I said, and so strong was the power of imagination, I fancied I still could. "I have some tea and sugar left, though, and as soon as I have sorted out our baggage I will instruct the servants how to brew it. Where are the others?" "Coming." One of the servants offered him a bowl of fruit, and another presented a platter of little cakes, sticky with honey. "Urgh," said Emerson. "I swear to you, Peabody, I can still smell--" He broke off, his eyes widening, as with great empressement another servant poured a dark, fragrant liquid into our handleless earthenware cups. Emerson snatched his up and drank. "Good Gad," I exclaimed, after sampling mine. "It is coffee. Where do you suppose they got it?" "I don't give a curse where they got it," said Emerson, motioning the servant to refill his cup. Ramses came in, followed by Selim and Daoud. "Good morning, Mother. Good morning, Father. My olfactory sense must be out of order; I thought I smelled--" "You did," Emerson exclaimed, beaming. "A delicate attention on the part of Tarek, I expect. He must have gone to considerable trouble to obtain it for us." Ramses's expressive black brows tilted, but he accepted the cup the servant handed him without comment. "It is good," said Daoud, unsurprised. "But not strong enough. Or sweet enough." "They use honey as a sweetener here," I explained. "However, I have some sugar left. I will get it, and waken Nefret and Daria." "They must have been very tired to sleep through this racket," said Emerson, whose voice had been the loudest. He went on sipping his coffee with a look of utter bliss. Ramses put his cup down. "Mother. Did you look in on them this morning?" "Why, no. I thought it best not to disturb--" He moved so quickly I had to trot in order to catch him up. He parted the curtains with a single sweep of his arms. Nefret and Daria had vanished, along with the bags and bundles that contained their personal belongings. The tumbled coverings on the two beds were the only sign that anyone had been there. "One of them must have called out in the night," I exclaimed. "I took it for the cry of a bird." We had searched the entire house, including the dark rock-cut storage chambers at the back, looking for some indication of how the girls had been carried off. Their disappearance could not have been voluntary; Nefret would never play such a trick, leaving us to wonder and worry. There was no doubt in my mind that the wine had contained a sleeping potion of some sort. If there was a back door, we did not find it. The servants were nowhere to be seen. Emerson's fury and frustration rose to such a pitch that he kept flinging himself against the wooden door in the sitting room. He succeeded only in bruising his shoulder. He was finally distracted by Selim, who dragged out two of the menservants whom he had found trying to hide under the low bed in his room. Daoud took one of them by the shoulder and began shaking him, while Emerson shouted at them both in a mixture of English and Arabic. "There is no use going on with this, Father," said Ramses, who had managed to interpose a few questions in Meroitic. "They dare not admit knowledge even if they possess it. Selim, sheathe your knife. Daoud, stop shaking that poor fellow, you will snap his neck." "Yes, we must keep our wits about us," I cried. "Quite right, Mother." Outwardly he was the coolest of us all. Only a keen observer like myself would have noticed the unnatural calm of his voice. "May I suggest you leave off brandishing that jug before you hit yourself on the head? I don't believe the girls are in imminent danger, and until we learn what and who are behind theirabduction we cannot take the proper action. The only person who can help us is Tarek himself." With a wordless snarl Emerson rushed back to the door and began beating on it with his fists. The result was instantaneous and so unexpected that Emerson stumbled forward through the opening straight into the individual who had flung the portal wide. He and Emerson both fell to the floor. Beyond them I saw three other men attired like the first, in military uniform--brown linen kilts and wide belts to which were attached long daggers or short swords. They carried spears, and on the left arm of each was a long oval shield covered with animal hide. Ramses pounced on his father, and by main strength managed to drag him off his victim, whom he had by the throat. "Father, stop it," he gasped. "Mother, can you make him--" He let out a whoop and doubled up as Emerson's elbow drove into his ribs. My intervention was not necessary. His son's cry of pain had struck through the red mists of anger into the strong core of paternal affection. "Good Gad," Emerson exclaimed. "My dear boy, accept my profound apologies. I didn't realize it was you. Not hurt, I hope?" Ramses shook his head dumbly. Taking advantage of his temporary inability to speak, I remarked, "Pull yourself together, Emerson. I believe we are about to receive a delegation. At least we were, until you knocked one of them down. I am sure I do not know how they are going to respond to--" "It was his own fault," Emerson said sullenly. "Coming at me like that." Ramses had got his breath back. "If you remember, Father, this procedure is the one followed before, when we were visited by an emissary. Distinguished persons were always preceded by an armed escort. We were told the king would see us this morning; I expect this gentleman has come to take us to him." He slipped past his father and addressed several sentences to the person whose white-clad form I could see behind the guards-- several yards behind them. The man was an official or a priest, tojudge by his pleated garment and beaded collar. He replied in a high-pitched voice but kept his distance. "Gentleman be damned," said Emerson. "I want to know what they have done with Nefret." "Then, sir, may I respectfully suggest the sooner we are ready to go, the sooner we will be able to ask that question?" "Shall we take the guns?" I asked. "You aren't taking anything of the sort," Emerson snarled. "It would be advisable to leave them here, I think," Ramses said. "We don't want to give Tarek a false impression of bellicosity." "I am feeling quite bellicose at the moment," said Emerson. "But I suppose you are right. Tell the fellow we will be with him shortly. Peabody, why aren't you getting dressed?" The servants had taken our clothes away and returned them, laundered and neatly folded. After I had assumed proper attire I considered whether I should take my parasol. I did not consider for long. It was a weapon, but it didn't look like one. I then hastened back to the sitting room, where I found Ramses in conversation with our visitor. He was a man who had obviously lived well; his cheeks were pink and plump, and a roll of fat circled his neck above the broad collar of gold and gemstones; as he bowed and raised both hands in salute, the pleated sleeves of his robe fell back to display broad armlets of gleaming gold. "Mother, may I present Count Amenislo, overseer of the royal storehouses and Second Prophet of Aminreh." "How nice," I said, acknowledging his bow. The round pink face was vaguely familiar. "Haven't we met before?" "Yes, yes," said the count, bowing again. "I speak some of the English to you. In welcome." "He was one of Forth's students and Tarek's brother," Ramses said. "Only a youth when we last met." "Enough of these empty courtesies," exclaimed Emerson, to the obvious bewilderment of Count Amenislo. He understood the next sentence, however. "Take us to Tarek." "Yes, yes. We go. To the king." The four soldiers stood at attention, two on either side of the door. I was relieved to see that Emerson's victim appeared unhurt, if somewhat disheveled. With ironic courtesy, Emerson gestured to the count to precede him. "What about Selim and Daoud?" I asked. "Are they included in the invitation?" "No," Ramses said. "Apparently they are considered to be servants. We'll have to set Tarek straight on that, but not this time." The escort fell in behind us as we passed along a corridor whose walls were prettily painted with geometric patterns in bright colors of orange-red and blue, green and yellow. I expected it would lead eventually to a terrace looking out over the valley; instead, after several abrupt turns, we found ourselves in a similar passageway lighted by hanging lamps. Here were scenes of feasting and entertainment--slender girl dancers and acrobats, musicians, tables piled high with food--scenes familiar in their subject matter from many such in Egyptian palaces and Cushite tombs. Emerson, who would normally have lingered, examining each detail, gave them not a glance, but walked so close on Amenislo's heels that the count was forced to break into an undignified trot. As I began to suspect--a suspicion which was later confirmed-- we had been housed in apartments usually inhabited by princesses or queens, connected directly to the king's apartments so he could visit the ladies without the inconvenience of going out-of-doors. We met only a few people--servants, by their dress--who flattened themselves against the wall and averted their gaze as we passed. A square of sunlight ahead, where the corridor ended in a room open to the outer air, indicated that we had almost reached our goal. Amenislo stopped. "No need to announce us," said Emerson. "Here, Peabody, take my arm. Let us make a dignified entrance." Another group of soldiers, wearing uniforms like our four, fell back as we entered the throne room--not the imposing state throne room that we had seen before, but a smaller, brighter,less formal chamber. Painted papyriform columns supported the clerestory roof, and sunlight streamed in through the narrow openings above. At the far end, opposite the door through which we had come, was a raised dais, with several heavy curtains behind it. On the dais stood the throne, a chair with feet carved like lions' paws and arms supported by carved scarabs and sun disks. It was entirely covered with gold leaf. Arranged in a semicircle before the dais were three smaller chairs of plain wood. The man who occupied the throne wore over his heavy black wig a diadem with the twin uraeus serpents of Cushite kingship. To one side, and slightly behind the throne, stood a younger man. I recognized him at once, though he was now richly dressed in the garments and ornaments of a prince. The man was Merasen. The other man--the king--was not Tarek. Though I was momentarily struck dumb by this discovery, I realized I ought to have been prepared for it. Tarek would have been the first to greet us had he been able. He must have lost his throne, through death or usurpation, and Merasen had deliberately deceived us. Even if Tarek had passed on after Merasen's departure from the Holy City, there could be no innocent explanation for the theft of the map and the death of poor Ali. As the truth dawned on my companions, I feared for a moment I would have to restrain two infuriated male persons instead of only Emerson. Ramses had never concealed his dislike of Merasen, but the emotion that darkened his features was a good deal stronger than dislike. I caught hold of his arm in a grip he could not break without hurting me and said urgently, "Ramses, no! Contain yourself." "He's taken Nefret," Ramses said. "That is why he brought us here, he wanted--" "That may be so, but attacking a royal prince when the odds are heavily against you is not a sensible procedure." "Quite right," said Emerson, in a voice like stone grating onstone. "I am surprised at you, Ramses. Let us hear what they have to say. Will you do the talking, my boy, and translate for us? I don't want to miss a word." Ramses settled back on his heels, breathing hard. I was relieved to see that Emerson had risen to the occasion. He prefers not to control his temper, since shouting and shaking people relieve his mind, but when calm and cunning are required, he displays them. Usually. Merasen stepped forward. Not a shadow of guilt clouded his smooth young brow and his smile was as guileless as ever. "I will talk for the king my father in your language, so that you will all understand. He welcomes you and bids you sit yourselves. He is the Horus Mankhabale, Son of Re Zekare, Lord of the Two Lands--" "Yes, yes, never mind the rest of it," said Emerson with a dismissive gesture. The king nodded benignly. He was a fine-looking man, with a broad brow and the lean, hard body of a soldier. I would have put him in his late thirties. "What has happened to Tarek?" I demanded. "Did he die, then, of the strange sickness, and the child too?" Merasen laughed and Ramses, who was watching him like a cat with a bird, said, "The strange illness was a lie, wasn't it, Merasen? A lie designed to bring us here. Is Tarek dead--of another cause, such as assassination?" Merasen translated this speech and the ones that followed; and very odd it was to hear the older man's deep baritone followed by the boy's higher voice, like a piping echo. "He is not dead" was the royal reply, accompanied by a contemptuous sneer. "He ran away, like the coward he is, with those few who were loyal to him. One day when I have nothing better to do I will crush them like beetles." None of us had accepted the king's invitation to "sit ourselves." Emerson stood with arms folded, looking down on the king. It was a deliberate act of rudeness, for persons of lowerrank are required to kneel or sit so that their heads are not higher than those of their superiors. The king appeared more amused than offended. If I had not known him to be a usurper, and his son a cheat and a liar, I would have thought him quite a pleasant fellow. "Be damned to that," said Emerson. "I want to know what you have done with Nefret. It must have been you, or those acting by your orders, who took her and her friend away, coming like thieves in the night, violating the honor of your house and the hospitality owed to strangers." It was quite an eloquent speech, in my opinion, and Merasen must have translated it accurately, for the king's jaw tightened. Without waiting for a reply, Merasen said smugly, "The priestess is safe again in her house with her handmaidens. The shrine of the goddess is no longer empty." "And the other girl?" Ramses demanded. "The servant of the priestess is with her. The goddess has accepted her." I said, "Do I understand you correctly, Merasen? Nefret has been brought here to resume her former role of High Priestess of Isis?" "She has always been High Priestess, lady," Merasen said. "For she never chose a successor. When she was taken from us, the goddess abandoned her shrine and the prayers of the faithful were not answered. Now the goddess too will return." "My goodness," I said, finding myself at something of a loss for words, and distracted by seeing a slight movement of one of the curtains behind the dais. They must cover doorways or niches. There had been a similar arrangement in the great throne room-- and one of the curtained niches had been occupied by the highest of high priestesses, the God's Wife of Amon, whose power was even greater than that of the king. As we discovered later, to our horror and dismay, she was Nefret's mother, who had lost her mind and forgotten her true identity. My attempt to save her had been in vain; she had perished of pure rage and an excess of spleen. Was her successor lurking therein? I decided there was no harm in asking. "Is the Heneshem present?" I inquired, interrupting a loud speech from Emerson, who was demanding to see Nefret. He stopped shouting and stared at me. "Good Gad, Peabody, the woman is dead. She--" "Must have been succeeded in the position by another woman. Someone is there," I said. "Behind the curtain. I saw it move." Merasen stared too. "Why do you ask about the Heneshem? She is not there, she is in her own place. She has no power here. It is my father who--" "I insist upon seeing Nefret," Emerson shouted. "How do I know she is unharmed?" "You will see her soon. After she has resumed her duties. Who would harm her? She is the most honored of women, beloved of the goddess." Ramses put a heavy hand on his father's shoulder--in the nick of time, since Emerson's intense concern about his daughter had been exacerbated by the references to religion, of which he does not approve. He subsided (I could hear his teeth grinding, however), and Ramses said quickly and softly, "Mother is right, as always. Violence would only end in our being injured and confined. We must retire and discuss this." "But we have not yet ascertained all the facts," I protested. "I have a good many more questions to ask His Majesty." "I feel certain you do, Peabody," said Emerson, forcing himself to calmness. "But if I have to listen to any more rubbish about goddesses from that treacherous little puppy, I may do something rash." Merasen's lower lip protruded like that of a sulky child. We had used a number of words he did not know and his amour propre was damaged. The king had shown signs of increasing impatience as the conversation went on and Merasen did not translate. Now he rose to his feet. "Come," he said in Meroitic, with an expansive gesture that would have made his meaning clear even if it had not been one of the words we all knew. We followed as he strode toward an open archway. Beyond was an anteroom, pillared and handsomely decorated, and beyond that a series of arches that opened onto a terrace with statues of divinities. The sun was well up, and the long valley of the Holy Mountain stretched out to right and left below the high balcony on which we stood--fields and small villages on the floor of the valley, fine mansions and temples on the slopes. A broad staircase lined with sphinxes led down to the roadway that followed the curve of the cliffs, leading from the quarter of the nobles past the palace to the Great Temple of Amon Re, or, as he was called here, Aminreh. Gold-tipped obelisks glittered in the sunlight, and the painted reliefs on the pyloned gateway shone with brilliant color. On the left, the mighty figure of a king or god grasped a kneeling enemy by the hair while the other arm raised a long spear. Behind the king stood a smaller, female figure who also brandished a weapon. I was familiar with such scenes, which were common in Egyptian temples, but here the colors were fresh and bright: the black hair of the king, the brownish red of his body, and the woman's paler yellow skin. Her hair was also black. I squinted, trying to make out details, for there was something unusual about the figures, especially that of the woman. She was slimmer than a conventional Cushite queen, those ladies being notorious for their extreme corpulence; and what weapon was it she held? "That pylon is new," Emerson muttered. "At least the reliefs are. I wonder who the female figure represents. A goddess? Not Isis, she hasn't the right sort of headdress, or Maat, or--" Ramses let out a strangled sound. "It's Mother," he gasped. "You and Mother. Don't you see the parasol?"

Dear Lia, Chances are you will never see this letter. But I don't like journals, they seem so impersonal, and I don't know what has happened to the others, and I must keep track of what is going on, and I'm all alone--except for Daria. Have I told youabouther? No, of course I haven't. I keep forgetting things. She's a strange girl, very young, very pretty--the companion of a horrible man named Newbold, a hunter and treasure seeker. She pleaded for my protection, so we brought her on with us to the Holy Mountain. The trip itself went well enough, as such things go, and we were welcomed as honored guests. I went to bed that night tired but comfortable and happy at the prospect of seeing Tarek next day. I awoke next morning . . . How can I explain it? I went to bed as Nefret Forth. I awoke next morning as High Priestess of Isis. The rooms were the ones I had occupied ten years ago; every ornament, every piece of furniture was the same, including the low bed with its linen sheets and draperies, where I lay. The women who surrounded the bed were robed in white, their face veils thrown back--the handmaidens of the goddess. Lia, it was the most awful feeling! For a horrible moment I thought I had never left the Holy Mountain--that the intervening years had been only a dream. You, the Professor, Aunt Amelia, Ramses, all the others--only a dream. I started crying. I'm so ashamed. But you can't imagine the dreadful sense of loss, the loss of everyone I loved. One of the maidens bent over me, opened my loose robe, and placed her hand over my heart. The handmaidens are physicians here, and they know about "the voice of the heart." She smiled and nodded, and another girl approached with a cup containing a liquid of some kind. Like the switch of a torch bringing light, I was suddenly in control of myself again. Can you guess what did it? It was the sight of my own body, Lia--a woman's body, not that of a thirteen-year-old whose breasts have just begun to grow. I sat up and pushed the cup away. "No. How did I come here? Where are my friends?" The handmaidens clustered round. I didn't recognize any of their faces. Another sign, if I had needed one, that time had passed. All the ones I had known--Mentarit,Amenit--had grown to maturity and left the service of the goddess. The girl who held the cup--she had a round-cheeked face with full, pouting lips--thrust it at me again. I pushed it so hard, some of the liquid spilled onto her pristine robes. I enjoyed doing it. First things first, as Aunt Amelia would say. I was terribly thirsty, but I was afraid there might be some drug in the liquid-- wine, from its appearance. "You drink first," I ordered, pointing at the cupbearer. She scowled as she obeyed, but my imperious manner impressed the others. One of them, a sweet-faced girl of about thirteen, ventured, "Does the priestess wish her servant to be brought to her?" They meant Daria. My heart lifted at the sight of her--someone from my own world, another verification of reality. She was clad in the night robe she had worn when she went to bed and her hair hung down over her shoulders. I jumped up, pushed through my hovering attendants, and went to her. "Are you all right?" She was a little pale, but quite composed. "They have treated me well." "Do you remember what happened?" "Men took us away, in the night. You were sleeping soundly. I woke and tried to call out, but one of them covered my mouth and carried me away. What will they do with us?" I was beginning to get a pretty good idea of what they meant to do with me. After we had been served food and drink, I submitted without protest to the all-too-familiar rituals--being bathed in several waters, anointed with oil of lotus, dressed in sheer linen and the ornaments of the High Priestess--the broad, beaded collar, the brightly embroidered sash, armlets and anklets, and the curious little cap of golden feathers. The process took the entire morning. The only answer I got to my incessant questions about the others was a repeated promise: "The High Priest will come soon." "He damned well better," I said to Daria. One of the handmaidens--the scowly one--had tried to send her away, remarking that I didn't need lowborn servants, but I insisted on keeping her with me, and in that matter at least my word was law. "They treat you with great reverence," she said, watching one of the girls clasp a bracelet round my wrist. "I seem to have been conscripted for my old position," I said, trying to smile. "I am desperately worried about the others, though. If it was only me they wanted . . ." "But you have power. They obey you. You can speak for your family." "I hope so." The heavy ornaments settled into place. I remembered only too well the helpless feeling the sheer weight of them brought: the collar pressing down onto my shoulders, the bracelets weighing my arms. The last step was familiar too: long translucent veils of white draped around me and over my head and face. Stiff-limbed as a doll, I was led into an adjoining room and guided to a thronelike chair. No one tried to stop Daria when she followed and took up a position behind the chair. I felt a thrill of gratitude for her presence and her astonishing composure. I certainly wouldn't have blamed her for losing her head. I could see through the face veil, though not distinctly. The man who entered the room was only a blur at first; when he came nearer, I made out the form of a man bowed with age, leaning on a staff. I hauled myself to my feet, to the consternation of the handmaidens, lined up in two rows before my chair. "Murtek! Can it be you?" I had spoken English. The answer was in Meroitic. "The High Priest Murtek, the worthy, went to the gods long ago, lady. I am Amase, High Priest of Isis, First Prophet of Osiris." I ought to have anticipated that. Murtek had been an old man when I knew him. I felt lonelier than ever. "Then I order you to tell me why I was taken away from my friends. Where are they? What has happened to them?" "The Great Ones? They dwell in the house where you were before your servants brought you to your own place. They are content, they are honored, they rejoice." I let out a squeak of hysterical laughter. I could picture the "rejoicing" once they realized I was gone: the Professor shaking his fists and cursing, Aunt Amelia brandishing her parasol, and Ramses . . . He wouldn't show emotion, not Ramses; he would be thinking and planning. "Have they been told where I am?" "They are with the king now, lady." "I want to be with them. I want to see the king. Take me to him at once." I hadn't expected those orders would be obeyed, nor were they. The old gentleman made a long speech, full of circumlocutions and ambiguities; but I got the idea. The goddess must be brought back to her empty shrine--by me and no other. He would help prepare me for the ceremony. It must be faultless. There could be no mistake in movement or word. He didn't say what would happen if I did make a mistake--divine retribution, by Isis in one of her less pleasant attributes? I sat in silence, my mind racing, while he backed away, bowing. I was perfectly willing to go through with the performance, supposing I could remember it; but why hadn't Tarek simply asked me to do it? Why hadn't he come to me, his little sister, his friend? "Wait!" I said sharply. The old gentleman jerked to a stop and I went on, "The Horus Tarekenidal is my brother. I will bring the goddess back to her shrine after I have seen him and spoken with him." Amase threw up his hands. "Do not say that name again! It is forbidden, it does not exist. The Horus is Mankhabale Zekare." "What has happened to Tarek?" The old man put his hands over his ears--in order to avoid hearing the forbidden name, or because I was screaming at the top of my lungs. He limped out. I took the nearest handmaiden by the shoulders and shook her till the veils flapped. "What has happened to him? Is he dead? Answer me!" "Not dead, no," she panted. "Gone." "Where?" "Far from here. Lady, please--you hurt my neck--" I let her go and sank back into the chair. "It is bad news he has given me, Daria," I said. "Many things are now clear." She edged forward. "I don't understand, Nefret. Did you speak to me?" I had spoken Meroitic. I caught hold of her hand. "Please stay with me, Daria. Talk to me--in English. Remind me of who I am."

It was something of an anticlimax to observe, on the right-hand side of the pylon, a smaller male figure presenting an ankh--the symbol of life--to the nose of a seated king. The smaller person had the braided side lock that indicated youth, and its nose was considerably larger than that of the king. Zekare appeared quite pleased at the effect of his little surprise. When he indicated that the audience was over, we went unresisting. Emerson kept muttering, "Good Gad! Good Gad!" After we had gone a little way down the entrance corridor I said thoughtfully, "I wonder that the new king would leave that relief. Surely it must be the one Tarek promised he would commission in order to honor us, and therefore the royal image must be his." Ramses had been somewhat disconcerted by his own image-- the nose was really a bit much--but he had the answer to my question. He usually does. "The cartouche has been changed, Mother. That was standard procedure in Egypt, if you recall, whenever a monarch usurped the representation of a predecessor. The name in itself conferred identity; it wasn't even necessary to remodel the features." "Hmmm, yes," said Emerson. "I am beginning to get an idea--" "Let's not discuss it now, Father," Ramses cut in. He gestured at Amenislo, who was trotting along ahead of us. Emerson glared. "Quite right, my boy, we don't want to be overheard. He has obviously turned his coat. Against his own brother!" "All the members of the upper classes are closely related," I said. "I expect the new king is a first or second or third cousin of Tarek's. He must have had some connection with the royal family in order to claim a right to the throne." None of us spoke again until we had reached our own quarters. "Ramses, fetch Daoud and Selim," Emerson said. "You"--he pointed at Amenislo, who was bowing and smiling--"get out. Go. Leave us." "Well!" I exclaimed. "We are in a pretty fix." "Get rid of them too," grunted Emerson, indicating the servants. "They don't understand English," I replied. "Unlike Amenislo. I will tell them to serve luncheon. I expect Daoud is hungry, and I am a bit peckish myself." "How can you think of food at a time like this?" Emerson demanded. "It is necessary to keep up one's strength," I replied. "At least we know the girls are in no danger." Daoud settled down to eat with his usual placidity, but Selim was in a considerable state of agitation. "Ramses says they have taken Nur Misur to be a priestess of their false god," he exclaimed. "What are we to do?" "The Sitt Hakim will make a plan," Daoud said. "Yes, of course," I said with a little cough. "But we must think very carefully about how to proceed. These people take their religion quite seriously, and--" "Don't be a credulous fool, Peabody," growled Emerson, who never takes religion seriously. "In this society, as in all the others with which I am familiar, religion among the ruling classes is only a cloak for politics. If the new king were powerful enough, he could install his own High Priestess, and be damned to tradition." "As he has apparently done with the position of God's Wife, who is known here as the Heneshem," Ramses said. "You recall how it was done in Egypt--when a new king took the throne, he had his daughter adopted by the reigning God's Wife as her successor. Nefret's mother was an aberration and, unlike Nefret, she died in office. She may have already had an adopted 'daughter,' who took her place, but has not her power, and if the usurper forced his daughter on the new Heneshem--" "Yes, yes," Emerson said impatiently. "All very interesting, my boy, but off the point." Selim let out an exclamation. "Nur Misur's mother? Do you mean she was the God's Wife here? I thought she died when Nur Misur was born." "That is what Nefret believes," I said. "And you must never, ever, tell her differently, Selim. Her mother went mad, denied her husband and her child, and forgot her true identity. She is dead, and there is no need for Nefret to know the truth, which would make her very unhappy." "Yes," Selim murmured, stroking his beard. "For a mother to deny her child . . ." "God had taken her mind away," said Daoud. "She was not to blame. Would it make Nur Misur unhappy to know that?" "Yes," I said with an affectionate smile. "Very unhappy." "Then I will be silent," said Daoud. "Forever." "Yes," Selim agreed. "Forever." "Now that we've settled that," said Emerson, "can we return to the point? Zekare may be powerful enough to control the position of God's Wife, but he obviously needs us and Nefret to prop up his throne." "I cannot imagine that our influence is that great, or his position so weak," I protested. Emerson had been hoarding his store of tobacco. Now he took out his pipe and pouch. He claims the nasty weed aids in ratiocination. I sincerely hoped so, for never had we been in direr need of clear thinking. "Such must be the case," said Emerson, "or we wouldn't be here. Never mind pointing out that I have just committed some horrible flaw in logic, Peabody, only consider the probabilities. We are obviously persons of some importance, or that pylon would not still display our images. Tarek was a popular ruler, especially among the lower classes, but a military coup could have overthrown him, especially if it were supported by the more reactionary of the nobles and by the priesthood. Those sanctimonious bastards are always poking their noses into affairs of state." This was grossly unfair, and an example of Emerson's prejudice against religious persons, but I let it pass, for in this case his accusation might have a basis in fact. The priesthood of Aminreh, chief god of the Holy Mountain, had supported Tarek's brother for the kingship, and the High Priest had been one of his bitterest enemies. Daoud swallowed a mouthful of bread and looked at me. "Have you made a plan yet, Sitt?" "By God, Daoud is right," Ramses burst out. "We should be planning what we mean to do, not engaging in idle speculation on the basis of insufficient information." "What do you propose?" I inquired, resisting the temptation to point out that he was as prone to that error as I. "The most important thing is to find a way of communicating with Tarek. There must be people who are still loyal to him--an opposition party. No doubt it has gone underground, but we've got to find some of its members and offer our support, in return for theirs. We have firearms, but not enough of them. We can't get the girls away without outside help." "That makes sense," said Emerson, puffing away. "It may be significant that our servants this time do not include any of the common people--the rekkit. The majority of them probably support Tarek, but they are powerless and it won't be easy to reach them. You remember how much trouble we had last time getting permission to visit their village." "That's the next step," Ramses said. "Or the first, really. We must be free to move about. That means convincing the new regime that we are on their side. Father, can you bring yourself to be ingratiating to the king and Merasen?" "More easily than you, I fancy," said Emerson, giving him a sharp look. "That shouldn't be too difficult," I mused. "People who love power are extremely susceptible to flattery." "I will leave the flattery to you," said Emerson. "What I'll propose is a practical quid pro quo: our loyalty, publicly demonstrated, if necessary, in exchange for permission to record the reliefs in the temples and explore the tombs." "No man who knows the Father of Curses will believe he would be disloyal to a friend, or let his daughter be taken from him," said Selim, who had followed the discussion with furrowed brow. "He doesn't know me," said Emerson, trying to look sly. "He knows you well enough, by reputation, at least, to know you would never consent to remain here indefinitely," I retorted. "You must ask when we will be allowed to leave. He will lie, of course. He can't afford to let us go, with or without Nefret." A united outcry from the others arose. "Of course we won't leave without her," I said impatiently. "But since we cannot enforce our will, we must, for the moment, pretend to believe any lies the usurper chooses to tell--especially about Nefret. The High Priestess does not serve for life. Once she has chosen a successor--" "Do you know what happens to the High Priestess after she gives up her position?" Ramses asked quietly. "I can guess. That isn't the point, Ramses. I will ask the king if we may take her with us after she has appointed another in her place, and he will say yes, we may, and he will be lying, and we will pretend--do you hear me?--we will pretend to believe it. I am only trying to gain time--time enough to locate Tarek and figure out how to overthrow the usurper." "Where is this friend, this Tarek?" Selim asked. "That's a good question," Ramses said. "He must be holed up in a place which is defensible and/or well hidden, or the king would have crushed him and his followers already. One doesn't leave a pocket of rebellion to fester if one can easily clean it out. The difficulty is that we learned very little about the city and the surrounding area; we were closely guarded prisoners most of the time." "Do you suppose Tarek knows we are here?" I asked. "If he doesn't, he soon will. The usurper can't make use of our prestige without announcing our presence. I wouldn't count on Tarek's being able to reach us, though. He'd be a fool to venture into the city when there's a price on his head." "We need more information," I declared. "Let us send word to the king requesting another audience. We will present him with a list of our demands. First and foremost, we will insist on seeing Nefret." "I share your anxiety, Peabody," said Emerson. "But I think we ought not make the first move. It is poor diplomacy, especially in a society like this one." He sauntered toward the right-hand wall and began examining the painted reliefs. "Emerson," I said, "if you begin copying inscriptions or taking notes I will--I will--" "You had better do the same," said Emerson, without turning. "We must convince old Zekare that our fascination with the culture of the Holy Mountain is great enough to win us over to his side, at least for the time being." "You are right," I acknowledged. "Very good, Emerson." "So what is the plan?" Daoud inquired. "Is there time for me to finish eating? Is there more food?" "Take all the time you like," I said, indicating to the servants that they should replenish the bowls. "We can do nothing until . . . Tomorrow, Emerson? I cannot contain myself much longer than that." "Dear me, Peabody, I had not expected to find you so lacking in patience. Why don't you make one of your famous lists? Selim, would you be good enough to find our notebooks and writing implements? I don't know where they stowed the rest of our luggage, but I expect one of these pleasant young women will show you if you ask nicely." He winked in a vulgar fashion, and Selim's lips relaxed into a knowing smile. "Yes, Emerson. I will ask very nicely--with gestures, since I do not know the words." "I expect gestures will work quite well," said Emerson. "Now then, Peabody, feel free to speculate to your heart's content, since that is all we can do at present. Perhaps a brief incisive summary of the situation to begin with?" "Don't patronize me, Emerson!" "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear." "Well ..." I said. "To sum up, then: Merasen was sent not by Tarek but by the new king, whose position is less secure than he wants us to believe. Merasen was promised higher rank, possibly even the position of Royal Heir, if he succeeded. It does seem a trifle callous of the king, though, to risk his son on such a trip." "Unless he has so many of them he can spare a few," said Ramses cynically. "It may not have been as great a risk as Merasen implied. I don't doubt his escort was greater than he admitted. And it may be that the king doesn't entirely trust him. I sure as hell wouldn't. Don't you realize he must have been brought up in Tarek's household, where he was taught English--and other things?" "You may be right," I said. "The boy seems to have no moral sensibilities whatever. He has now allied himself with someone from the outside world--someone who could use a compass and get a caravan together. Does the king know about this, or is Merasen playing a double game with him too?" Selim came running back into the room. "The guns," he exclaimed. "The guns are gone!"

EIGHT