BOOK ONE

I Told You This Was a Harebrained Scheme!

Hands on hips, brows lowering, Emerson stood gazing fixedly at the recumbent ruminant. A sympathetic friend (if camels have such, which is doubtful) might have taken comfort in the fact that scarcely a ripple of agitated sand surrounded the place of its demise. Like the others in the caravan, of which it was the last, it had simply stopped, sunk to its knees, and passed on, peacefully and quietly. (Conditions, I might add, that are uncharacteristic of camels alive or moribund.) Those conditions are also uncharacteristic of Emerson. To the readers who have encountered my distinguished husband, in the flesh or in the pages of my earlier works, it will come as no surprise to learn that he reacted to the camel's death as if the animal had committed suicide for the sole purpose of inconveniencing him. Eyes blazing like sapphires in his tanned and chiselled face, he plucked the hat from his head, flung it upon the sand, and kicked it a considerable distance before turning his furious glare towards me.

'Curse it, Amelia! I told you this was a harebrained scheme!'

'Yes, Emerson, you did,' I replied. 'In those precise words, if

I am not mistaken. If you will cast your mind back to our first discussion of this enterprise, you may remember that I was in full agreement with you.'

'Then what - ' Emerson turned in a circle. Boundless and bare, as the poet puts it, the lone and level sands stretched far away. 'Then what the devil are we doing here?' Emerson bellowed.

It was a reasonable question, and one that may also have occurred to the reader of this narrative. Professor Radcliffe Emerson, F.R.S. F.B.A., LL.D. (Edinburgh), D.C.L. (Oxford), Member of the American Philosophical Society, et cetera, preeminent Egyptologist of this or any other era, was frequently to be encountered in unusual, not to say peculiar, surroundings. Will I ever forget that magical moment when I entered a tomb in the desolate cliffs bordering the Nile and found him delirious with fever, in desperate need of attentions he was helpless to resist? The bond forged between us by my expert nursing was strengthened by the dangers we subsequently shared; and in due course, Reader, I married him. Since that momentous day we had excavated in every major site in Egypt and written extensively on our discoveries. Modesty prevents me from claiming too large a share of the scholarly reputation we had earned, but Emerson would have been the first to proclaim that we were a partnership, in archaeology as in marriage.

From the sandy wastes of the cemeteries of Memphis to the rocky cliffs of the Theban necropolis, we had wandered hand in hand (figuratively speaking), in terrain almost as inhospitable as the desert that presently surrounded us. Never before, however, had we been more than a few miles from the Nile and its life-giving water. It lay far behind us now, and there was not a pyramid or a broken wall to be seen, much less a tree or a sign of habitation. What indeed were we doing there? Without camels we were marooned on a sea of sand, and our situation was infinitely more desperate than that of shipwrecked sailors.

I seated myself upon the ground with my back against the camel. The sun was at the zenith; the only shade was cast by the body of the poor beast. Emerson paced back and forth, kicking up clouds of sand and swearing. His expertise in this latter exercise had earned him the admiring title of 'Father of Curses' from our Egyptian workmen, and on this occasion he surpassed himself. I sympathised with his feelings, but duty compelled me to remonstrate.

'You forget yourself, Emerson,' I remarked, indicating our companions.

They stood side by side, watching me with grave concern, and I must say they made a ludicrous pair. Many of the native Nilotic peoples are unusually tall, and Kemit, the only servant remaining to us, was over six feet in height. He wore a turban and a loose robe of woven blue-and-white cotton. His face, with its clean-cut features and deeply bronzed skin, bore a striking resemblance to that of his companion, but the second individual was less than four feet tall. He was also my son, Walter Peabody Emerson, known as 'Ramses,' who should not have been there.

Emerson cut off his expletive in mid-syllable, though the effort almost choked him. Still in need of a 'went' for his boiling emotions, he focused them on me.

'Who selected these da - these cursed camels?'

'You know perfectly well who selected them,' I replied. 'I always select the animals for our expeditions, and doctor them too. The local people treat camels and donkeys so badly - '

'Don't give me one of your lectures on veterinary medicine and kindness to animals,' Emerson bellowed. 'I knew - I knew! - your delusions about your medical knowledge would lead us into disaster one day. You have been dosing these da- these confounded animals; what did you give them?'

'Emerson! Are you accusing me of poisoning the camels?' I struggled to overcome the indignation his outrageous accusation had provoked. 'I believe you have taken leave of your senses.'

'Well, and if I have, there is some excuse for me,' Emerson said in a more moderate tone. He edged closer to me. 'Our situation is desperate enough to disturb any man, even one as even-tempered as I. Er - I beg your pardon, my dear Peabody. Don't cry.'

Emerson calls me Amelia only when he is annoyed with me. Peabody is my maiden name, and it was thus that Emerson, in one of his feeble attempts at sarcasm, addressed me during the early days of our acquaintance. Hallowed by fond memories, it has now become a private pet name, so to speak, indicative of affection and respect.

I lowered the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes and smiled at him. 'A few grains of sand in my eye, Emerson, that is all. You will never find me succumbing to helpless tears when firmness is required. As you are well aware."

'Hmph,' said Emerson.

'All the same, Mama,' said Ramses, Papa has raised a point worthy of consideration. It is surely stretching coincidence to the point of impossibility to assume that all the camels should die, suddenly and with no symptoms of disease, within forty-eight hours of one another.'

'I assure you, Ramses, that consideration had already occurred to me. Run and fetch Papa's hat, if you please. No, Emerson, I know your dislike of hats, but I insist that you put it on. We are in bad enough case without having you laid low by sunstroke.'

Emerson made no reply. His eyes were fixed on the small figure of his son, trotting obediently after the sun helmet, and his expression was so poignant that my eyes dimmed. It was not fear for himself that weakened my husband, nor even concern for me. We had faced death together not once but many times; he knew he could count on me to meet that grim adversary with a smile and a stiff upper lip. No; it was the probable fate of Ramses that brought the moisture to his keen blue eyes. So moved was I that I vowed not to remind Emerson that it was his fault that his son and heir had been condemned to a slow, lingering, painful death from dehydration.

'Well, we have been in worse situations,' I said. 'At least we three have; and I presume, Kemit, that you are no stranger to peril. Have you any suggestions, my friend?'

Responding to my gesture, Kemit approached and squatted down next to me. Ramses immediately squatted as well. He had conceived a great admiration for this taciturn, handsome man; and the sight of them, like a stork and its chick, brought a smile to my lips.

Emerson was not amused. Fanning himself with his hat, he remarked sarcastically, 'If Kemit has a suggestion that can get us out of this dilemma, I will take off my hat to him. We -'

'You cannot take off your hat until you put it on, Emerson,' I interrupted.

Emerson slapped the offending article onto his unruly black head with such force that his eyelashes fluttered wildly. 'As I was saying, we are more than six days from the Nile, as the camel trots; considerably longer on foot. If the so-called map we have followed is to be trusted, there is a water hole or oasis ahead. It is a journey of approximately two days by camel, of which we have none. We have water for perhaps two days, with strict rationing.'

It was an accurate and depressing summary. What Emerson did not say, because the rest of us knew it, was that our desperate condition was due to the defection of our servants. They had departed, in a body, the night before, taking with them all the waterskins except the partially filled containers we had had with us in our tent and the canteen I always carry attached to my belt. They might have done worse; they might have murdered us. I cannot, however, attribute their forbearance to kindness of heart. Emerson's strength and ferocity are legendary; many of the simple natives believe he is armed with supernatural powers. (And I myself have a certain reputation as the Sitt Hakim, dispenser of mysterious medicines.) Rather than challenge us, they had stolen away in the dead of night. Kemit claimed he had been struck unconscious when he attempted to prevent them, and indeed he had a sizable lump on his head to prove it. Why he had not joined the mutineers I could not explain; it might have been loyalty - though he owed us no more than did the others, who had worked for us as long - or it might have been that he had not been invited to join them.

There was a great deal about Kemit that wanted explaining. Expressionless as the nesting bird he somewhat resembled at that moment, his knees being on approximately the level of his ears, he was not at all a comic figure. Indeed, his chiselled features had a dignity that reminded me of certain Fourth Dynasty sculptures, most particularly the magnificent portrait of King Chephren, builder of the Second Pyramid. I had once remarked to Emerson on the resemblance; he had replied that it was not surprising, since the ancient Egyptians were of mixed racial stock and some of the Nubian tribes were probably their remote descendants. (I should add that this theory of Emerson's -which he regarded not as theory but as fact - was not accepted by the great majority of his colleagues.)

But I perceive that I am wandering from the plot of my narrative, as I am inclined to do when questions of scholarly interest arise. Let me turn back the pages of my journal and explain in proper sequence of time how we came to find ourselves in such an extraordinary predicament. I do not do this in the meretricious hope of prolonging your anxiety as to our survival, dear Reader, for if you have the intelligence I expect my Readers to possess, you will know I could not be writing this account if I were in the same state as the camels.

I must turn back not a few but many pages, and take you to a quiet country house in Kent, when the turning of the leaves from green to golden bronze betokened the approach of autumn. After a busy summer spent teaching, lecturing, and readying the publication of our previous season's excavations, we were about to begin preparations for our annual winter's work in Egypt. Emerson was seated behind his desk; I walked briskly to and fro, hands behind my back. The bust of Socrates, oddly speckled with black - for it was at this bust that Emerson was wont to hurl his pen when inspiration flagged or something happened to irritate him - watched us benevolently.

The subject of discussion, or so I fondly believed, was the future intellectual development of our son.

'I fully sympathise with your reservations concerning the public-school system, Emerson,' I assured him. 'But the boy must have some formal training, somewhere, sometime. He is growing up quite a little savage.'

'You do yourself an injustice, my dear,' Emerson murmured, glancing at the newspaper he was holding.

'He has improved,' I admitted. 'He doesn't talk quite as much as he used to, and he has not been in danger of life or limb for several weeks. But he has no notion how to get on with children his own age.'

Emerson looked up, his brow furrowed. 'Now, Peabody, that is not the case. Last winter, with Ahmed's children -'

'I speak of English children, Emerson. Naturally.'

'There is nothing natural about English children. Good Gad, Amelia, our public schools have a caste system more pernicious than that of India, and those at the bottom of the ladder are abused more viciously than any Untouchable. As for "getting on" with members of the opposite sex - you do not mean, I hope, to exclude female children from Ramses's social connections? Well, I assure you that that is precisely what your precious public schools aim to achieve.' Warming to his theme, Emerson leapt up, scattering papers in all directions, and began to pace back and forth on a path at right angles to mine. 'Curse it, I sometimes wonder how the upper classes in this country ever manage to reproduce! By the time a lad leaves university he is so intimidated by girls of his own class it is almost impossible for him to speak to them in intelligible sentences! If he did, he would not receive an intelligible answer, for the education of women, if it can be dignified by that term - Oof. I beg your pardon, my dear. Are you hurt?'

'Not at all.' I accepted the hand he offered to assist me to rise. 'But if you insist on pacing while you lecture, at least walk with me instead of at right angles to my path. A collision was inevitable.'

A sunny smile replaced his scowl and he pulled me into a fond embrace. 'Only that sort of collision, I hope. Come now, Peabody, you know we agree on the inadequacies of the educational system. You don't want to break the lad's spirit?'

'I only want to bend it a little,' I murmured. But it is hard to resist Emerson when he smiles and... Never mind what he was doing; but when I say Emerson's eyes are sapphire-blue, his hair is black and thick, and his frame is as trim and muscular as that of a Greek athlete - not even referring to the cleft or dimple in his chin or the enthusiasm he brings to the exercise of his conjugal rights... Well, I need not be more specific, but I am sure any right-thinking female will understand why the subject of Ramses's education ceased to interest me.

After Emerson had resumed his seat and picked up the newspaper, I returned to the subject, but in a considerably softened mood. 'My dear Emerson, your powers of persuasion - that is to say, your arguments - are most convincing. Ramses could go to school in Cairo. There is a new Academy for Young Gentlemen of which I have had good reports; and since we will be excavating at Sakkara...'

The newspaper behind which Emerson had retired rattled loudly. I stopped speaking, seized by a hideous premonition -though, as events were to prove, not nearly hideous enough. 'Emerson,' I said gently, 'you have applied for the firman, haven't you? You surely would not repeat the error you made a few years ago when you neglected to apply in time, and instead of receiving permission to work at Dahshoor we ended up at the most boring, unproductive site in all of Lower Egypt?* Emerson! Put down that newspaper and answer me! Have you obtained permission from the Department of Antiquities to excavate at Sakkara this season?'

Emerson lowered the newspaper, and flinched at finding my face only inches from his. 'Kitchener,' he said, 'has taken Berber.'

It is inconceivable to me that future generations will fail to realise the vital importance of the study of history, or that Britons will be ignorant of one of the most remarkable chapters in the development of their empire. Yet stranger things have happened; and in the event of such a catastrophe (for I would call it nothing less), I beg leave of my Readers to remind them of facts that should be as familiar to them as they are to me.

In 1884, when I made my first visit to Egypt, most English persons persisted in regarding the Mahdi as only another ragged religious fanatic, despite the fact that his followers had already overrun half the Sudan. This country, encompassing the region from the rocky cataracts of Assouan to the jungles south of the junction of the Blue and White Niles, had been conquered by Egypt in 1821. The Pashas, who were not Egyptians at all but descendants of an Albanian adventurer, had proceeded to rule the region even more corruptly and inefficiently than they did Egypt itself. The benevolent intervention of the great powers (especially Britain) rescued Egypt from disaster, but matters continued to worsen in the Sudan until Mohammed Ahmed Ibn el-Sayyid Abdullah proclaimed himself the Mahdi, the reincarnation of the Prophet, and rallied the forces of rebellion against Egyptian tyranny and misrule. His followers believed he was the descendant of a line of sheikhs; his enemies sneered at him as a poor ignorant boat-builder. Whatever his origins, he possessed an extraordinarily magnetic personality and a remarkable gift of oratory. Armed only with sticks and spears, his ragtag troops had swept all before them and were threatening the Sudanese capital of Khartoum.

Against the figure of the Mahdi stands that of the heroic General Gordon. Early in 1884 he had been sent to Khartoum to arrange for the withdrawal of the troops garrisoned there and in the nearby fort of Omdurman. There was a good deal of public feeling against this decision, for abandoning Khartoum meant giving up the entire Sudan. Gordon was accused, then and later, of never meaning to comply with his orders; whatever his reasons for delaying the withdrawal, he did just that. By the autumn of 1884, when I arrived in Egypt, Khartoum was besieged by the wild hordes of the Mahdi, and all the surrounding country, to the very borders of Egypt, was in rebel hands.

The gallant Gordon held Khartoum, and British public opinion, led by the Queen herself, demanded his rescue. An expedition was finally sent but it did not reach the beleaguered city until February of the following year - three days after Khartoum fell and the gallant Gordon was cut down in the courtyard of his house. Too late!' was the agonised cry of Britannia! Ironically, the Mahdi survived his great foe by less than six months, but his place was taken by one of his lieutenants, the Khalifa Abdullah el-Taashi, who ruled even more tyrannically than his master. For over a decade the land had groaned under his cruelties, while the British lion licked its wounds and refused to avenge the fallen hero.

The reasons, political, economic and military, that led to a decision to reconquer the Sudan are too complex to discuss here. Suffice it to say that the campaign had begun in 1896 and that by the autumn of the following year our forces were advancing on the Fourth Cataract under the gallant Kitchener, who had been named Sirdar of the Egyptian Army.

But what, one might ask, do these world-shaking affairs have to do with the winter plans of a pair of innocent Egyptologists? Alas, I knew the answer only too well, and I sank into a chair beside the desk. 'Emerson,' I said. 'Emerson. I beg of you. Don't tell me you want to dig in the Sudan this winter.'

'My dear Peabody!' Emerson flung the newspaper aside and fixed the full power of his brilliant gaze upon me. 'You know, none better, that I have wanted to excavate at Napata or Meroe for years. I'd have tackled it last year if you hadn't raised such a fuss - or if you had consented to remain in Egypt with Ramses while I did so.'

'And waited to learn that they had put your head on a pike, as they did Gordon's,' I murmured.

'Nonsense. I'd have been in no danger. Some of my best friends were Mahdists. But never mind,' he continued quickly, to forestall the protest I was about to make - not of the truth of his statement, for Emerson had friends in very strange places -but of the common sense of his plan. 'The situation is entirely different now, Peabody. The region around Napata is already in Egyptian hands. At the rate Kitchener is going, he will take Khartoum by the time we reach Egypt, and Meroe - the site I favour - is north of Khartoum. It will be quite safe.'

'But Emerson -'

'Pyramids, Peabody.' Emerson's deep voice dropped to a seductive baritone growl. 'Royal pyramids, untouched by any archaeologist. The pharaohs of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty were Nubians - proud, virile soldiers who marched out of the south to conquer the degenerate rulers of a decadent Egypt. These heroes were buried in their homeland of Gush - formerly Nubia, now the Sudan - '

'I know that, Emerson, but - '

'After Egypt lost its independence to the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Moslems, a mighty kingdom flourished in Gush,' Emerson continued poetically - and a trifle inaccurately. 'Egyptian culture survived in that far-off land - the same region, as I believe, from which it had originally sprung. Think of it, Peabody! To investigate, not only the continuation of that mighty civilization, but perhaps its roots as well...'

Emotion overcame him. His voice failed, his eyes glazed.

There were only two things that could reduce Emerson to such a state. One was the idea of going where no scholar had gone before him, of being the discoverer of new worlds, new civilisations. Need I say that I shared that noble ambition? No. My pulse quickened, I felt reason sink under the passion of his words. One last faint ray of common sense made me murmur, 'But-'

'But me no buts, Peabody.' He grasped my hands in his -those strong bronzed hands, which could wield pick and shovel more vigorously than any of his workmen but which were capable of the most sensitive, the most exquisite touch. His eyes held mine; I fancied the brilliant rays of sapphirine-blue struck from his orbs straight into my dazzled brain. 'You are with me, you know you are. And you will be with me, my darling Peabody - this winter, in Meroe!'

Rising, he drew me once more into his masterful embrace. I said no more; indeed I was unable to say more, since his lips were pressed to mine. But I thought to myself, Very well, Emerson. I will be with you - but Ramses will be at the Academy Tor Young Gentlemen in Cairo.

I am seldom wrong. On those rare occasions when I am wrong, it is usually because I have underestimated the stubborn- ness of Emerson or the devious wiles of Ramses, or a combination of the two. In defence of my powers of precognition, however, I must say that the bizarre twist our expedition was to take resulted not so much from our little familial differences of opinion as from a startling development that no one, not even I, could possibly have anticipated.

It took place on a wet autumn evening not long after the conversation I have just described. I had a number of reservations about Emerson's projected plans for the winter, and once the euphoria of his persuasive powers had subsided, I was not shy of expressing them. Though the northern Sudan was officially 'pacified' and under Egyptian occupation as far south as Dongola, only an idiot would have assumed that travel in the region was completely safe. The unfortunate inhabitants of the area had suffered from war, oppression, and starvation; many were homeless, most were hungry, and anyone who ventured among them without an armed escort was practically asking to be murdered. Emerson brushed this aside. We would not venture among them. We would be working in a region under military occupation, with troops close by. Furthermore, some of his best friends...

Having resigned myself to accept his plans (and I will admit that the thought of pyramids, my consuming passion, had some effect), I hastened to complete our arrangements for departure. After so many years I had the process down to a routine, but additional precautions and many extra supplies would be necessary if we were to venture into such a remote region. Of course I had no help whatever from Emerson, who spent all his time poring over obscure volumes on what little was known of the ancient inhabitants of the Sudan, and in long conversations with his brother Walter. Walter was a brilliant linguist who specialised in the ancient languages of Egypt. The prospect of obtaining texts in the obseure and as yet undeciphered Meroitic tongue raised his enthusiasm to fever pitch. Instead of trying to dissuade Emerson from his hazardous project he actually encouraged him.

Walter had married my dear friend Evelyn, the granddaughter and heiress of the Duke of Chalfont. Theirs had been an exceedingly happy union, and it had been blessed with four -no, at the time of which I speak I believe the number was five -children. (One tended to lose track with Evelyn, as my husband once coarsely remarked, overlooking, as men are inclined to do, that his brother was at least equally responsible.) The young Emersons were staying with us on the evening of which I am about to speak. Greatly as I enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with my dearest friend, and a brother-in-law whom I truly esteem, and their five (unless it was six?) delightful offspring, I had an additional reason, this particular year, for encouraging the visit. I had not entirely abandoned hope of persuading Emerson that Ramses should be left in England when we set out on our hazardous journey. I knew I could count on Evelyn to add her gentle persuasion to mine. For reasons which eluded me, she doted on Ramses.

It is impossible to give a proper impression of Ramses by describing his characteristics. One must observe him in action to understand how even the most admirable traits can be perverted or carried to such an extreme that they cease to be virtues and become the reverse.

At that time Ramses was ten years of age. He could speak Arabic like a native, read three different scripts of ancient Egyptian as easily as he could read Latin, Hebrew, and Greek -which is to say, as easily as English - sing a wide variety of vulgar songs in Arabic, and ride almost anything with four legs. He had no other useful skills.

He was fond of his pretty, gentle aunt, and I hoped she could help persuade him to stay with her that winter. The presence of his cousins would be an inducement; Ramses was fond of them too, although I am not certain the feeling was reciprocated.

I had gone off to London that day with less trepidation than I usually felt when leaving Ramses because it was raining heavily and I assumed Evelyn would insist that the children remain indoors. I had strictly forbidden Ramses to conduct any chemical experiments whatever, or continue his excavations in the wine cellar, or practice knife-throwing in the house, or show little Amelia his mummified mice, or teach his cousins any Arabic songs. There were a number of other things; I forget them now, but I felt reasonably sure I had covered everything. I was therefore able to pursue my errands with a mind at ease, though the same could not be said about my body; the coal smoke that hangs over London had combined with the rain to form a blackish smut that clung to clothing and skin, and the streets were ankle-deep in mud. When I got off the train late that afternoon I was glad to see the carriage waiting. I had arranged to have most of my purchases shipped, but I was loaded with parcels and my skirts were wet to the knee.

The lights of Amarna House shone warm and welcoming through the gathering dusk. How joyfully I looked forward to my reunion with all those I loved best, and to lesser but nonetheless pleasant comforts - a hot bath, a change of clothing, and a cup of the beverage that cheers but does not inebriate. Feeling the chill of wet feet and clinging skirts, I reflected that I might instead indulge in the beverage that does inebriate - but only when taken in excessive quantities, which I never do. There is, after all, nothing so effective in warding off a cold than a stiff whiskey and soda.

Gargery, our excellent butler, had been watching for the carriage; as he assisted me to remove my wet outer garments he said solicitously, 'May I venture to suggest, madam, that you take something to ward off a cold ? I will send one of the footmen upstairs with it at once, if you like.'

'What a splendid idea, Gargery,' I replied. 'I am grateful to you for suggesting it.'

I had almost reached my room before I realised that the house was uncommonly quiet. No voices raised in genial debate from my husband's study, no childish laughter, no...

'Rose,' I cried, flinging open my door. 'Rose, where... Oh, there you are.'

'Your bath is ready, madam,' said Rose, from the open door of the bathroom, where she stood wreathed in steam like a kindly genie. She seemed a trifle flushed. It might have been the warmth of the bathwater that had brought the pretty colour to her cheeks, but I suspected another reason.

'Thank you, Rose. But I was about to ask - '

'Will you wear the crimson tea gown, madam?' She hastened to me and began wrenching at the buttons on my dress.

'Yes. But where... My dear Rose, you are shaking me like a terrier with a rat. A little less enthusiasm, if you please.'

'Yes, madam. But the bath water will be cold.' Having divested me of my gown, she began attacking my petticoats.

'Very well, Rose. What has Ramses done now?'

It took me a while to get the truth out of her. Rose is childless; no doubt that fact explains her peculiar attachment to Ramses, whom she has known since he was an infant. It is true that he showers her with gifts - bouquets of my prize roses, bunches of prickly wildflowers, small furry animals, hideous gloves, scarves, and handbags, selected by himself and paid for out of his pocket money. But even if the gifts were appropriate, which most are not, they hardly compensate for the hours Rose has spent cleaning up after him. I long ago gave up trying to comprehend this streak of irrationality in an otherwise sensible woman.

After Rose had stripped me of my garments and popped me into the tub, she deemed that the soothing effect of hot water would soften me enough to hear the truth. In fact, it was not as bad as I had feared. It seems I had neglected to forbid Ramses to take a bath.

Rose assured me that the ceiling of Professor Emerson's study was not much damaged, and she thought the carpet would be all the better for a good washing. Ramses had fully intended to turn off the water and no doubt he would have remembered to do so, only the cat Bastet had caught a mouse, and if he had delayed in rushing to the rodent's rescue, Bastet would have dispatched it. As a result of his prompt action the mouse was now resting quietly, its wounds dressed, in Ramses's closet.

Rose hates mice. 'Never mind,' I said wearily. 'I don't want to hear any more. I don't want to know what forced Ramses to the dire expedient of bathing. I don't want to know what Professor Emerson said when his ceiling began spouting water. Just hand me that glass, Rose, and then go quietly away.'

The whiskey and soda had been delivered. An application of that beverage internally and of hot water externally eventually restored me to my usual spirits, and when I went to the drawing room, trailing my crimson flounces and looking, I fancy, as well as I have ever looked, the smiling faces of my beloved family assured me that all was well.

Evelyn wore a gown of the soft azure that intensified the blue of her eyes and set off her golden hair. The gown was already sadly crushed, for children are drawn to my dear friend as bees are drawn to a flower. She had the baby on her lap and little Amelia beside her, in the maternal clasp of her arm. The twins sat at her feet, mashing her skirts. Raddie, my eldest nephew, leaned over the arm of the sofa where his mother sat, and Ramses leaned against Raddie, getting as close to his aunt's ear as was possible. He was, as usual, talking.

He broke off when I entered, and I studied him thoughtfully. He was extremely clean. Had I not known the reason I would have commended him, for the condition is not natural to him. I had determined not to mar the congeniality of the gathering by any reference to earlier unpleasantness, but something in my expression must have made Emerson aware of what I was thinking. He came quickly to me, gave me a hearty kiss, and shoved a glass into my hand.

'How lovely you look, my dearest Peabody. A new gown, eh? It becomes you.'

I allowed him to lead me to a chair: 'Thank you, my dear Emerson. I have had this dress for a year and you have seen it at least a dozen times, but the compliment is appreciated nonetheless.' Emerson too was extremely clean. His dark hair lay in soft waves, as it did when it had just been washed. I deduced that a quantity of water, and perhaps plaster, had fallen on his head. If he was prepared to overlook the incident, I could do no less, so I turned to my brother-in-law, who stood leaning against the mantel watching us with an affectionate smile.

'I saw your friend and rival Frank Griffiths today, Walter. He sends his regards and asked me to tell you he is making excellent progress with the Oxyrynchos papyrus.'

Walter looks like the scholar he is. The lines in his thin cheeks deepened and he adjusted his eyeglasses. 'Now, Amelia dear, don't try to stir up a competition between me and Frank. He is a splendid linguist and a good friend. I don't envy him his papyrus; Radcliffe has promised me Meroitic inscriptions by the cartload. I can hardly wait.'

Walter is one of the few people who is allowed to refer to Emerson by his given name, which he detests. He flinched visibly, but said only, 'So you stopped by the British Museum, Peabody?'

'Yes.' I took a sip of my whiskey. 'No doubt it will come as a great surprise to you, Emerson, to learn that Budge also proposes to travel to the Sudan this autumn. In fact, he has already left.'

'Er, hmmm,' said Emerson. 'No! Indeed!'

Emerson considers most Egyptologists incompetent bunglers - which they are, by his austere standards - but Wallis Budge, the Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the British Museum, was his particular bete noire.

'Indeed!' Walter repeated. His eyes twinkled. 'Well, that should make your winter's activities even more interesting, Amelia. Keeping those two from one another's throats - '

'Bah,' said Emerson. 'Walter, I resent the implication. How you could suppose me so forgetful of the dignity of my profession and my own self-esteem... I don't intend to come within throat-grasping reach of the rascal. And he had better i stay away from me, or I will throttle him.

Always the peacemaker, Evelyn attempted to change the 1 subject. 'Did you hear anything more about Professor Petrie's' engagement, Amelia? Is it true that he is soon to be married?'

'I believe so, Evelyn. Everyone is talking about it.'

'Gossiping, you mean,' said Emerson, with a snort. 'To see Petrie, who was always wedded to his profession and had no time for the softer emotions, fall head over heels for a chit of a girl... They say she is a good twenty years younger than he.'

'Now who is engaging in ill-natured gossip?' I demanded. 'By all accounts she is an excellent young woman and he is utterly besotted with her. We must think of a suitable wedding present, Emerson. A handsome silver epergne, perhaps.'

'What the devil would Petrie do with an epergne?' Emerson asked. 'The man lives like a savage. He would probably soak potsherds in it.'

We were discussing the matter when the door opened. I glanced up, expecting to see that Rose had come to take the children away, for it was approaching the dinner hour. But it was Gargery, not Rose, and the butler's face wore the frown that betokened an unwelcome announcement.

'There is a gentleman to see you, Professor. I informed him that you did not see callers at this time of day but he - '

'He must have urgent reasons for disturbing us,' I interrupted, seeing my husband's brows draw together. 'A gentleman, you said, Gargery?'

The butler inclined his head. Advancing upon Emerson, he offered the salver on which rested a chaste white calling card.

'Hmph,' said Emerson, taking the card. 'The Honourable Reginald Forthright. Never heard of him. Tell him to go away, Gargery.'

'No, wait,' I said. 'I think you ought to see him, Emerson.'

'Amelia, your insatiable curiosity will be the death of me,' Emerson cried. 'I don't want to see the fellow. I want my whiskey and soda, I want to enjoy the company of my family, I want my dinner. I refuse -'

The door, which Gargery had closed behind him, burst open. The butler staggered back before the impetuous rush of the newcomer. Hatless, dripping, white-faced, he crossed the room in a series of bounds and stopped, swaying, before Walter, who stared at him in astonishment.

'Professor,' he cried. 'I know I intrude - I beg you to forgive me - and to hear me -'

And then, before Walter could recover from his surprise or any of us could move, the stranger toppled forward and fell prostrate on the hearthrug.

'My Son Lives!'

Emerson was the first to break the silence. Get up at once, you clumsy young ruffian,' he said irritably. 'Of all the confounded impudence - '

Tor pity's sake, Emerson,' I exclaimed, hastening to the side of the fallen man. 'Can't you see he has fainted? I shudder to think what unimaginable horror can have reduced him to such straits.'

'No, you don't,' said Emerson. 'You revel in unimaginable horrors. Pray control your rampageous imagination. Fainted, indeed! He is probably drunk.'

'Fetch some brandy at once,' I ordered. With some difficulty - for the unconscious man was heavier than his slight build had led me to expect - I turned him on his back and lifted his head onto my lap.

Emerson folded his arms and stood looking on, a sneer wreathing his well-cut lips. It was Ramses who approached with the glass of brandy I had requested; I took it from him, finding, as I had expected, that the outside of the glass was as wet as the inside.

'I am afraid some was spilled,' Ramses explained. 'Mama, if I may make a suggestion - '

'No, you may not,' I replied.

'But I have read that it is inadvisable to administer brandy or any other liquid to an unconscious man. There is some danger of-'

'Yes, yes, Ramses, I am well aware of that. Do be still.' Mr Forthright did not appear to be in serious condition. His colour was good, and there was no sign of an injury. I estimated his age to be in the early thirties. His features were agreeable rather than handsome, the eyes wide-set under arching brows, the lips full and gently curved. His most unusual physical characteristic was the colour of the hair that adorned his upper lip and his head. A bright, unfashionable but nonetheless striking copper, with glints of gold, it curled becomingly upon his temples.

I proceeded with my administrations; it was not long before the young man's eyes opened and he gazed with wonder into my face. His first words were 'Where am I?'

'On my hearthrug,' said Emerson, looming over him. 'What a da - er - confounded silly question. Explain yourself at once, you presumptuous puppy, before I have you thrown out.'

A deep blush stained Forthright's cheeks. 'You - you are Professor Emerson?'

'One of them.' Emerson indicated Walter, who adjusted his spectacles and coughed deprecatingly. Admittedly he more nearly resembled the popular picture of a scholar than my husband, whose keen blue eyes and healthy complexion, not to mention his impressive musculature, suggest a man of action rather than thought.

'Oh - I see. I beg your pardon - for the confusion, and for my unpardonable intrusion. But I hope when you hear my story you will forgive and assist me. The Professor Emerson I seek is the Egyptologist whose courage and physical prowess are as famous as are his intellectual powers.'

'Er, hmmm,' said Emerson. 'Yes. You have found him. And now, if you will remove yourself from the arms of my wife, at whom you are staring with an intensity that compounds your initial offence...'

The young man sat up as if he had been propelled by a spring, stammering apologies. Emerson assisted him to a chair - that is to say, he shoved him into one - and, with a scarcely less heavy

hand, helped me to rise. Turning, I saw that Evelyn had gathered the children and was shepherding them from the room. I nodded gratefully at her and was rewarded by one of her sweet smiles.

Our unexpected visitor began with a question. 'Is it true, Professor that you are planning to travel in the Sudan this year?'

'Where did you hear that?' Emerson demanded.

Mr Forthright smiled. 'Your activities, Professor, will always be a subject of interest, not only to the archaeological community but to the public at large. As it happens, I am in an indirect manner connected with the former group. You will not have heard my name, but I am sure you are familiar with that of my grandfather, for he is a well-known patron of archaeological subjects - Viscount Blacktower.'

'Good Gad!' Emerson bellowed.

Mr Forthright started. 'I - I beg your pardon, Professor?'

Emerson's countenance, ruddy with fury, might have intimidated any man, but his terrible frown was not directed at Mr Forthright. It was directed at me. 'I knew it,' Emerson said bitterly. 'Am I never to be free of them? You attract them, Amelia. I don't know how you do it, but it is becoming a pernicious habit. Another cursed aristocrat!'

Walter was unable to repress a chuckle, and I confess to some amusement on my own part; Emerson sounded for all the world like an infuriated sans-culotte, demanding the guillotine for the hated aristos.

Mr Forthright cast an uneasy glance at Emerson.

'I will be as brief as possible,' he began.

'Good,' said Emerson.

'Er - but I fear I must give you some background if you are to understand my difficulty.'

'Curse it,' said Emerson.

'My... my grandfather had two sons.'

'Curse him,' said Emerson.

'Uh... my father was the younger. His elder brother, who was of course the heir, was Willoughby Forth.'

'Willie Forth the explorer?' Emerson repeated, in quite a different tone of voice. 'You are his nephew? But your name

'My father married Miss Wright, the only child of a wealthy merchant. At his father-in-law's request, he added the surname of Wright to his own. Since most people, hearing the combined name, assumed it to be a single word, I found it simpler to adopt that version.'

'How accommodating of you,' said Emerson. 'You don't resemble your uncle, Mr Forthright. He would have made two of you.'

'His name is familiar,' I said. 'Was it he who proved once and for all that Lake Victoria is the source of the White Nile?'

'No; he clung doggedly to the belief that the Lualaba River was part of the Nile until Stanley proved him wrong by actually sailing down the Lualaba to the Congo, and thence to the Atlantic.' Willoughby Forth's nephew smiled sardonically. 'That, I fear, was the sad pattern of his life. He was always a few months late or a few hundred miles off. It was his great ambition to go down in history as the discoverer of... something. Anything! An ambition that was never realised.'

'An ambition that cost him his life,' Emerson said reflectively. 'And that of his wife. They disappeared in the Sudan ten years ago.'

'Fourteen years ago, to be precise.' Forthright stiffened. 'Did I hear someone at the door?'

'I heard nothing.' Emerson studied him keenly. 'Am I to expect another uninvited visitor this evening?'

'I fear so. But pray let me continue. You must hear my story before -'

'I beg, Mr Forthright, that you allow me to be the judge of what must or must not be done in my house,' said Emerson. 'I am not a man who enjoys surprises. I like to be prepared for visitors, especially when they are members of the aristocracy. Is it your grandfather whom you expect?'

'Yes. Please, Professor, allow me to explain. Uncle Willoughby was always the favoured son. Not only did he share my grandfather's archaeological and geographical interests, but he had the physical strength and daring his younger brother lacked. My poor dear father was never strong - '

I could tell by Emerson's expression that he was about to say something rude, so I took it upon myself to intervene. 'Get to the point, Mr Forthright.'

'What? Oh - yes, I beg your pardon. Grandfather has never accepted the fact that his beloved son is dead. He must be, Professor! Some word would have come back, long before this -'

'But no word of his death has come either,' Emerson said.

Forthright made an impatient gesture. 'How could it? There are no telegraphs in the jungle or the desert wastes. Legally my uncle and his unfortunate wife could have been declared dead years ago. My grandfather refused to take that step. My father died last year - '

'Aha,' said Emerson. 'Now we come to the crux of it, I fancy. Until your uncle is declared to be dead, you are not legally your grandfather's heir.'

The young man met his cynical gaze squarely. 'I would be a hypocrite if I denied that that is one of my concerns, Professor. But believe it or not, it is not my chief concern. Sooner or later, in the inevitable course of time, I will succeed to the title and the estate; there is, unhappily, no other heir. But my grandfather -'

He broke off, with a sharp turn of his head. This time there was no mistake; the altercation in the hall was loud enough to be heard even through the closed door. Gargery's voice, raised in expostulation, was drowned out by a sound as loud and shrill as the trumpeting of a bull elephant. The door exploded inward, with a shuddering crash; and on the threshold stood one of the most formidable figures I have ever seen.

The mental image I had formed, of the pathetic, grief-stricken old father, shattered like glass in the face of reality. Lord Blacktower - for it could be no other than he - was a massive brute of a man, with shoulders like a pugilist's and a mane of coarse reddish hair. It was faded and liberally streaked with grey, but once it must have blazed like the setting sun. He seemed far too young and vigorous to be the grandfather of a man in his thirties, until one looked closely at his face. Like a stretch of sun-baked earth, it was seamed with deep-cut lines - a map of violent passions and unhealthy habits.

The suddenness of his appearance and the sheer brute dominance of his presence kept all of us silent for several moments. His eyes moved around the room, passing over the men with cool indifference, until they came to rest on me. Sweeping his hat from his head, he bowed, with a grace unexpected in so very large a man. 'Madam! I beg you will accept my apologies for this intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself. Franklin, Viscount Blacktower. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Radcliffe Emerson?' 'Er - yes,' I replied.

'Mrs Emerson!' His smile did not improve his looks, for his eyes remained as cold and opaque as Persian turquoise. 'I have long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you.'

Advancing with a ponderous rolling stride, he extended his hand. I gave him mine, bracing myself for a bone-crushing grip. Instead he raised my fingers to his lips and planted a loud, lingering, damp kiss upon them. 'Mmmm, yes,' he mumbled. 'Your photographs quite fail to do you justice, Mrs Emerson.' I fully expected Emerson would object to these proceedings, for the mumbling and kissing went on for a protracted period of time. There was, however, no comment from that source, so I withdrew my hand and invited Lord Blacktower to take a chair. Ignoring the one I had indicated, he sat down on the couch beside me, with a thud that made me and the whole structure vibrate. There was still no reaction from Emerson, or from Mr Forthright, who had sunk back into the chair from which he had started when his grandfather burst in.

'May I offer you a cup of tea, or a glass of brandy, Lord Blacktower?' I asked.

'You are graciousness itself, dear madam, but I have already taken too great advantage of your good nature. Allow me only to explain why I venture to burst in upon you so unceremoniously, and then I will remove myself - and my grandson, whose presence is the cause, if not the excuse, for my rudeness.' He did not look at Mr Forthright, but went on with scarcely a pause. 'I intended to approach you, and your distinguished husband, through the proper channels. Learning by chance, this afternoon, that my grandson had taken it upon himself to anticipate me, I was forced to act quickly. Mrs Emerson...' He leaned towards me and placed his hand on my knee. 'Mrs Emerson! My son lives! Find him. Bring him back to me.'

His hand was heavy as stone and cold as ice. I stared at the veins squirming across the skin like fat blue worms, at the tufts of greyish-red hair on his fingers. And still no objection from Emerson! It was unaccountable!

Only maternal sympathy for a parent driven into madness by the loss of a beloved child kept me from flinging his hand away. 'Lord Blacktower,' I began.

'I know what you are about to say.' His fingers tightened. 'You don't believe me. Reginald there has probably told you that I am a senile old man, clinging to an impossible hope. But I have proof, Mrs Emerson - a message from my son, containing information only he could know. I received it a few days ago. Find him, and anything you ask of me will be yours. I won't insult you by offering you money -'

"That would be a waste of your time,' I said coldly.

He went on as though I had not spoken.' - though I would consider it an honour to finance your future expeditions, on any scale you might desire. Or a chair in archaeology for that husband of yours. Or a knighthood. Lady Emerson, eh?'

His accent had coarsened, and his speech, not to mention his hand, had grown increasingly familiar. However, it was not the insult to his wife but the implied insult to himself that finally moved Emerson to speak.

'You are still wasting your time, Lord Blacktower. I don't buy honours or allow anyone else to purchase them for me.'

The old man let out a rumbling roar of laughter. 'I wondered what it would take to rouse you, Professor. Every man has his price, you know. But yours - aye, I'll do you justice; none of the things I've offered would touch you. I've got something I fancy will. Here - have a look at this.'

Reaching into his pocket he drew out an envelope. I re-arranged my skirts; I fancied I could still feel the imprint of his hand, burning cold against my skin.

Emerson took the envelope. It was not sealed. With the same delicacy of touch he used on fragile antiquities, he drew from the envelope a long, narrow, flat object. It was cream-coloured and too thick to be ordinary paper, but there was writing on it. I was unable to make out the words.

Emerson studied it in silence for a few moments. Then his lip curled. 'A most impudent and unconvincing forgery.'

'Forgery! That is papyrus, is it not?'

'It is papyrus,' Emerson admitted. 'And it is yellowed and brittle enough to be ancient Egyptian in origin. But the writing is neither ancient nor Egyptian. What sort of nonsense is this?'

The old man bared his teeth, which resembled the papyrus in colour. 'Read it, Professor. Read the message aloud.'

Emerson shrugged. 'Very well. "To the old lion from the young lion, greetings. Your son and daughter live; but not long, unless help comes soon. Blood calls to blood, old lion, but if that call is not strong enough, seek the treasure of the past in this place where I await you." Of all the childish -'

'Childish, yes. It began when he was a boy, reading romances and tales of adventure. It became a kind of private code. He wrote to no one else in that way - and no living man or woman knew of it. Nor knew that his name for me was the old lion.' He resembled one at that moment - a tired old lion with sagging jowls and eyes sunk in wrinkled sockets.

'It is still a forgery,' Emerson said stubbornly. 'More ingenious than I had believed, but a forgery nonetheless.'

'Forgive me, Emerson, but you are missing the point,' I said. Emerson turned an indignant look upon me, but I went on. 'Let us assume that the message is indeed from Mr Willoughby

Forth, and that he has been held prisoner, or otherwise detained, all these years. Let us also assume that some daring couple - er - that is to say, some daring adventurer - were willing to go to his aid. Where would that adventurer go? A man asking for help ought at least give directions.'

'I,' said my husband, 'was about to make that very point, Amelia.'

The old man grinned. "There is something else in the envelope, Professor. Take it out, if you please."

The second enclosure was more prosaic than the first - a single sheet of ordinary writing paper, folded several times - but its effect on Emerson was remarkable. He stood staring at it with as much consternation as if it had been a death threat (a form of correspondence, I might add, with which he was not unfamiliar). I jumped up and took the paper from his hand. It was grey with age and dust, tattered with much handling, and covered with writing in the English language. The handwriting was as familiar to me as my own.

'It looks like a page from one of your notebooks, Emerson,' I exclaimed. 'How on earth did this come into your hands, Lord Blacktower?'

'The envelope and its contents were left on the doorstep of my house in Berkeley Square. My butler admitted he had half a mind to pitch it into the trash. Fortunately he did not.'

'It didn't come through the post,' Emerson muttered, inspecting the envelope. 'So it must have been delivered by hand. By whom? Why didn't the messenger identify himself and claim a reward?'

'I don't know and I don't care," the old man said irritably. 'The handwriting on the envelope is my son's. So is the writing on the papyrus. What more proof do you want?'

'Anyone who knew your son, and had received a letter from him, could imitate his handwriting,' I said gently but firmly. 'To my mind, the page from my husband's notebook is a far more intriguing clue. But I don't understand what bearing it has on Mr Forth's disappearance.'

'Turn it over,' said Lord Blacktower.

I did as he directed. At first glance the faded lines appeared to be random scribbles, like those made by a small child. From Lord Blacktower's throat came a horrible grating sound. I presumed it was a laugh.

'Are you beginning to remember, Professor Emerson? Was it you or my son who sketched the map?'

'Map?' I repeated, studying the scrawl more closely.

'I remember the occasion,' Emerson said slowly. 'And under the present circumstances - taking into consideration the suffering of a bereaved father - I will make an exception to my general policy of refusing to answer impertinent questions from strangers.' I made a little sound of protest, for Emerson's tone of voice - especially when he mentioned the suffering of a bereaved father - made the speech even ruder than the words themselves convey. Blacktower only grinned.

'This is not a map,' Emerson said. 'It is a fantasy - a fiction. It can have no possible bearing on your son's fate. Someone is playing a cruel trick on you, Lord Blacktower, or is planning to perpetrate a fraud.'

'That is precisely what I told my grandfather, Professor,' Mr Forthright exclaimed.

'Don't be a fool,' Blacktower snarled. 'I couldn't be deceived by an impostor - '

'Don't be so sure,' Emerson interrupted. 'I saw Slatin Pasha in '95, after he had escaped from eleven years' starvation and torture by the Khalifa. I didn't recognise him. His own mother wouldn't have known him. However, that wasn't the kind of fraud I had in mind. How much were you prepared to offer me to equip and undertake a rescue expedition?'

'But you refused to be bribed, Professor.'

'I refused, period,' Emerson said. 'Oh, the devil with this! There is no point in my offering you my advice, because you wouldn't take it. As my family will tell you, Lord Blacktower, I am the most patient of men; but my patience is wearing thin. I bid you good evening.'

The old man heaved himself to his feet. 'I too am a patient man, Professor. I have waited for my son for fourteen years. He lives; I know it, and one day you will admit that I was right and you, sir, were wrong. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Mrs Emerson. Don't trouble yourself to ring for the servant. I will let myself out. Come, Reginald.'

He went to the door and closed it quietly behind him.

'Good-bye, Mr Forthright,' said Emerson.

'Let me add one last word, Professor - '

'Be quick about it,' Emerson said, his eyes flashing.

'This may be precisely the sort of filthy game you described. But there is another possibility. My grandfather has enemies -'

'No! You astonish me!' Emerson exclaimed.

'If there is no further communication - if he can't find a qualified man to lead such an expedition - he will go himself. You look sceptical, but I assure you I know him well. He is convinced of the authenticity of this message. Believing that -'

'You said one word, and I have let you utter sixty or seventy.'

'Before I let my grandfather risk his life on such a scheme, I will go,' Forthright said quickly. 'Indeed, if I could believe there was the slightest chance -'

'Confound it,' Emerson shouted. 'Must I evict you bodily?'

'No.' The young man backed towards the door, with Emerson following. 'But if you should change your mind, Professor, I insist upon accompanying you.'

'A very pretty speech, upon my word,' Emerson declared, splashing whiskey into his glass with such force that it fountained up onto the table. 'How dare he suggest I might change my mind? I never change my mind.'

'I suspect he is a more acute judge of character than you give him credit for,' Walter said. 'I too detected something in your manner... You haven't been completely candid with us, Radcliffe.'

Emerson winced - whether at the unpopular appellation or the implied accusation, I cannot tell. He said nothing.

I went to the window and drew the curtain aside. The rain had stopped. Mist veiled the lawn, and carriage lamps glowed through the dark. They were obscured as a shapeless bulk heaved itself between them and my vision. It was Lord Blacktower, mounting into his coach. In his caped coat, wrapped round with wisps of fog, his shape was scarcely human. I had the unpleasant impression that I saw not a man or even a beast, but some elemental force of darkness.

Hearing the door open, I turned to see Evelyn. 'Cook is threatening to leave your service if dinner is not served instantly,' she said with a smile. 'And Rose is looking for Ramses. He did not come up with the others; is he... Ah, there you are, my boy.'

And there he was indeed, rising up from behind the sofa like a genie from a bottle - or a flagrant eavesdropper from his place of concealment. Irritation replaced my eerie forebodings, and as my son obediently hastened towards his aunt, I said sharply, 'Ramses, what have you got there?'

Ramses stopped. He looked like the reverse image of a small saint, for the mop of curls crowning his head was jet-black and the face thus framed, though handsome enough in its way, was as swarthy as any Egyptian's. 'Got, Mama? Oh...' With an air of surprised innocence he glanced at the paper in his hand. 'It appears to be the leaf from Papa's notebook. I picked it up from the floor.'

I did not doubt that in the least. Ramses preferred to tell the truth whenever possible. I had placed the paper on the table, so he must have pushed it off onto the floor before he picked it up.

After he had handed over the paper and gone through the lengthy process of saying good night, we made our way to the dining room.

I had long since given up trying to prevent Emerson from discussing private family matters in front of the servants. In fact, I had come round to his point of view - that it was a cursed silly, meaningless custom - for the servants always knew everything that was going on anyhow, and their advice was often helpful since on the whole they had better sense than their purported superiors. I fully expected that he would discuss the extraordinary events that had just taken place. Gargery, our butler, obviously shared this anticipation; though he directed the serving of the meal with his usual efficiency, his face was beaming and his eyes alight. He always enjoyed participating in our little adventures, and the peculiar behaviour of our visitors certainly justified the suspicion that another was about to occur.

Conceive of my surprise, therefore, when, after having satisfied the first pangs of hunger by polishing off his soup, Emerson patted his lips with his napkin and remarked, 'Inclement weather for this time of year.'

'Hardly unusual, though," said Walter innocently.

'I hope the rain will let up. You will have a wet journey home otherwise.'

'Quite,' said Walter.

I cleared my throat. Emerson said hastily, 'And what are you giving us tonight, Peabody? Ah - roast saddle of lamb. And mint jelly! I am particularly fond of mint jelly. A splendid choice.'

'Mrs Bates is giving us the lamb,' I said, as Gargery, visibly pouting, began serving the plates. 'You know I leave the menu to her, Emerson. I have no time for such things. Especially now, with so many extra supplies to order -'

'Quite, quite,' said Emerson.

'Mint jelly, sir?' said Gargery, in a voice that ought to have frozen that wobbly substance into a solid chunk. Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to give Emerson approximately half a teaspoonful.

Like his brother, Walter was inclined to ignore conventions, not because he necessarily shared Emerson's radical social theories but because he forgot all else when professional enthusiasm overcame him. 'I say, Radcliffe,' he exclaimed. 'That bit of papyrus was quite fascinating. If an ancient Egyptian scribe had known how to write English, the result would have looked precisely like that message. I wish I had had a chance to examine it more closely.'

'You may do so after dinner,' I said. 'By a strange coincidence, and in the haste of his departure, Lord Blacktower forgot to take it with him. Or was it a coincidence, Emerson?'

'You know as well as I do that it was deliberate,' Emerson snarled. 'Pas devant les domestiques, Peabody, as you are always telling me.'

'Bah,' I replied pleasantly. 'Ramses has probably told Rose all about it by now. I know you well, my dear Emerson; your countenance is an open book to me. That supposedly meaningless scrawl on the back of the notebook page had meaning for you. I know it. His lordship knew it. Will you take us into your confidence, or force us to employ underhanded means to discover the truth?'

Emerson glowered - at me, at Walter, at Evelyn, and at Gargery, who was standing guard over the mint jelly, his nose in the air and wounded dignity in every lineament of his face. Then Emerson's own face cleared and he burst into a hearty laugh. 'You are incorrigible, my dear Peabody. I won't inquire what particular underhanded methods you had in mind... In fact, there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you what little I know of the matter. And now, Gargery, may I have more mint jelly?'

This delicacy having been supplied, Emerson went on. 'I spoke the truth when I told Blacktower that piece of paper could have no bearing on Forth's fate. Yet it gave me an eerie feeling to see it again after all these years. Rather like the hollow voice of a dead man echoing from his tomb...'

'Now who is allowing a rampageous imagination to run away with him?' I inquired playfully. 'Get on with it, Emerson, if you please.

'First,' said Emerson, 'we must tell Evelyn what happened after she left with the children.'

He proceeded to do so, at quite unnecessary length. Gargery found it most interesting, however. 'A map, was it, sir?' he asked, giving Emerson more mint jelly.

'Take that cursed stuff away,' Emerson said, studying the green puddle with loathing. 'Yes, it was a map. Of sorts.'

'Of the road to King Solomon's diamond mines, I suppose,' said Walter, smiling. 'Or the emerald mines of Cleopatra. Or the gold mines of Gush.'

'It was a fantasy almost as improbable, Walter. It is coming back to me now - that strange encounter, the last meeting I ever had with Willie Forth.' He paused to give Gargery time to remove the plates and serve the next course before resuming.

'It was the autumn of 1883 - the year before I met you, my dearest Peabody, and a year when Walter was not with me. Having no such engaging distractions, I found myself at loose ends one evening in Cairo, and decided to visit a cafe. Forth was there; when he saw me, he jumped to his feet and called my name. He was a great bull of a fellow with a head of wiry black hair that always looked as if it had not seen scissors or brush for weeks. Well, we had a friendly glass or two; he demanded I drink a toast to his bride, for he had just been married. I ragged him a bit about this unexpected news; he was a confirmed old bachelor of forty-odd and had always insisted no woman would ever tie him down. He only grinned sheepishly and raved about her beauty, innocence, and charm like any infatuated schoolboy.

'Then we got to talking about his plans for the winter. He was cagey at first, but I could see that something besides marital bliss had fired him up, and after another friendly glass or two he admitted that his ultimate destination was not Assouan, as he had initially told me, but somewhere farther south.

'"I understand you have excavated at Napata," he said casually.

'I was unable to conceal my surprise and disapproval. The news from the Sudan was extremely disquieting, and Forth had told me he planned to take his wife with him. He brushed my objections aside. "The worst of the trouble is in Kordofan, hundreds of miles from where I mean to go. And General Hicks is on the way there; he'll settle those fellows before we reach Wadi Haifa."' Turning to the butler, he explained, 'Wadi Haifa is at the Second Cataract, Gargery, several hundred miles south of Assouan.'

'Yes, sir, thank you, sir. And that other place - Nabada?'

'Hmm, well,' said Emerson. 'There has been some debate about that. The Cushites, or Nubians, had two capitals. Meroe, the second and later of the two, was near the Sixth Cataract, just north of Khartoum. Its ruins have been visited and identified. We have a fairly good idea of where Napata, the earlier capital, was situated, because of the pyramid cemeteries in the area, but its exact location is uncertain.

'Well, we all know what happened to Hicks. (His army was annihilated by the Mahdi, Gargery, contrary to all expectations except mine.) Word of that disaster did not reach Cairo until after Forth had left. All I could tell him that night was that I had visited a site I believed to be Napata and that - to put it mildly - it was not the spot I would have chosen for a honeymoon. "You surely don't mean to take your bride to a primitive, fever-ridden, dangerous place like that?" I demanded.

'Forth was feeling the effects of four or five friendly glasses. He gave me a drunken grin. "Farther than that, Emerson. Much farther."

'"Meroe? It's even more remote and dangerous than Gebel Barkal. You're mad, Forth."

'"And you're still off the mark, Emerson." Forth leaned forward, planting both elbows on the filthy table, and fixed me with burning eyes. I felt like the Wedding Guest, and indeed, as he went on, I would not have been surprised to see the albatross hung about his neck. "What happened to the royalty and nobility of Meroe after the city fell? Where did they go? You've heard the Arab legends about the sons of Cush who marched towards the setting sun - westward through the desert to a secret city..."

'"Stories, legends, fictions," I exclaimed. "They are no more factual than the tales of Arthur being carried off to the Isle of Avalon by the three queens, or Charlemagne sleeping under the mountain with his knights - "

'"Or the Homeric legends of Troy," said Forth.

'I swore at him - and at Heinreich Schliemann, whose discoveries had encouraged lunatics like my friend. Forth listened, grinning like an ape and fumbling in the pockets of his coat - for his pipe, as I thought. Instead he took out a small box and handed it to me, inviting me, with a sweeping gesture, to lift the lid. When I did so... Peabody, do you remember the Ferlini Collection in the Berlin Museum?'

Caught unawares by the question, I started to shake my head and then exclaimed, 'The jewellery brought back from Meroe by Ferlini half a century ago?'

'Quite.' Emerson whipped a pencil from his pocket and began to draw on the tablecloth. Gargery, who was familiar with this habit of Emerson's and with my reaction to it, deftly inserted a piece of paper under the pencil. Emerson finished his sketch and handed the paper to Gargery, who, after inspecting it closely, handed it round the table like a platter of vegetables. 'What I saw in the box was a gold armlet,' Emerson continued. 'The designs, consisting of uraei, diamond shapes, and lotus buds, were inlaid with red and blue enamel.'

Walter frowned at the paper. 'I have seen a lithograph of a piece of jewellery resembling this, Radcliffe.'

'In Lepsius's Denkmaler,' Emerson replied. 'Or perhaps the official guide to the Berlin Museum, 1894 edition. An armlet of the same type, with similar decoration, was found by Ferlini at Meroe. I saw the resemblance at once, and my first reaction was that Perth's armlet must also have come from Meroe. The natives have been plundering the pyramids ever since Ferlini's time, hoping to find another treasure trove. Yet the cursed thing was in virtually pristine condition - a few scratches here and there, a few dents - and the enamel was so fresh it might have been newly made. It had to be a modern forgery - but what forger would use gold of such purity it could be bent with one's fingers?

'I asked Forth where he had got it, and he proceeded to tell me a preposterous story about being offered the piece by a ragged native who offered to lead him to the source of such treasures. A source far in the western deserts, in a secret oasis, where there were huge buildings like the temples of Luxor and a strange race of magicians who wore golden ornaments and performed blood sacrifices to demonic gods...' Emerson shook his head. 'You can imagine how I jeered at this absurd story, all the more so when he told me that the unfortunate native had suffered from a fever to which he succumbed a few days later. 'My arguments had no effect on Forth; he was drinking quite heavily, and when I finally gave up my attempt to dissuade him from his lunatic plan I could see he was in no condition to be left alone. Late at night, in that district, he would have been robbed and beaten. So I offered to escort him to his hotel. He agreed, saying he was anxious to introduce me to his wife.

'She had waited up for him, but she had not anticipated he would bring a stranger with him; she was wrapped in some sort of fluffy white stuff, all trembling with lace and ruffles; part of her bridal getup, I suppose. An exquisite creature, looking no more than eighteen; great misty blue eyes, hair like a fall of spun gold, skin white as ivory. And cold. An ice maiden, with no more human warmth than a statue. They made a bizarre contrast, Forth with his ruddy beaming face and mane of black hair, his wife all white and silvery pale - Beauty and the Beast personified. I thought of that flowery-white skin of hers baked and scourged by blowing sand, of her gleaming hair dried by the sun - and by heaven, Peabody, I felt only the regret one might feel at seeing a work of art disfigured - no human pity at all. She would have received none; she would have felt none. No, the pity I felt was for Willie Forth. The idea of taking a frozen statue like that into one's arms, into one's... Er, hmmm. You understand me, Peabody.'

I felt myself blushing. 'Yes, Emerson, I do. Yet one can't help but feel for her. She can have had no idea of what she was about to experience.'

'I tried to tell her. Forth had collapsed onto the bed and lay snoring, with both hands clenched over the box that contained the armlet. I spoke to her like a brother, Peabody; I told her she was mad to go, that he was madder to let her. I might have been speaking to a chryselephantine statue. At last she intimated that my presence displeased her, so I left, and I am sorry to say I slammed the door behind me. That was the last I saw of either of them.'

'But the map, Emerson,' I said. 'When did you - '

'Oh.' Emerson coughed. 'That. Well, curse it, Peabody, I'd had a few friendly drinks myself, and I'd been reading some of the medieval Arabic writers...'

'The Book of Hidden Pearls?'

Emerson grinned sheepishly. 'Confound you, Peabody, you're always a step or two ahead of me. It's that rampageous imagination of yours. But there is often a germ of truth in the most fantastic of legends. I am quite willing to believe that there are unknown oases in the western desert, far to the south of the known oases of Egypt. Wilkinson names three, in his book published in 1835; he had heard about them from the Arabs. The people of Dakhla - one of the known oases in southern Egypt - tell tales of strangers, tall black men, who came out of the south. And El Bekri, who wrote in the eleventh century, described a giantess who was captured at Dakhla; she spoke no known language, and when she was released, so that her captors could not track her to her home, she outran them and escaped.'

'Fascinating,' Evelyn breathed. 'But the Book of Hidden Pearls?'

'Ah, there we enter into pure legend,' Emerson said, smiling affectionately at her. 'It is a magical work, written in the fifteenth century, containing stories of buried treasure. One such location is in the white city of Zerzura, where the king and queen lie asleep on their thrones. The key to the city is in the beak of a bird carved on the great gate; but you must take care not to wake the king and queen if you want the treasure.'

'That is simply a fairy tale,' Walter said critically.

'Of course it is. But Zerzura is mentioned in other sources; the name probably derives from the Arabic zarzar, meaning sparrow, so Zerzura is "the place of the little birds." And there are other stories, other clues...' Emerson's face took on the pensive, dreamy look few of his acquaintances are privileged to see. He likes to be thought of as a strictly rational man, who sneers at idle fancies, but in reality the dear fellow is as sensitive and sentimental as women are purported to be (though in my experience women are far more practical than men).

'Are you thinking of Harkhuf?' Walter asked. 'It is true that that mystery has never been solved, at least not to my satisfaction. Where did he go on those expeditions of his, to procure the treasures he brought back to Egypt? Gold and ivory, and the dancing dwarf that so delighted the child-king he served... Then there are Queen Hatshepsut's voyages to Punt -'

'Punt doesn't enter into it,' Emerson said. 'It must be somewhere on the Red Sea coast, east of the Nile. As for Harkhuf, that was over four thousand years ago. He may have followed the Darb el Arba'in... There, you see the fascination of such idle speculation? We speculated, and had those friendly drinks, and drew meaningless lines on a piece of paper. If Forth was fool enough to follow that so-called map, he deserved the unpleasant death that undoubtedly came to him. Enough of this.

Peabody, why are you sitting there? Why haven't you risen from your chair to indicate that the ladies wish to retire?'

This question was mean to provoke me; Emerson knew quite well that the custom to which he referred was never followed in our house. 'We will all retire,' I said.

Walter hastened to open the door for me. 'It is an odd coincidence, though,' he said innocently. 'The Dervish uprising had just begun when Mr Forth disappeared. Now it appears to be almost over, and the message arrives - '

'Walter, don't be so naive. If fraud is contemplated, the timing is no coincidence. The news of Slatin Pasha's escape, after all those years in captivity, may well have inspired some criminal mind -'

He broke off with a choking sound. The blood rushed into his cheeks.

I knew what he was thinking. I always know what Emerson is thinking, for the spiritual bond that unites us is strong. The dark shadow of the Master Criminal, our old nemesis, would always haunt us - me, especially, since I had (much to my astonishment, for I am a modest woman) inspired an intense passion in that warped but brilliant brain.

'No, Emerson,' I exclaimed. 'It cannot be. Remember his promise, that never again would he - '

'The promise of a snake like that is worth nothing, Peabody. This is just the sort of scheme - '

'Remember your promise, then, Emerson. That never again would you -'

'Oh, curse it,' Emerson muttered.

Though she did not (at least I hoped she did not) know whereof we spoke, Evelyn tactfully introduced another subject. 'Explain to me, dear brother, what it is you hope to accomplish at Meroe, and why you can't work in Egypt as you have always done? It terrifies me to think of you and Amelia running such risks.'

Emerson responded, though he kept tugging at his collar as if it were choking him. 'To all intents and purposes, ancient Gush is an unknown civilisation, Evelyn. The only qualified scholar who visited the site was Lepsius, and he could do little more than record what was there in 1844. That is the most important task awaiting us - to make accurate records of the monuments and inscriptions, before time and treasure hunters destroy them completely.'

'Especially the inscriptions,' Walter said eagerly. 'The script is derived from Egyptian hieroglyphs, but the language has not been translated. When I think of the rate at which the records are vanishing, never to be recovered, I am tempted to come with you. You and Amelia cannot possibly -'

At this Evelyn let out a cry of alarm and clutched at Walter's arm as if he were about to depart instantly for Africa. Emerson reassured her in his usual tactful fashion. 'Walter has grown soft and flabby, Evelyn. He wouldn't last a day in Nubia. A strict course of physical training, that is what you need, Walter. If you work hard at it this winter, I may allow you to accompany us next season.'

In such animated and pleasant domestic intercourse the next hour passed. Both men had asked permission to smoke their pipes, permission which was, of course, granted; Evelyn was too kind to refuse anyone she loved and I would never dream of attempting to prevent Emerson from doing anything he liked in his own drawing room. (Though I have been forced, upon occasion, to request that he postpone a particular activity until a more appropriate degree of privacy could be attained.)

At last I went to the window to admit a breath of fresh air. The clouds had cleared away and moonlight spread its silvery softness across the lawn. As I stood admiring the beauty of the night (for I am particularly fond of nature), a sharp cracking sound broke the dreaming peace. It was followed in rapid succession by a second and a third.

I turned. My eyes met those of Emerson.

'Poachers,' said Walter lazily. 'It's a good thing young Ramses is asleep. He'd be out that door -'

Emerson, moving with pantherlike quickness, was already out that door. I followed, delaying only long enough for a quick explanation. 'Not poachers, Walter. Those shots came from a pistol. Stay here with Evelyn.'

Hitching up my crimson flounces I sped in pursuit of my husband. He had not gone far; I found him on the front lawn, gazing out into the darkness. 'I see nothing amiss,' he remarked. 'From what direction did the sounds come?'

We were unable to agree on that question. After a rather brisk discussion - in the course of which Emerson firmly negated my suggestion that we separate in order to search a wider area more quickly - we set out in the direction I had suggested, towards the rose garden and the little wilderness behind it. Though we investigated the area carefully, we found nothing out of the way, and I was about to accede to Emerson's demand that we wait until morning before pursuing the search when the sound of a wheeled vehicle came to our ears.

'That way,' I cried, pointing.

'It is only a farmer's wagon going to market,' Emerson said.

'At this hour?' I started across the lawn towards the belt of trees that bounds our property on the north. The grass was so wet it was impossible for me to attain my usual running speed in fragile evening shoes, and Emerson soon forged ahead, ignoring my demands that he wait for me. When I caught him up, he had passed through the gate in the brick wall - which constitutes a side entrance to the estate - and was standing still, staring down at something on the ground.

Turning, he put out his arm and held me back. 'Stop, Peabody. That's one of my favourite frocks; I would hate to see it ruined.'

'What -' I began. But there was no need to finish the question. We were on the edge of the belt of trees. A narrow track used by carts and farm vehicles ran along the side of the wall. On the beaten earth the pool of liquid was black as ink in the moonlight, which stroked its surface with tremulous silver fingers. But the liquid was not ink. By daylight it would be another colour entirely - the same shade as my bright crimson skirts.

®He Promised All the Ladies Many Sons¯

With the conspicuous absence of intelligence that marks the profession, our local constabulary refused to believe that murder had been committed. They agreed with me that no living creature could have survived the loss of such a quantity of the vital fluid; all the more reason, they declared, to assume that the crime had been perpetrated against one of the lower animals and was therefore not a crime, or at least not the crime of murder. When I pointed out that poachers seldom employ hand weapons, they only smiled politely and shook their heads - not at this self-evident fact, but at the idea that a mere female could have distinguished between the different sounds - and inquired, even more politely, why my hypothetical murderer should have removed the body of his victim.

They had me there. For no body had been found, nor even a trail of bloodstains. Clearly the perpetrator had carried it away by means of a cart or wagon, the sound of whose wheels Emerson and I had heard, but I was forced to admit that without a corpus delicti my case was considerably weakened.

Emerson did not support me with the ardour I had every right to expect. He was particularly annoyed by my suggestion that the fatality was in some way connected with the Forth family. I am sure the Reader will agree with this conclusion, as any sensible person would; two mysterious events on the same evening cannot be unrelated. Yet it appeared that they were. Inquiries, which I insisted upon making, resulted in the discovery that both Lord Blacktower and his grandson were in perfect health and at a loss to understand my concern.

The viscount also took pleasure in telling me that no one had approached him demanding money for information or for equipping a rescue expedition. He seemed to think this was proof Emerson's analysis of the message had been mistaken, but to me it made the situation even more baffling. Certainly, if fraud had been intended, further communications were to be expected, but the same was true if the appeal was genuine. How had the message got from - wherever it was? - to London, and why did not the messenger make himself known to the recipient? And what bearing - if any - had the ghastly puddle in the lane upon the matter?

As for the documentary evidence - the scrap of papyrus and the page from Emerson's notebook - closer examination confused the situation even more. The papyrus was ancient; traces of an earlier text could be seen under the modern writing. This phenomenon was of frequent occurrence in ancient Egypt, for papyrus was expensive and was often erased so that it could be reused. Pieces of ancient papyrus were (I regret to say) easily obtained by any traveller to Egypt. Similarly, the page from Emerson's notebook might have come into the possession of a person or persons unknown. Emerson admitted that he could not remember what had happened to it; Forth might have put it in his pocket, or he might have left it on the cafe table.

The case, such as it was, appeared to have reached a dead end. Even I could think of nothing more to do. I decided reluctantly to abandon it, especially since other problems were trying Emerson's temper to the utmost.

Emerson likes to think that he is the master of his fate and the lord of all he surveys. It is a delusion common to the male sex and accounts for the sputtering fury with which they respond to the slightest interference with their plans, no matter how impractical those plans may be. Being ruled by men, most women are accustomed to irrational behaviour on the part of those who control their destinies. I was therefore not at all surprised when Emerson's plans received their first check. Instead of advancing towards Khartoum, the Egyptian Expeditionary Force settled into winter quarters at Merawi, not to be confused with Meroe, which is several hundred miles farther south.

Rather than resign himself to the inevitable, as a woman would do, Emerson wasted a great deal of time trying to think of ways to get around it. He also refused to accept the obvious arguments against working in a region where food was scarce and trained workmen were in exceedingly short supply.

'If we could find something to feed them, we would have workers enough,' he growled, puffing furiously on his pipe. 'These stories about the congenital laziness of the Sudanese are only European prejudice. I don't see how we can manage it, though. All transport south of Wadi Haifa is controlled by the military; we can hardly commandeer a railway carriage, load it with supplies.' He fell silent, his eyes brightening as he considered this idea.

'Not without being somewhat conspicuous,' I replied dryly. 'You would also have to commandeer an engine to pull the carriage, and wood to stoke the boiler, and an engineer, among other necessities. No, I fear the idea is impractical. We must give it up, Emerson, for this year at least. By next autumn our brave lads will have taken Khartoum and wiped out the stain of dishonour that has soiled the British flag since we failed to succour the gallant Gordon.'

'Gallant nincompoop,' said Emerson. 'He was sent to evacuate Khartoum, not squat like a toad in a puddle daring the Mahdi to come and murder him. Well, well, perhaps it is all for the best. Even if the country were pacified, it has suffered greatly. Not a fit place for our boy, hardy though he is.'

'Ramses does not enter into it,' I replied. 'He will be at school in Cairo. Where shall we excavate then, Emerson?'

'There is only one place, Peabody. Napata.'

'Napata?'

'Gebel Barkal, near Merawi. I am convinced it is the site of the first capital of Gush, which flourished for six hundred years before the Cushites moved upriver to Meroe. Budge is already there, curse him,' Emerson added, clenching his teeth so violently on the stem of his pipe that a cracking sound was heard. 'What he is doing to the pyramids I dare not think.'

Poor Mr Budge was at fault because he had had the audacity to be already in the Sudan. It was no use for me to point out that he had only done what Emerson himself would have done, given the opportunity - i.e., accept an invitation from the British authorities. 'Invitation, my - ' Emerson would roar, employing language that made me clap my hands over my ears. 'He invited himself! He bullied, pushed, and toadied his way into going. Good Gad, Peabody, by the time that blackguard finishes, there won't be one stone left on another in Nubia, and he will have stolen every portable antiquity in the country for his cursed museum...'

And so on, at considerable length.

Though as a rule I attempted to defend Mr Budge against Emerson's more unreasonable complaints, I was a trifle out of sorts with him myself. A dispatch sent through military channels boasted of his making the arduous journey from Cairo to Kerma in only ten and one half days. I knew too well what the effect of this claim would be on my irascible spouse. Emerson would insist on bettering Budge's record.

The first stage, from Cairo to Assouan, was one we had made many times, and I anticipated no particular difficulty there. So it proved; but Assouan, which had been a sleepy little village, was now transformed into a vast depot for military supplies. Though we received every courtesy from Captain Pedley, he was tactless enough to tell Emerson he ought not allow his wife to travel into such a desolate and dangerous region. 'Allow!' Emerson repeated. '"Allow," did you say?'

Though scarcely less annoyed, I thought it best to change the subject. One must recognise the limitations of the military mind, as I later pointed out to Emerson. After a certain age -somewhere in the early twenties, I believe - it is virtually impossible to insert any new idea whatever into it.

Since travel by boat through the tumultuous, rocky rapids of the First Cataract is hazardous, we had to leave the steamer at Assouan and take the railroad to Shellal, at the south end of the cataract. There we were fortunate enough to find passage on a paddle wheeler. The captain turned out to be an old acquaintance of Emerson's. A good many of the inhabitants of Nubia turned out to be old acquaintances of Emerson's. At every wretched little village where the steamer took on wood for the boiler, voices would hail him 'Essalamu 'aleikum, Emerson Effendi! Marhaba, Oh Father of Curses!"' It was flattering, but somewhat embarrassing, especially when the greetings came (as they did upon one occasion) from the painted lips of a female individual inadequately draped in a costume that left little doubt as to her choice of profession.

Our quarters on the steamer, though far from the standards of cleanliness upon which I normally insist, were commodious enough. Despite the inconveniences (and the awkwardness I have referred to earlier), I greatly enjoyed the trip. The territory south of Assouan was new to me. The rugged grandeur of the scenery and the ruins lining the banks proved a constant source of entertainment. I took copious notes, of course, but since I plan to publish an account elsewhere, I will spare the Reader details. One sight must be mentioned, however; no one could pass by the majestic temple of Abu Simbel without a word of homage and appreciation.

Thanks to my careful planning and the amiable cooperation of Emerson's friend the captain, we came abreast of this astonishing structure at dawn, on one of the two days each year when the rays of the sun lifting over the eastern mountains strike straight through the entrance into the farthest recesses of the sanctuary and rest like a heavenly flame upon the altar. The effect was awe-inspiring, and even after the sun had soared higher and the arrow-shaft of golden light had faded, the view held us motionless at the rail of the boat. Four giant statues of Ramses II guard the entrance, greeting with inhuman dignity the daily advent of the god to whom the temple was dedicated, as they have done morning after morning for almost three thousand years.

Ramses stood beside us at the rail, and his normally impassive countenance showed signs of suppressed emotion as he gazed upon the mightiest work of the monarch whose namesake he was. (In fact, he had been named for his uncle Walter; his father had proposed the nickname for him when he was an infant, claiming that the child's imperious manner and single-minded selfishness suggested that most egotistical of pharaohs. The name had stuck, for reasons which should be apparent to all Readers of my chronicles.)

But what, you may ask, was Ramses doing at the rail of the steamer? He should have been in school.

He was not in school because the Academy for Young Gentlemen in Cairo had been unable to admit him. That is the word the headmaster used - 'unable.' He claimed they had no room for another boarder. This may have been so. I had no means of proving it was not. I cannot conceive of any other reason why my son should not have been admitted to a school for young gentlemen.

I do not speak ironically, though anyone who has read certain of my comments concerning my son may suspect I do. The fact is, Ramses had improved considerably in the past few years. (Either that, or I was becoming accustomed to him. It is said that one can become accustomed to anything.)

He was at this time ten years old, having celebrated his birthday late that summer. Over the past few months he had shot up quite suddenly, as boys do, and I had begun to think he might one day have his father's height, though probably not the latter's splendid physique. His features were still too large for his thin face, but just lately I had discovered a dent or dimple in his chin, like the one that lent Emerson's handsome countenance such charm. Ramses disliked references to this feature as much as his father resented my mentioning his dimple (which he preferred to call a cleft, if he had to refer to it). I am bound to admit that the boy's jet-black curls and olive complexion bore a closer resemblance to a young Arab - of the finest type - than an Anglo-Saxon; but that he was a gentleman, by birth at least, no one could deny. A distinct improvement in his manners had occurred, due in large part to my untiring efforts, though the natural effects of maturation also played a part. Most small boys are barbarians. It is a wonder any of them live to grow up.

Ramses had lived, to the age of ten at least, and his suicidal tendencies seemed to have decreased. I could therefore contemplate his accompanying us with resignation if not enthusiasm, especially since I had little choice in the matter. Emerson refused to join me in bringing pressure to bear on the headmaster of the Academy for Young Gentlemen; he had always wanted to take Ramses with us to the Sudan.

I put my hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Well, Ramses, I hope you appreciate the kindness of your parents in providing you with such an opportunity. Impressive, is it not?'

Ramses's prominent nose quivered critically. 'Ostentatious and grandiose. Compared with the temple of Deir el-Bahri -'

'What a dreadful little snob you are,' I exclaimed. 'I do hope the antiquities of Napata will measure up to your exacting standards.'

'He is quite right, though,' said Emerson. 'There is no architectural subtlety or mystery in a temple like that - only size. The temples of Gebel Barkal, on the other hand -'

'Temples, Emerson? You promised me pyramids.'

Emerson's eyes remained fixed on the facade of the temple, now fully illumined by the risen sun and presenting a picture of great majesty. 'Er - to be sure, Peabody. But we are limited in our choice of sites, not only by the cursed military authorities but by... by... by a certain individual whose name I have sworn not to pronounce.

It was I who had requested he abstain from referring to Mr Budge if he could not do so without swearing. (He could not.) Unfortunately I could not prevent others from referring to Budge. He had preceded us, and everyone we met mentioned him, hoping, I suppose, to please us by claiming an acquaintance in common.

Ramses distracted Emerson by climbing up on the rail, thus prompting a stern lecture on the dangers of falling overboard. I rewarded my son with an approving smile; there had never been any danger of his falling, he could climb like a monkey. With such distractions and a few animated arguments about archaeological matters, the time passed pleasantly enough until we disembarked at Wadi Haifa.

Haifa, as it is now commonly termed, was once a small cluster of mud huts; but in 1885, after the withdrawal of our forces from Khartoum, it was established as the southern frontier of Egypt. It had now become a bustling depot of supplies and arms for the forces farther south. Following the advice of the young military officer whom I consulted, I purchased quantities of tinned food, tents, netting, and other equipment. Emerson and Ramses had wandered off on some expedition of their own. On this occasion I did not complain of their dereliction, for Emerson does not get on well with military persons, and Captain Buckman was a type of young Englishman who particularly annoyed him - prominent teeth, no chin to speak of, and a habit of tossing his head when he laughed in a high-pitched whinny. He was a great help to me, though, and full of admiration for Mr Budge, whom he had met in September. 'Quite a regular chap, not like your usual archaeologist, if you take my meaning, ma'am.'

I took his meaning. I also took my leave, with appropriate thanks, and went in search of my errant family. As I had come to expect, Emerson had a number of 'old acquaintances' in Haifa; it was at the home of one of them, Sheikh Mahmud al-Araba, that we were to meet. The house was palatial by Nubian standards, built of mud brick around a high-walled central courtyard. I had braced myself for an argument with the doorkeeper, for these persons often tried to take me to the harim instead of into the presence of the master of the house, but on this occasion the old man had evidently been warned; he greeted me with salaams and repeated cries of marhaba (welcome) before escorting me into the salon. Here I found the sheikh, a white-bearded but hearty man, and my husband seated side by side on the mastaba-bench along one wall. They were smoking narghiles (water pipes) and watching the performance of a young female who squirmed around the room to the undulating beat of an orchestra consisting of two drummers and a piper. Her face was veiled; the same could not be said of the rest of her.

Emerson sprang to his feet. Teabody! I had not expected you so soon.'

'So I see,' I replied, returning the dignified greetings of the sheikh and taking the seat he indicated. The orchestra continued to wail, the girl continued to squirm, and Emerson's high cheekbones took on the colour of a ripe plum. Even the best of men exhibit certain inconsistencies in their attitude towards women. Emerson treated me as an equal (I would have accepted nothing less) in matters of the intellect, but it was impossible for him to conquer completely his absurd ideas about the delicate sensibilities of the female sex. The Arabs, for all their deplorable treatment of their own women, showed far more common sense in their treatment of me. Having decided that I ranked as a peculiar variety of female-man, they entertained me as they would any masculine friend.

When the performance ended I applauded politely, somewhat to the surprise of the young woman. After expressing my appreciation to the sheikh, I inquired, 'Where is Ramses? We must be on our way, Emerson; I left instructions for the supplies to be delivered to the quay, but without your personal supervision -'

'Yes, quite,' said Emerson. 'You had better fetch Ramses, then, he is being entertained by the ladies. Or vice versa.'

'Oh, dear,' I said, hastily rising. 'Yes. I had better fetch him -

and,' I added in Arabic, 'I would like to pay my compliments to the ladies of your house.'

And, I added to myself, I would also have a word with the young woman who had - I suppose she would have called it 'danced' - for us. I would have felt myself a traitor to my sex if I had missed any opportunity to lecture the poor oppressed creatures of the harim on their rights and privileges - though heaven knows, we Englishwomen were far from having attained the rights due us.

An attendant led me through the courtyard, where a fountain trickled feebly under the shade of a few sickly palm trees, and into the part of the house reserved for the women. It was dark and hot as a steam bath, for even the windows opening onto the courtyard were covered with pierced shutters, lest some bold masculine eye behold the forbidden beauties within. The sheikh had three of the four wives permitted him by Moslem law, and a number of female servants - concubines, to put it bluntly. All of them were assembled in a single room, and I heard them, giggling and exclaiming in high-pitched voices, long before I saw them. I expected the worst - Ramses's Arabic is extremely fluent and colloquial - but then I realised that his was not among the voices I heard. At least he was not entertaining them by telling vulgar jokes or singing rude songs.

When I entered the room, the ladies fell silent, and a little flutter of alarm ran through the group. When they saw who it was they relaxed, and one - the chief wife, by her attire and her air of command - came forward to greet me. I was used to being swarmed over by the women of the harims; poor things, they had little enough to amuse them, and a Western woman was a novelty indeed. On this occasion, however, after glancing at me they turned their attention back to something - or, as I suspected, someone - hidden from me by their bodies.

The heat, the gloom, the stench of the strong perfumes used by the women (and the aroma of unwashed bodies those perfumes strove to overcome) were familiar to me; but I seemed to smell some other, underlying odour - something sickly sweet and subtly pervasive. It may have been that strange scent that made me forget courtesy; it may have been the uncertainty as to what was happening to my son. I pushed the women aside so I could see.

A rug or matting, woven in patterns of blue and red-orange, green and umber, had been spread across the floor. On it sat my son, cross-legged, with his cupped hands held out in a peculiarly rigid position. He did not turn his head. Facing him was the strangest figure I had ever seen - and I have seen a great many strange individuals. At first glance it appeared to be a folded or crumpled mass of dark fabric, with some underlying structure of bone or wood jutting out at odd angles. My reasoning brain identified it as a squatting human figure; my mother's heart felt a thrill of fear bordering on horror when my eyes failed to find a human countenance atop the angular mass. Then the upper portion of the object moved; a face appeared, covered with a heavy veil; and a deep murmurous voice intoned, 'Silence. Silence. The spell is cast. Do not wake the sleeper.'

The elder wife came to my side. She put a timid hand on my arm and murmured, 'He is a magician of great power, Sitt Hakim - like yourself. An old man, a holy man - he does the boy honour. You will not tell my lord? There is no harm in it, but -'

The old sheikh must be an indulgent master or the women would not have dared introduce a man, however old or holy, into their quarters, but he would be forced to take notice of such a flagrant violation of decency if someone like myself brought it to his attention. I whispered a reassuring, 'Taiyib matakhafsh (It is good; do not fear)' - though, as far as I was concerned, it was not at all good.

I had seen such performances in the suks of Cairo. Crystal-gazing, or scrying, is one of the commonest forms of divination. It is all nonsense, of course; what the viewer sees in the crystal ball or pool of water or (as in this case) liquid held in the palm of the hand is nothing more than a visual hallucination, but the deluded audience is firmly convinced that the diviner is able to foretell the future and discover hidden treasure. Often a child is employed by the fortune-teller in the (naive) belief that the innocence of youth is more receptive to spiritual influences.

I knew that to interrupt the ceremony would be not only rude but dangerous. Ramses was deep in some sort of unholy trance, from which he could be roused only by the voice of the magician, who now leaned forwards over the boy's cupped hands, mumbling in a voice so low I could not make out the words.

I did not blame the poor bored women for allowing the ceremony, or even the seer, who undoubtedly believed sincerely in his own hocus-pocus. However, I was not about to stand idly by and wait upon the latter's convenience. Very softly I remarked, 'As is well known, I, the Sitt Hakim, am also a magician of great power. I call upon this holy man to bring back the soul of the boy to his body, lest the efreets [demons] I have set to protect my son mistake the holy man's purpose and eat up his heart.'

The women gasped in delighted horror. There was no immediate reaction from the 'holy man,' but after a moment he straightened and moved his hands in a sweeping gesture. The words he addressed to Ramses were unfamiliar to me; either he spoke some unknown dialect, or they were meaningless magical gibberish. The result was dramatic. A shudder ran through the stiff frame of Ramses. His hands relaxed, and a dribble of dark liquid poured into the cup the magician held below them. The cup vanished into some hidden pocket in the crumpled robe, and Ramses turned his head.

'Good afternoon, Mama. I hope I have not kept you waiting?'

I managed to repress my comments through the long and tedious process of leave-taking, first of the ladies and then of the sheikh who insisted upon escorting us to the very door of the house - the highest honour he could pay us. Not until we were standing in the dusty street and the door had closed behind us did I let the words burst forth. I was considerably agitated, and Emerson had to ask me to stop and elaborate on the story several times before the full meaning of it dawned on him.

'Of all the confounded nonsense,' he exclaimed. 'What were you thinking of, Ramses, to allow such a thing?'

'It would have been rude to refuse,' said Ramses. 'The ladies had set their hearts on it.'

Emerson burst out laughing. 'You are becoming quite a gallant, my boy. But you must learn that it is not always wise, or safe, to indulge the ladies.'

'Upon my word, you take this very lightly, Emerson,' I exclaimed.

'I imagine it was curiosity, rather than gallantry, that induced Ramses to try this experiment,' Emerson replied, still chuckling. 'It is his most conspicuous character trait, and you will never change it; just be thankful that this adventure, unlike so many earlier ones, turned out to be harmless.'

'I hope you are right,' I muttered.

'Nothing worse than dirty hands,' Emerson went on, inspecting the palms Ramses held out. They were darkly stained and still damp. I snatched out a handkerchief and began wiping them; the stuff came off more readily than I had expected, but I caught a whiff of that same odd scent I had smelled before. I threw the handkerchief away. (A toothless street beggar pounced on it.)

As we walked on, Emerson, who suffers from a certain degree of curiosity himself, questioned Ramses about his experience. Ramses said it had been most interesting. He claimed to have been fully conscious throughout, and to have heard everything that was said. However, his responses to the questions of the seer were made without his own volition, like hearing another person speak 'It was mostly about having babies,' he explained seriously. 'Male babies. He promised all the ladies many sons. They seemed pleased.'

'Ha,' I said.

The next stage of our journey was made by rail, along the line laid with such remarkable rapidity from Haifa to Kerma, thus avoiding the rocks of the Second and Third Cataracts. This part of the trip tried even my strength. We had been given the best accommodations available - a battered, ramshackle railroad coach affectionately known as 'Yellow Maria,' which had been built for Ismail Pasha. It had come down in the world since then; most of the window glass was missing, and on the sharp curves and steep gradients of the roadbed it swayed and rattled so violently that one expected it to bounce off the track. The engines were old and in poor repair. Blowing sand and overheating necessitated frequent stops for repairs. By the time we reached our destination Ramses was a pale shade of pea-green and my muscles were so stiff I could hardly move.

Emerson, however, was in fine fettle. Men have it so much easier than women; they can strip down to a point that is impossible for a modest female, even one so unconventional as I.I have always been an advocate of rational dress for women; I was one of the first to imitate the scandalous example of Mrs Bloomer, and the full, knee-length trousers I was accustomed to wear on the dig anticipated by several years the bicycling costumes daring English ladies eventually adopted. Fashions in sport and in costume had changed, but I retained my trousers, which I had had made in a variety of cheerful colours that would not show the effects of sand and dust as did navy blue and black. With the addition of a neat cotton shirtwaist (long-sleeved and collared, of course), a pair of stout boots, a matching jacket, and a wide-brimmed boater, this made up a costume as becoming and modest as it was practical.

During the dreadful train ride I had ventured to unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt and turn up my cuffs. Emerson had of course abandoned his coat and cravat as soon as we left Cairo. Now his shirt gaped open to the waist, and his sleeves had been rolled above his elbows. He wore no hat. After assisting me to alight from the carriage he took a deep breath of the steaming, stifling, sand-laden air and exclaimed, 'The last stage! We will soon be there, my darling Peabody. Isn't this splendid?'

I had not the strength to do more than glare at him.

However, I am-nothing if not resilient, and a few hours later I was able to share his enthusiasm. A troop of Sudani soldiers -which included several of Emerson's acquaintances - had removed our luggage and helped us set up our tents. We had declined with thanks the offer of the harassed captain in charge of the encampment to share his cramped quarters; after assuring us that there would be places for us on the steamer leaving next day, he bade us farewell and bon voyage with obvious relief. As the sun sank rapidly in the west, Emerson and I strolled hand in hand along the riverbank, enjoying the evening breeze and the brilliance of the sunset. The silhouettes of the palm trees stood black and shapely against the glory of gold and crimson.

We were not alone. A troop of curious villagers trailed us. Whenever we stopped they stopped, squatted on the ground and stared with all their might. Emerson always attracts admirers and I had become more or less used to it, though I did not like it.

'I hope Ramses is all right,' I said, turning to look at the rapidly dimming outline of the tent where he slept. 'He was most unlike his normal self. Hardly a word out of him.'

'You said he was not feverish,' Emerson reminded me. 'Stop fussing, Amelia; the train ride was tiring, and even a gritty little chap like Ramses must feel its effects.'

The sun dropped below the horizon and night came on with startling suddenness, as it does in those climes. Stars sprang out in the cobalt vault of the heavens, and Emerson's arm stole around my waist.

It had been a long time since we had enjoyed an opportunity for connubial exchanges of even a modest nature, but I felt bound to protest. 'They are watching us, Emerson. I feel like some poor animal in a cage; I decline to perform for an audience.'

'Bah,' Emerson replied, leading me to a large boulder. 'Sit down, my dear Peabody, and forget our audience. It is too dark for them to observe our actions, and if they should, they could hardly fail to find them edifying - inspiring, even. For instance, this...'

It certainly inspired me. I forgot the staring spectators until a strengthening glow of silvery light illumined the beloved features so close to mine. The moon had risen. 'Oh, curse it,' I said, removing Emerson's hand from a particularly sensitive area of my person.

'It was a refreshing interlude, though,' Emerson said with a chuckle. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his pipe. 'Do you mind if I smoke, Peabody?'

I really did not approve of it, but the soft moonlight and the stench of tobacco smoke recalled tender memories of the days of our courtship, when we faced the sinister Mummy in the abandoned tombs of Amarna.* 'No, I don't mind. Do you remember Amarna, and the - '

'The time I set my - er - myself on fire by neglecting to knock the ashes out of my pipe before I put it in my pocket? And you let me do it even though you knew perfectly well...' Emerson burst out laughing. 'Do you remember the first time I ever kissed you - lying flat on the floor of that cursed tomb, with a maniac shooting at us? It was only the expectation of imminent death that gave me the courage to do it. I thought you detested me.'

'I remember that moment and many others,' I replied with considerable emotion. 'Believe me, my darling Emerson, that I am fully cognizant of the fact that I am the most fortunate of women. From first to last, it has been outstanding.'

'And the best is yet to come, my dearest Peabody.'

His strong brown hand closed over mine. We sat in silence watching the moonlight spread silvery ripples across the dark surface of the river. So clear and bright was the illumination that one could see for a considerable distance. 'The rock formations are extremely regular,' I remarked. 'So much so that one might wonder whether they are not in fact the ruins of ancient structures.'

'They may well be, Peabody. So little has been done in the way of excavation here, so much needs to be done... My colleagues - curse them - are more interested in mummies and treasure and impressive monuments than in the slow, tedious acquisition of knowledge. Yet this region is of vital importance, not only for its own sake, but for the understanding of Egyptian culture. Not far from this very spot are the remains of what must have been a fort or a trading post or both; within its massive walls were stored the exotic treasures brought as tribute to the pharaohs of the Egyptian Empire - gold and ostrich feathers, rock crystal and ivory and leopard skins.' He pointed with the stem of his pipe towards the moonlight lying like a white path along the river and across the sand. 'The caravans went there, Peabody, into the western desert, through the oases, toward the land called Yam in the ancient records. One such caravan route may have gone west from Elephantine - Assouan, as it is today. A series of wadis run westward from this very region; they are dried-up canyons today, but they were cut by water. Three thousand years ago...'

He fell silent; gazing at his stern, strong profile, I felt a sympathetic thrill, for he seemed to be looking not across distance but across time itself. No wonder he felt a kinship with the bold men who had braved the wilderness so many centuries before. He too possessed the unique combination of courage and imagination that leads the noblest sons (and daughters) of humanity to risk all for the sake of knowledge!

With all due modesty I believe I may claim that I possess those qualities myself. The bond of affection that unites me and  f my dear Emerson left me no doubt of the direction in which | his thoughts were tending. Into those distances, so deceptively  ' cool and silver-white in the moonlight, had gone Willoughby Forth and his beautiful young bride, never to return.

However, in addition to courage, imagination, et cetera, I also possess a great deal of common sense. For a time I had - I admit it! - entertained a romantic notion of going in search of the missing explorer. But now I had seen with my own eyes the dreadful desolation of the western desert; I had felt the burning heat of the day and the deadly chill of darkness. It was impossible that anyone could have survived in that arid waste for fourteen long years. Willoughby Forth and his wife were dead, and I had no intention of following them, or allowing Emerson to do so.

A shiver passed through my frame. The night air was cold. Our audience had vanished, as silently as shadows. 'It is late,' I said softly. 'Shall we...'

'By all means.' Emerson jumped to his feet.

At that moment the quiet air was rent by a weird, undulating cry. I started. Emerson laughed and took my hand. 'It is only a jackal, Peabody. Hurry. I feel a sudden, urgent need for something only you can supply.'

'Oh, Emerson,' I began - and said no more, because he was pulling me along at such a pace I lost my breath.

Our tents had been placed in a small grove of tamarisk trees. Our boxes and bags were piled around them; theft is almost unknown among these so-called primitive people, and Emerson's reputation was enough to deter the most hardened of burglars. I was startled, therefore, to see something moving - a slight white shape slipping through the trees with an unpleasantly furtive motion.

Emerson's night vision is not as keen as mine, and perhaps he was preoccupied with the subject he had mentioned. Not until I shouted, 'Halt! Who goes there?' or something to that effect, did he behold the apparition - for so it appeared, pale and silently gliding. As one man (figuratively speaking) we leapt upon it and bore it to the ground.

An all-too-familiar voice exclaimed in plaintive protest. With a loud oath Emerson struggled to his feet and raised the fallen form to its feet. It was Ramses, looking quite ghostly in the white native robe he wore as a nightshirt.

'Are you injured, my boy?' Emerson asked in faltering accents. 'Have I hurt you?'

Ramses blinked at him. 'Not intentionally, Papa, I am sure. Fortunately the ground is soft. May I venture to ask why you and Mama knocked me down?'

'A reasonable question,' Emerson admitted. 'Why did we, Peabody?'

Having had the breath knocked out of me by the fall, I was unable to reply at once. Observing my state, Emerson considerately assisted me to rise; but he took advantage of my enforced silence to continue, 'I hope you understand, Peabody, that the question was not meant to imply criticism, but only inquiry. I reacted instinctively, as I hope I will always do, my dear, when you have need of my assistance. Did you see or hear something I failed to observe that prompted such impetuous activity?'

Normally I would have resented this cowardly attempt to put the blame on me - so typical of the male sex, from Adam on down. But to be honest, I was as bewildered as he. 'No, Emerson, I confess I did not. I too reacted instinctively, and I am at a loss to explain why. I had the strangest feeling - a premonition of danger, of - '

'Never mind,' Emerson said hastily. 'I know those premonitions of yours, Peabody, and with all respect, I prefer not to discuss them.'

'Well, but it was only natural that seeing someone prowling around our stores, I should assume the worst. Ramses ought to have been asleep. Ramses, what were you... Oh.'

The answer seemed self-evident, but it was not the one Ramses gave. 'You called me, Mama. You called me to come, and of course I obeyed.'

'I did not call you, Ramses.'

'But I heard your voice -'

'You were dreaming,' Emerson said. 'What a touching thing, eh, Peabody? Dreaming of his mama and, even in sleep, obedient to her slightest command. Come along, my boy, I will tuck you in.'

With a meaningful glance at me, he pushed Ramses into the tent and followed after. I knew he would sit by the boy until he had fallen asleep; Emerson is somewhat self-conscious about being overheard, especially by Ramses, when he and I are actively demonstrating the deep affection we feel for one another. Instead of retiring to prepare for this activity, I lingered in the shadows of the trees, gazing all around. Moonlight sifted through the leaves and formed strange silvery hieroglyphs upon the ground. The night was not silent, sounds of activity came from the direction of the military base, where the barges were being loaded for the morning's departure. And from across the river, lonely as the cry of a lost and wandering spirit, came the mournful call of a jackal.

Four days later, after an uncomfortable but uneventful voyage, we saw a ruddy mountain loom over the tops of the palm trees. It was Gebel Barkal, the Holy Mountain of the Nubian kingdom. We had reached our destination.

Stone Houses of the Kings

If I have not done so already, I should make it clear that Napata is not a city but an entire region. In modern times several towns and villages occupy the site. Merawi, or Merowe, was the best known; it is a confusing name, resembling so closely that of Meroe, the second of the ancient capital cities of Gush, which is much farther south. Across from Merawi, on the opposite bank of the Nile, was the headquarters of the Frontier Field Force of the Egyptian Army, near the small village of Sanam Abu Dom. The encampment stretched along the river for over a mile, tents neatly aligned in a manner that clearly betrayed the presence of British organisation.

Emerson was unimpressed by this demonstration of efficiency. 'Curse them,' he growled, surveying the scene with a scowl. 'They have put their cursed camp smack on top of a ruined temple. There were column bases and carved blocks here in '82.'

'You weren't planning to excavate here,' I reminded him. 'The pyramids, Emerson; where are the pyramids?'

The steamer edged in towards the quay. 'All over the place,' Emerson replied somewhat vaguely. 'The main cemeteries are at Nuri, several miles upstream from here, and Kurru, on the opposite bank. There are three groups of pyramids near Gebel Barkal itself, as well as the remains of the great temple of Amon.'

The sandstone mass of Mount Barkal was an impressive sight. It is (as we later determined) only a little over three hundred feet high, but because it rises so abruptly from the flat plain it looks higher. Late-afternoon sunlight turned the rock a soft crimson and cast fantastic shadows, like the weathered remains of monumental statues, across the face.

With some difficulty I persuaded Emerson that it would be courteous, not to say expedient, to announce ourselves to the military authorities. 'What do we need them for?' he demanded. 'Mustapha has everything arranged.'

Mustapha flashed me a broad grin. He had been the first to greet us when we disembarked, and his followers had promptly set to work unloading our baggage. Emerson had introduced him as 'Sheikh Mustapha abd Rabu,' but he certainly lacked the dignity one associates with that title. He was no taller than I and thin as a skeleton; his dirty, ragged robe flapped wildly about his body as he performed a series of respectful bows to Emerson, to me, to Ramses, and again to Emerson. His wrinkled face showed the mixture of races that distinguishes this region. The Nubians themselves are of the Brown race, with wavy black hair and sharply cut features, but from time immemorial they have intermarried with Arabs and with the Black peoples of central Africa. I could not see Mustapha's hair, for it was covered by an extravagant turban, once white in colour but white no longer.

I returned Mustapha's smile; it was impossible to be aloof, he seemed so very respectful and so very glad to see us. However, I felt bound to express some reservations. 'Where are they taking our luggage?' I asked, indicating the men who were already trotting away, heavily laden, and with an energy one does not expect to find in warmer climes.

'Mustapha has found a house for us,' Emerson replied. Mustapha beamed and nodded. He was so very agreeable, I hated to cast cold water on the scheme, but I had the direst suspicions of what Mustapha would consider a suitable house. No man, of any race or nationality, has the least notion of cleanliness.

Humming in the tuneless baritone expressive of high good humour, Emerson led me along the path towards the village. From a distance it looked quite charming, surrounded by palm trees and boasting a number of houses built of mud brick. Other huts, commonly known as tukhuls, were built of palm branches and leaves interwoven on a wooden framework. Mustapha, trotting along beside us, kept up a running commentary, amusingly like that of a tourist guide: that large, impressive house was occupied by General Rundle; the pair of tukhuls near it was the headquarters of the Intelligence Service; that hut had belonged to the Italian military attache, and then to the British Museum gentleman...

'Grrr,' said Emerson, setting a faster pace.

'Is Mr Budge still there?' I asked.

'That is what we must determine,' Emerson growled. 'I am determined to stay as far away from Budge as I possibly can; I will not settle on a site until I find out where he is working. You know me, Peabody, I go to great lengths in order to avoid controversy and confrontations.'

'Hmmm,' I said.

One unexpected and welcome feature of the village was a small market operated by Greek merchants. The mercantile instincts of these fellows never cease to amaze me; they are as bold as they are businesslike, moving into an area right on the heels of the fighting men. I was delighted to find that I would be able to procure tinned food and soda water, fresh-baked bread, soap, and all kinds of pots and cutlery.

Emerson found several old acquaintances there, and while he was engaged in friendly banter with one of them I had leisure to look around me. I hope I am no ignorant tourist; I had become accustomed to the wide diversity of racial and national types that are to be found in Cairo. But I had never seen such variety as in this remote corner of the world. The complexions ranged from the 'white' of the English soldier (more sickly yellow than white, and often bright red with heat) through all the shades of brown, tan, and olive to a shining blue-black. Handsome, hawk-faced Beduin rubbed elbows with Sudani women draped in bright-coloured cottons. Bisharin tribesmen, whose hair was oiled and braided into small, tight plaits, mingled with ladies of the stricter Moslem sects hidden by dusty black draperies that left only their eyes exposed. Particularly interesting to me were a pair of tall handsome men jingling with ornaments and topped with hair the size, colour, and consistency of black mops. They were Baggara from the distant province of Kordofan - the earliest and most fanatic of the Mahdi's followers. This extravagant and characteristic hairstyle had won them the affectionate nickname of Fuzzy-Wuzzies from the British troops whom they had fought with such desperate and often successful ferocity. (I have never been able to understand how men can feel affection for individuals who are intent on massacring them in a variety of unpleasant ways, but it is an undeniable fact that they can and do. Witness the immortal verses of Mr Kipling 'So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man!' One can only accept this as another example of the peculiar emotional aberrations of the male sex.)

And the variety of languages! I understood Greek and Arabic, and had learned a little Nubian, but most of the babble was in dialects I could not identify, much less understand.

Emerson finally finished exchanging tall stories with his friend and turned to me. 'Yussuf says he can find some workers for us. We had better go on and... Ramses! Where the devil has he got to? Peabody, you were supposed to keep an eye on him.'

I could have pointed out that it was impossible to keep track øf Ramses by keeping one eye on him; the task required one's total attention and a firm hand on the collar. Before I could do so, Yussuf said in Arabic, 'The young effendi went that way.'

Muttering, Emerson plunged off in the direction Yussuf had indicated, and I followed. We soon found the miscreant; he was squatting in front of one of the booths, engaged in animated conversation with a man wrapped in a voluminous robe or mantle, a fold of which had been drawn over his head to protect it from the sun.

Emerson bellowed, 'Ramses!' whereupon Ramses jumped up and turned to face us. In his hand he held a short wooden skewer upon which were impaled chunks of meat whose origin I could not (and did not care to) determine. He waved it at me, swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing, and began, 'Mama and Papa, I have just found a most interesting - ' 'So I see,' said Emerson. 'Essalamu 'aleikum, friend.' The man had also risen, with a slow dignity that verged on arrogance. Instead of touching brow, breast, and lips in the traditional Arabic greeting, he inclined his head slightly and lifted his hands in a curious gesture. 'Greetings, Emerson Effendi. And to the lady of your house, good health and life.' 'You speak English,' I exclaimed.

'A few words, lady.' He shrugged out of the mantle, which was nothing more than a long strip of cloth, and laid the folds across his shoulders like a shawl. Under it he wore only a pair of loose, knee-length trousers, which displayed to excellent advantage his lean, athletic form and sinewy limbs. On his feet were red leather sandals with long, upward-curving toes. Such sandals were a mark of distinction among the Nubians, most of whom went barefoot. But this man was no ordinary Nubian, though his skin was a dark reddish-brown. His chiselled, regular features bore a certain resemblance to those of the Baggara, but his black hair was cut close to his head.

'He speaks a most interesting dialect, which is unfamiliar to me,' Ramses said. 'I could not resist asking him where -'

'We will discuss your inability to resist interesting dialects later, Ramses,' I said. 'And throw away that - '

It was too late. The skewer was bare.

The tall man repeated his gesture. 'I go now. Farewell.'

Inclining his head, he addressed a brief speech to Ramses in a language that was unfamiliar to me. Ramses, however, had the audacity to nod, as if he had understood it.

'What did he say?" I demanded, taking hold of Ramses. 'Don't tell me you learned enough of the language in five minutes to -'

'You are about to contradict yourself, Amelia,' said Emerson, watching with furrowed brow the dignified yet brisk retreat of Ramses's new acquaintance. 'If he has not learned enough of the language to understand what was said, he can't tell you. Er - what did he say, Ramses?'

Ramses shrugged, looking as enigmatic as any Arab master of that annoying gesture. 'I am sorry, Papa, I am sorry, Mama, that I wandered off. I will not do it again.'

'Come along, come along,' said Emerson, before I could express the incredulity this promise naturally provoked. 'We have delayed too long, and lost our guide. However, we need only continue along the path. On the other side of the market, Yussuf said... I say, Peabody, one can hardly blame Ramses for being intrigued. I have never heard that dialect, and yet a word or two in the last speech was oddly familiar.'

'He is not a Baggara, then?'

'Definitely not. I know something of that speech. Some of the people of the upper White Nile are tall and well-built; the Dinka and Shilluk, for example. He may be from that region. Ah, well, we had better get on. Ramses, stay close to your mama.'

The accommodations Yussuf had found were about what I had expected, i.e., uninhabitable by humans. There were certainly rats in the palm-leaf roof, and the insect life was varied and aggressive. I requested the men to pitch our tents, tactfully explaining that we would reserve the hut for storage, and then, finally, I got Emerson to agree to call on the authorities. We took Ramses with us, though he did not want to come, claiming he preferred to stay with the men and improve his knowledge of Nubian dialects.

However, Ramses perked up when Emerson announced his intention of calling on Slatin Pasha, who was assisting the Intelligence Department. I myself looked forward to meeting this astonishing man whose adventures had become the stuff of legend.

Rudolf Carl von Slatin was Austrian by birth, but like a number of European and English military men, he had spent most of his life in the East. When the Mahdi overran the Sudan, Slatin was serving as governor of Darfur, the province to the west of Khartoum. Though he fought gallantly against overwhelming odds, he was finally forced to surrender; and for eleven years he was held prisoner under conditions so appalling that only courage and will could have kept him alive. His most terrible experience occurred after the capture of Khartoum, when, as he sat in chains upon the ground, a party of Mahdist soldiers approached him, carrying some object wrapped in a cloth. Gloating, the leader unwrapped the cloth to display the head of Slatin's friend and leader, General Gordon. He finally made good his escape, and those who saw him shortly afterwards said he looked like a withered old man of eighty.

Imagine, then, my surprise when we were shown into the presence of a stout, hearty, red-cheeked gentleman, who rose politely from his chair to bow over my hand. He and Emerson greeted one another with the familiarity of old acquaintances, and Slatin asked how he could help us. 'We were warned of your coming, but frankly I could hardly believe - '

'Why not?' Emerson demanded. 'You ought to know that when I say I will do something, I do it. As for Mrs Emerson, she is even more bull - er... determined than I.'

'I have heard a great deal about Mrs Emerson,' Slatin said, smiling. 'And about this young man. Essalamu 'aleikum, Master Ramses."

Ramses promptly replied, 'U'aleikum es-salam warahmet Allah warabakatu. Keif balak? (And with you be peace and God's mercy and blessing. How is your health?)' and went on in equally fluent Arabic, 'But my own eyes inform me, sir, that it is excellent. I am surprised to see how very stout you are, after the privations you endured at the hands of the followers of the Mahdi.'

'Ramses,' I exclaimed.

Slatin bellowed with laughter. 'Don't scold him, Mrs Emerson; I am proud of my girth, for every pound represents a triumph of survival.'

'I would like very much to hear of your adventures,' Ramses said.

'One day, perhaps. At the moment I am fully occupied gathering reports from men who have returned from enemy territory. Intelligence,' he added, addressing Ramses, whose fixed stare he probably took for boyish admiration, 'is the nerve network of any army. Before we begin the next stage of the campaign, we must find out all we can about the strength and disposition of the Khalifa's forces.'

'If that's your excuse for going into winter quarters instead of continuing to Khartoum...' began Emerson.

'Our excuse is that we wish to save lives, Professor. I don't want to lose a single brave man through stupidity or lack of preparation.'

'Hmph,' said Emerson, who could hardly deny the sense of this. 'Well, then, to business. You are a busy man and so am I.'

Upon inquiry, Slatin told us that Mr Budge had already investigated the pyramid fields of Nuri, Kurru, Tankasi, and Zuma, and was now working at Gebel Barkal. 'There is, or was, a temple of considerable size there,' Slatin said. 'Mr Budge believes it was built by the pharaoh Piankhi - '

'Mr Budge doesn't know what he is talking about,' Emerson interrupted. He turned to me. 'Good Gad, Peabody, can you believe it? Four separate cemeteries in a few months! And now he is ransacking the temple, scooping up objects for his bloo - his precious museum. Curse it, we must go there at once! I'll run him off before he can do any more damage, or my name - '

'Now, Emerson, remember your promise,' I said in some alarm. 'You said you intended to stay away from Mr Budge.'

'But curse it, Peabody - '

'Pyramids, Emerson. You promised me pyramids.'

'So I did,' Emerson grumbled. 'Very well, Peabody. Where shall it be?'

Slatin had followed the exchange with openmouthed interest, 'You make the decisions, Mrs Emerson?"

Emerson's brow darkened. He is a trifle sensitive about being considered henpecked. Before he could comment, I said smoothly, 'My husband and I have discussed the subject at length. He is making a courteous gesture, that is all. We had agreed on Nuri, Emerson, had we not?'

In fact, the decision was not a difficult one; the only thing that could have kept me from Nuri was learning that Budge was there. Nuri had a number of advantages. In the first place, it was ten miles away from the military base. That made it inconvenient from the point of view of fetching supplies, but the distance reduced the chances of unpleasant encounters with Mr Budge and with the army. In the second place, the reports I had read, by Lepsius and others, made me suspect that the Nuri tombs were the oldest and hence the most interesting, dating, as they might, from the period of the Nubian conquest of Egypt in 730 B.C. They were also more solidly built, being of cut stone throughout instead of a mere outer layer of stone over a core of loose rubble.

'It makes no difference to me,' Emerson said moodily.

It was therefore decided that we would leave the following morning, which gave me the rest of the afternoon to shop and make arrangements for transport. Slatin informed us that the trip across the desert by camel required approximately two hours, but he recommended that we go by water instead, even though it would take longer. Camels were very hard to find, owing to the devastation wrought by the rebels and the fact that the army had first call on them.

After I had appealed to him as a gentleman and a scholar, he promised to do all he could to help us. Men are very susceptible to flattery, especially when it is accompanied by simpers and fluttering lashes. Fortunately Emerson was still brooding on the sins of Mr Budge and did not interfere.

In fact, it was after noon the next day before we got under way. Washing the camels took longer than I had anticipated. Where Yussuf had found them I did not ask, but they were a sorry-looking group of animals, which had obviously never been under the care of the officer in charge of the military camels. I had had a most interesting chat with this gentleman; he operated a kind of hospital for ailing camels outside the camp, and I was pleased to find that his views on the care of animals agreed with mine. I had had the same problem with donkeys while in Egypt. The poor beasts were shamefully overloaded and neglected, so I had made it a policy to wash the donkeys and their filthy saddlecloths as soon as they came under my care. Captain Griffith was good enough to give me some of the lotions and medicines he used, and most efficacious they proved. However, camels - like other animals, including human beings - are not always aware of what is good for them, and the ones Yussuf supplied did not take kindly to being washed. I had become fairly expert at dealing with donkeys, but washing a camel is a much more complicated procedure, owing in part to the greater size of the latter animal and in part to its extremely irascible disposition. After some futile experiments, which left everyone except the camel quite wet, I finally worked out a relatively effective procedure. I stood upon a temporary platform of heaped-up sand and stone blocks, with my bucket of water and lye soap and my long-handled brush, while six of the men endeavoured to restrain the camel by means of ropes attached to its limbs and neck. It would have been hard to say which made the most racket, the camel or the men holding it, for despite my best endeavours some of the soapy water splashed onto them. However, this was all to the good, for some of them needed washing too. (I must add that the procedure would have gone more smoothly had Emerson condescended to help me instead of collapsing in helpless mirth.)

The pyramids of Nuri stand on a plateau a mile and a half from the riverbank. The sun was sinking westward when we came within sight of them, and their shadows formed grotesque outlines across the barren ground.

My heart sank with the sun. I had studied the work of Lepsius, and I ought to have been prepared for the dismal reality, but hope will ever triumph over fact in my imagination. Some of the pyramids still stood relatively intact, but they were pathetic substitutes for the great stone tombs of Giza and Dahshur. Most were only tumbled piles of stone, with no sign of a pyramid shape. The whole area was strewn with fallen blocks and heaps of debris. It would take weeks, perhaps months, of arduous labour to make sense of the plan, even if we had had the necessary number of workers.

I had hoped to find a tomb chapel or other structure that could be converted into a residence, but my sand-and sun-strained eyes searched in vain for any such convenience. The temperature was approximately one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the camel's jolting gait had reduced my muscles to jelly, and blowing sand had scoured the skin from my face and seeped into every crevice of my clothing. I turned a look of bitter reproach (for my throat was too parched for speech) on my husband, who had ignored the sensible advice of the military authorities and insisted on travelling by camel instead of waiting until we could hire a boat.

Impervious to my distress, Emerson urged his camel to kneel. Dismounting with the agility of a boy half his age, his face beaming, he hastened to me and addressed the animal upon which I perched 'Adar ya-yan! Come along now, you heard me - adar ya-yan, I say.' The cursed camel, which had grumbled and protested every order I had given it, promptly obeyed Emerson. Those among my Readers who are acquainted with the habits of camels know that they lower the front end first. Since they have extraordinarily long limbs, this procedure tilts their bodies to a considerable degree. Stiff and exhausted, caught unawares by the quickness of Emerson and the camel, I slid down the slope and fell to the ground.

Emerson picked me up and dusted me off. 'Quite all right, are you, Peabody?' he asked cheerfully. 'We'll pitch our tents there, between those two southernmost pyramids, don't you think? Quite. Come along, Peabody, don't dawdle, it will be dark soon. Mohammed - Ahmet - Ramses - '

Spurred by his enthusiasm and his friendly curses - and no doubt by the desire for food, rest, and water- the men began to unload the camels. I leaned against mine, which had lowered its back section and lay upon the sand. It turned its head to look at me. I cleared my throat. 'Don't even think of it,' I said hoarsely. The camel coughed, in the irritating way they have, and looked away.

Some water from the small canteen attached to my belt restored me to my usual self, and I hastened to assist Emerson. After I had pointed out that he had picked the wrong place for the camp, and found a better one, matters went smoothly. By the time the sun had sunk below the western hills I was able to retire to the privacy of a tent and remove my sandy, perspiration-soaked garments. The relief was indescribable. When I emerged I found Emerson and Ramses sitting cross-legged on a bit of carpet. A small fire crackled merrily; some distance away was the fiery glow of a larger fire, and I could hear the cheerful voices of the men and smell dinner cooking. Emerson quickly jumped up and led me to a chair, placing a glass in my hand.

The cool night breeze stirred the damp tendrils of my hair. The vault of heaven blazed with stars that cast a mystical glow along the sides of the pyramid. Feeling like a queen enthroned, surrounded by kneeling courtiers, I sipped my whiskey and opened my senses to the allure of the desert wastes. And when Emerson sighed deeply and remarked, 'Ah, my dear Peabody; life cannot hold any greater charm than this,' I was forced to agree that he was right.

We began next morning to make key plans of the pyramids. A certain amount of excavation was necessary to establish, as far as was possible, the original dimensions, but our main focus, as Emerson insisted, was that of recording. Since my dear Emerson's real passion is digging things up, this was a sign of his genuine concern for scholarship over treasure-hunting. After comparing the plans of Lepsius, drawn in 1845, with what remained, I was shocked to find how much the monuments had deteriorated in half a century. Finding traces of recent and hasty, excavation at the base of the best preserved of the pyramids, Emerson blamed all of the depredation on Budge, but as I pointed out, even Budge could not have done so much damage in a few hours. Time, and the treasure-hunting instincts of the local villagers, must be partially responsible.

From these villages, scattered along the riverbank, we procured our workers, and being old hands at organising excavations, we soon had a routine worked out. The men were divided into three groups, under the command of Emerson, myself, and Ramses. I must admit that Ramses was a great help, though I soon got tired of hearing Emerson congratulate himself on insisting the boy come with us. Ramses, of course, was in his element, and it was rather amusing to hear his shrill voice shouting out orders in his extremely colloquial Arabic and increasingly fluent Nubian. His linguistic abilities impressed the men, who had been inclined at first to treat him with the same amused tolerance they showed their own progeny.

By the end of the work week we had a pretty fair idea of the general plan of the site. A pyramid of considerable size must once have dominated the area; it had completely collapsed, and additional work would be necessary to determine its original dimensions. In front of it, in a rough semicircle, were four smaller pyramids, with another row of ten pyramids to the southeast. Lepsius's original plan showed a number of smaller, shapeless masses of stone clustered west and north of the great(!) pyramid and scattered at random among the others. We found ten such mounds not shown on his map. At that point we were forced to break off work for the inevitable day of rest. Our men were Moslems, most of the Hanafi sect; their holy day was, of course, Friday. Emerson was all for continuing the work without them, pointing out, with perfect truth, that the surveying itself required no more than three people. However, I persuaded him that we also deserved, if not a day of rest, at least a brief period spent at the camp and the nearby market. We needed supplies, more camels, and, if possible, more workers.

We had offered to let our men leave on the Thursday evening, but they refused with thanks and with a great shuffling of feet and sidelong glances. They were afraid of jinn and ghosts, which as all men knew came out in the dusk. So the following morning they all scattered to their villages and we set out for the camp. In the relative cool of the morning the ride was pleasant enough, and as we drew near Sanam Abu Dom, the view of the great mountain across the river became increasingly impressive. I was particularly struck by several oddly shaped rock formations that resembled the great statues of Ramses II at Abu Simbel. Emerson, who had been staring at the mountain with greed writ clearly across his handsome countenance, muttered, 'That is the greatest temple of Nubia, Peabody. Excavation there would undoubtedly produce invaluable historical material. Since we are at loose ends today - '

'We are not at loose ends; I have a great deal to do,' I said firmly. 'Furthermore, Mr Budge is working at Gebel Barkal, and you swore to me you would stay away from him.'

'Bah,' said Emerson, as I had expected he would.

Pleased to have had my stratagem of keeping Emerson and Mr Budge apart succeed, I was extremely annoyed to find that I had overlooked one fact. Mr Budge's workmen, too, were enjoying their day of rest, and Mr Budge had decided to pay a visit to his friends at the camp.

Fortunately Emerson was not with me when I made this discovery. He and Ramses had gone off to the village, ostensibly for the purpose of trying to hire more men, though, knowing their habits, I had the direst suspicions of what they would actually do. It had been left to me to strengthen our ties with the military establishment. I therefore rode directly to the camel hospital (my humorous term for it), since the beast I bestrode had an eye infection concerning which I was anxious to consult Captain Griffith. After a delightful and useful conversation, he informed me that General Rundle, having heard of my arrival, had invited me to join him and some of the other officers at luncheon. 'And the professor too, of course,' he added.

'Oh, I have not the slightest idea where Emerson may be at this time,' I replied. 'No doubt he is lunching with a Dervish or a Greek shopkeeper or a Beduin sheikh. So I will be happy to accept the general's invitation.'

I tucked the tube of ointment he had given me into one of the pouches at my belt. Captain Griffith studied this accessory curiously. 'Pardon me, Mrs Emerson, but you seem to be somewhat - er - encumbered. Would you care to leave your -er - accoutrements here? They will be quite safe, I assure you.'

'My dear Captain, I would as soon think of going about without my - er - my hat as without my belt,' I replied, taking the arm he offered. 'It is a trifle noisy, I confess; Emerson is always complaining about how I jangle and clank when I walk; but every object has proved not only useful but, upon occasion, essential to survival. A compass, a small canteen, a notebook and pencil, a knife, a waterproof box containing matches and candles -'

'Yes, I see,' the young man said, his eyes shining with interest. 'Why waterproof, may I ask?'

I proceeded to tell him about the time Emerson and I had been flung into the flooded burial chamber of a pyramid, and then, as he seemed to be genuinely fascinated, went on to explain my theories of appropriate attire for excavation. 'One of these days,' I declared, 'women will boldly usurp your trousers, Captain. That is to say - not yours in particular - '

We enjoyed a hearty laugh over this, and the captain assured me that my meaning had been quite clear. 'I have no designs on them myself,' I went on. 'These full, divided skirts are more flattering to a female figure, and yet they allow perfect freedom of movement. Furthermore, I suspect that the flow of air through their folds renders them more comfortable in a hot climate than those close-fitting nether garments of yours.'

He quite agreed with me; and in such interesting conversation the brief walk seemed even briefer. The general occupied a 'mansion' - two rooms and a walled courtyard, plus a separate shed which served as a kitchen - built of mud brick instead of the usual interwoven branches. Emerson is always going on about the decadence of military officers, who have to have their personal servants wherever they go, but after the random efforts of our camp cook whose regular occupation was that of camel driver, I was looking forward to a decent meal prepared by a trained servant. My pleasure received only a slight check when I saw Mr Budge among the men who rose to greet me.

'I believe you know Mr Budge,' General Rundle said, after he had introduced the others.

'Yes, yes, we are old friends,' said Mr Budge, beaming all over his round, red face and transferring his glass to his left hand in order to give me a damp handshake. 'And where have you left the professor, Mrs Emerson? You are making great discoveries at Nuri, I understand.'

The grin that accompanied the last sentence explained his good humour; having appropriated the best site for himself and having made certain that there was nothing of obvious value at ours, he could afford to gloat. I replied with perfect courtesy, of course.

We took our places at the table. I was, naturally, seated next to General Rundle. He was an amiable man but his conversational efforts did not tax me unduly; I was able to observe that Budge kept shooting glances at me, and something in his look aroused the direst of suspicions. It was as if he knew something I did not know - and if it amused Budge, it was certain not to amuse me. Sure enough as the last course was being cleared away and a lull fell upon the conversation, Budge addressed me directly.

'I do hope, Mrs Emerson, that you and young Ramses aren't planning to go with the professor when he sets off in search of the Lost Oasis.'

'I beg your pardon?' I gasped.

'Do try to dissuade him from such a fruitless and dangerous , quest,' Budge said, pursing his lips in the most hypocritical look of| concern I have ever seen on a human countenance. 'A fine fellow, the professor - in his way - but given to these little fancies - eh?

'Quite right, ma'am,' the general rumbled. 'No such place, you know. Native tales and idle rumours - never thought the professor would be so gullible.'

'I assure you, General,' I assured him, 'that "gullible" is not the word for Professor Emerson. May I ask, Mr Budge, where you heard this piece of idle and inaccurate gossip?'

'I assure you, ma'am, it is not idle gossip. My informant was a certain Major Sir Richard Bassington, who arrived yesterday on the paddle wheeler from Kerma, and he got it direct from the source - Mr Reginald Forthright, grandson of Lord Blacktower. Major Bassington met him at Wadi Haifa, some days ago. He was looking for transport south - without success - '

'I should hope not,' General Rundle exclaimed. 'Don't want a lot of civilians hanging about. Er - present company excepted, of course. Who is this fellow and what put this particular bee in his bonnet?'

Budge proceeded to explain, at quite unnecessary length. The name of Willoughby Forth made an impression; several of the older officers had heard of him, and General Rundle appeared to know something of his history. 'Sad case, very,' he mumbled, shaking his head. 'Hopeless, though. Quite hopeless. The damned - excuse me, ma'am - the confounded Dervishes must have got him. Can't imagine why that old reprobate Blacktower would allow his grandson to go baring off on such a ridiculous jaunt.'

'Forthright seemed very determined,' Budge said smoothly. 'He had a message from Professor Emerson, inviting him to join in the expedition. Dear me, Mrs Emerson, you look quite thunderstruck. I hope I have not been indiscreet.'

Rallying, I said firmly, 'I am only surprised at the folly of people who invent such stories, and the greater folly of those who credit them. General, I have greatly enjoyed your hospitality; I won't detain you and your officers any longer from the labours that await you.'

With a last mocking salutation, Budge strutted off in the company of some of the younger officers, and I took my leave.

The Reader can well imagine the bitterness of spirit that filled me as I hastened on towards the suk, where Emerson and I had agreed to meet. My husband - my other half - the man who had sworn his eternal devotion, and to whom I had given mine - Emerson had deceived me! If he had really asked young Mr Forthright to join him, he must be planning to pursue the quest he had so often derided as folly. And if he had not consulted me, he must be planning to go without me. It was treachery of the vilest and most contemptible kind; never would I have believed Emerson could be capable of such betrayal.

The rich, malodorously mingled scents of the market assaulted my nostrils. It is said that the olfactory sense is the quickest to adapt; certainly I had found that within a day or so after arriving in Egypt, I no longer noticed the distinctive odours of the country, which many Europeans find distasteful. I cannot claim that I breathed them in with the same pleasure I would have found in the aroma of a rose or a lilac, but they brought back delightful memories and were thereby rendered tolerable. Today, however, the stench made me feel a trifle ill, compounded as it was of rotting vegetation, dried camel dung, and sweating unwashed human bodies. I rather regretted having eaten quite so much.

I traversed the suk from end to end without seeing any sign of my husband and son. Retracing my steps, I settled myself on a bench in front of one of the more prosperous establishments and prepared to purchase foodstuffs. The Greek shopkeepers do not engage in the long exchange of courtesies that precedes any purchase in the suks of Cairo, but I expected I would have to do some bargaining, and so it proved. Rice, dates, tinned vegetables, and some water jars - of the coarse, porous type that permits cooling by evaporation - had been acquired when the shopkeeper broke off his discussion and began a series of extravagant bows. Turning, I saw the familiar form of my husband approaching.

He was bareheaded, as usual, and his waving dark locks shone with bronze highlights. His smiling face, the strong brown throat bared by the open collar of his shirt, the muscular forearms, also bared, had their usual softening effect; after all, I thought, perhaps he had not deceived me. The story I had heard had been third-hand; it might have been distorted, especially by Budge, who was always eager to think the worst of Emerson.

I did not see Ramses, but I assumed he was there, his slighter form hidden by the crowd, for Emerson would not have looked so pleased if he had managed to lose the boy. However, it would have been hard to overlook the individual who followed my husband at a respectful distance. The folds of his mantle shadowed his features, but his height and lithe movements made his identity unmistakable.

'My dear Peabody!' said Emerson.

'Good afternoon, Emerson,' I replied. 'And where is... Oh, there you are, Ramses. Don't try to hide behind your father; you are even dirtier than I expected you would be, but I can't do anything about that now. What is that brown stain all down your shirtfront?'

Ramses chose to ignore the direct question in favour of the accusation. 'I was not hiding, Mama. I was talking with Mr Kemit here. He has taught me a number of useful phrases in his language, including -'

'You may tell me later, Ramses.' The brown stain appeared to be the residue of some kind of food or drink - something sticky, to judge by the number of flies that clung to it. I transferred my attention to Ramses's tutor, who replied with one of his curious gestures of greeting. 'So your name is Kemit, is it?'

'He has agreed to work for us,' Emerson said happily. 'And bring two others of his tribe. Isn't that splendid?'

'Very. And where do your people live, Mr - er, Kemit?'

'It is a tragic story," said Ramses, squatting with a supple ease no English lad should have demonstrated. 'His village was one of many destroyed by the Dervishes. They cut down the date palms, killed the men and boys and dishonoured - '

'Ramses!'

'I see that as always you have made good use of your time, Peabody,' Emerson said quickly. 'Are we ready to go back to Nuri?'

'No. I want to buy some trinkets - beads, mirrors, and the like - as gifts for the men to take their wives. You know I always try to become friendly with the women, in the hope of instructing them in the rights and privileges to which their sex is morally entitled.'

'Yes, Peabody, I do know,' Emerson said. 'And while I am in full sympathy with the justice of that cause, I do feel - as I have had occasion to mention before, my dear - that your chances of bringing about any lasting change... Well, but that is by the by; shall we finish making our purchases and be on our way?'

Followed by porters carrying our goods, we made our way to another booth. Ramses chose to honour me with his company. 'You would like Kemit's people, Mama,' he remarked. 'Their women are highly respected - except by the Dervishes, who, as I told you, dishonoured - '

'Kindly refrain from referring to the subject again, Ramses. You don't know what you are talking about.'

However, I had an uneasy feeling that he did know.