She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
invested the building. Here, in this vast, wonderful temple-place,
she must have walked--the Princess Zalithea!--the beautiful,
mysterious girl of the past who was so like that other, who lived, who
surely lived, in the present! His blood tingled, impatience claimed
him, and, suddenly turning to Hassan:
“When do we begin to excavate?” he asked abruptly.
“I hope, sir, the day after to-morrow.”
“Good!” said Barry.
The magic of Egypt had got into his veins. He knew that whatever else
life might hold for him, wherever Fate should guide his steps, always
until the end he would hear it calling him--calling him back to the
Nile.
Later that night in the almost deserted lounge of the hotel he got
into conversation with a very bored young man whose job was connected
with the Irrigation Department. In a less virulent case this young man
could not have failed to prove a perfect antidote.
“Dead-alive hole, this,” he declared, “out of the season. Did you stay
long in London?”
“A week,” Barry replied.
“Lucky man!” sighed the other. “I would cheerfully sell all Egypt, if
it belonged to me, for a week in London. See any new shows?”
“One or two.”
“Gad! I’d see one every evenin’! And after the show I’d go on to the
Kit Cat, first night; the Embassy, next night; Ciro’s, third night.
And so forth.”
“Really?” said Barry. “That’s odd! The life in London or New York or
Paris seems to be much the same. I’ve been fed up with the usual round
for years!”
“I’ve never had a chance to get fed up,” the other declared
plaintively. “I went straight from Oxford to the war, straight from
the war to hospital, and straight from hospital to this blasted hole.”
“Don’t you get a vacation sometimes?”
“_Sometimes_ is right,” said the other.
Barry laughed at his acquaintance’s pessimism and ordered another
drink. As the waiter brought it:
“You are not here for fun, are you?” the irrigation man inquired
wearily; “because there’s nothing funny about Luxor.”
“No,” said Barry guardedly. “My father and I are here on a job of
work.”
“You are not goin’ to try to Americanize Egypt, are you?” the other
suggested.
“Not exactly,” Barry replied. “Dad has a scheme for exploiting the old
caravan road to the Dakhla Oasis.”
“What for?” drawled his acquaintance. “Nobody wants to go there!”
“They might,” Barry returned, “if the journey were easier.”
“Goin’ to build a hotel there?”
“I don’t quite know, but we are starting out to-morrow to prospect.”
“Good luck!” murmured the irrigation gentleman, raising his glass. “If
I’m still alive when you come back you might bring me a few dates.
They are the best dates in Egypt. I don’t think they grow anything
else.”
Their chat was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of
Professor Blackwell, expected that evening from Assouan and evidently
newly arrived.
“Ah! Professor!” cried Barry, jumping up. “Glad to see you! Does Dad
know you are here?”
“No,” the Professor replied, dropping into an armchair. “I have only
this very moment come in.”
Barry introduced the Professor to the irrigation expert, who
presently, however, having offered to buy more drinks, withdrew to
what he termed his “fly trap,” nodding gloomily to Barry as he went.
“Don’t forget the dates,” were his parting words.
Going back to their rooms, Barry ushered in Professor Blackwell. John
Cumberland, who was seated at a table studying some maps, stood up
gladly to greet him. Danbazzar, his broad back to the room, was
staring out of the open window across the Nile to where, sharp in the
moonlight, the Libyan Hills were outlined against the sky. He turned,
fixing his penetrating regard upon the new arrivals; and:
“Hassan tells me,” Barry began eagerly, “that we start operations on
Thursday. Is that correct?”
“It’s surely correct,” came Danbazzar’s deep voice. “I don’t know
who’s been giving public recitations, but it looks like some of our
plans have leaked out. Yes, sir, we start on Thursday.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE CAMP IN THE DESERT
Barry now entered upon a period of existence widely different from
any he had known. Danbazzar’s camp was in the neck of a _wâdi_ on the
north of the caravan route from Thebes to Farshût. Further north, and
visible from the tents, on the summit of a mountain stood an ancient
watchtower, used in the days of the Pharaohs by the tomb guard. All
about were remains of stone huts which had probably been the quarters
of these guards. On the right, above terraced, desolate hills covered
with débris of abandoned excavations, rose the stately mass of El
Kurn, the Horn.
Here in this weird quarry to which no one ever penetrated, they had
their base of operations. The native excavators, in charge of a
headman who proved to be one of the group that had been seated outside
the Luxor café, had their quarters several miles distant, in a sort
of tumbledown village principally inhabited by dogs. Native life in
the towns had offered novel features, but the conditions prevailing in
this desert village surpassed anything Barry could have imagined. An
entire absence of sanitary arrangements was the outstanding novelty;
next to which he never got used to the spectacle of a considerable
family, a number of dogs, chickens, and sometimes a donkey, residing
happily together in one apartment which could have been covered by a
full-sized dining table.
They reached camp at dusk, although they had crossed the river in the
morning, having travelled by a circuitous route over high ridges and
through gloomy passes, to find that a native cook had prepared dinner
and that Hassan es-Sugra, who had gone ahead, was waiting to receive
them.
Before attacking the meal, Barry, tired though he was, climbed the
side of the _wâdi_ and stood on the edge of a small plateau, looking
out to the rosy haze that marked the course of old, distant Nile. The
unforgettable dusk of Egypt was falling. Rocks showed like black
smudges on a gray canvas, and the sky was passing through an amazing
transformation of delicate blue to shell pink, which, by some natural
magic, combined to form the violet afterglow which is not the least of
this country’s beauties.
From below came a faint clattering of cooking utensils, and a dog was
howling somewhere, probably in the village where the workmen were
quartered. The great adventure had begun. To-night he was to see for
the first time the tomb of Princess Zalithea!
He uttered a deep sigh, which was a sigh of contentment, and climbed
down the steep descent again to the camp.
They dined inside one of the tents, Danbazzar deeming it unwise to
court attention from any chance travellers upon the ridge above.
Barry stooped and entered the little canvas dwelling which was to be
his home for some time to come. It presented a spectacle, on that
first night, which was always to remain with him as an odd memory.
Plates of steaming tomato soup (Heinz tinned variety) were set upon
the small square table, which even boasted a white cloth. The cook, a
big, bearded fellow from the Fayyum, his magnificent teeth revealed in
a constant grin, was just placing loaves and a pitcher of water upon
the hospitable board.
Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches,
and gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin
had assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an
unspoken retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn
farce--a dream from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland,
also coatless, sat on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and
began to carve it vigorously, looking up as Barry entered.
It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this
sun-baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out
of place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the
table. He wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun
helmet. He was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the
_Scarabæus_ family which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his
soup.
“Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our
new quarters?”
“First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair.
“If we go on in this style we shan’t starve.”
Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and:
“There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these
fellows are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so
Danbazzar informs me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than
water.”
The soup dispatched:
“Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,”
said John Cumberland.
Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen
had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the _wâdi_,
suspiciously like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The
glistening, smiling face of Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected
light. He smiled as he cooked and sang soft Arab love songs.
Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony
cane, Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of
the chef. At the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a
great distance it seemed to come--above and beyond--a rhythmic,
silvery jingling. He had just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,”
when Hassan turned toward him and raised his hand in warning.
Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly.
Ebon shadows lay in the _wâdi_; above, on crags and terraces of the
mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical
sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been
justified.
Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry
stood, silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel
bells! High above on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its
way from Thebes to Farshût.…
After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of
war, seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan
es-Sugra attended.
“Although no precautions have been neglected,” said Danbazzar, “there
appears to be suspicion about the object of our journey in certain
quarters. I had an interview yesterday with the secretary of Mudîr of
Luxor. We have known each other for some years, and he gave me a big
dose of advice about the route beyond El Kharga.”
Danbazzar paused, tensing his lips so that his abbreviated beard stuck
out truculently, a peculiar mannerism which Barry had noted before.
Then:
“The Mudîr’s secretary was most hospitable,” he went on, “and so
anxious for our comfort that I’m dead sure he knew I was lying. He
knew we had no more intention of visiting the oasis than he has.”
“But how could the truth have leaked out?” John Cumberland asked.
“What about these people in the village,” Barry suggested, “where the
men are quartered?”
Hassan es-Sugra extended his palms and softly intruded with a remark.
“They are of the Hawwara,” he explained, “or claim to be. They owe
allegiance to their own sheik, and he is my friend. No, it will be
some of the workmen, while in Luxor, who have been talking.”
“Then what can we do?” John Cumberland demanded.
“I could thrash two or three of the men,” Hassan suggested gently,
“until I found one to speak the truth.”
Barry stared in amazement at the æsthetic face of the speaker,
thinking that he jested; but no smile appeared. This was apparently a
firm offer.
“No!” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “It would do no good. If this
fellow Tawwab suspects anything----”
“Exactly,” said Professor Blackwell uneasily; “that is just what I am
wondering. If he suspects anything, what will he do? Inform the
Inspector of Antiquities?”
Danbazzar knocked ash from his cigar. The scarab ring upon his finger