She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
paused, looking up at the ridge sharply outlined against the clear
blue of the sky.
Perhaps, after all, discretion was the better part of valour. He might
quite easily break his neck if he attempted this climb in the
darkness. He stood there for a while looking about him, and knocking
out his pipe upon the heel of his bass-soled shoe.
These slopes above and below he knew to be literally honeycombed. This
weird place, almost unreal in its colouring under the moon, was no
more than a vast necropolis. A month before, with New York’s life
pulsing around him, the thought of this desolation and of being lonely
amid it would have been appalling. Yet so adaptable is human nature
that already he was growing accustomed to these haunted solitudes.
He began to refill his pipe. Upon a ridge fifty yards away, sharply
outlined in the moonlight, a slinking shape appeared for a moment and
as quickly disappeared. A jackal! Only the night before one had
visited Mahmoud’s pantry, had succeeded in some mysterious fashion in
opening the door, and had absconded with a cold chicken, a portion of
a tin of sardines, and a piece of cheese. Another, even more original
in his tastes, had stolen one of Professor Blackwell’s slippers.
Barry determined to return to the camp by a circuitous route which he
knew, and which would bring him out at the lower end of the _wâdi_.
Having satisfactorily lighted his briar, he set out, now walking more
briskly and wondering if the night shift at work in the tomb of
Zalithea had succeeded in penetrating to the second portcullis.
Danbazzar, an old hand at the business, had arranged a sort of bonus
system which was a constant urge to the men, and effectively abolished
any possibility of slacking. If the shift which changed at twelve
o’clock or that which changed at four should be in a position to
report that their immediate objective had been gained, they were
instructed to awaken Danbazzar, or in his absence John Cumberland.
Barry, stepping out briskly upon the comparatively clear path which he
had chosen, conjured up a vision of the chamber in which, if their
hopes should be realized, they would find Zalithea.
Prior to their final departure from Luxor he had visited several
characteristic tombs under the guidance of Hassan es-Sugra. He
imagined that the chamber of the sleeping princess would be different
from any of these. His impatience was so great that he could scarcely
contain himself. He doubted if even his father’s enthusiasm was
greater than his own. Danbazzar, whatever he felt, revealed little.
Hassan es-Sugra seemed to be removed from all human emotions.
Coming to the lowest point in his descent, about half a mile below the
excavation, he paused, looking about him.
By moonlight the place was different. But he recalled that it did not
matter which of the several paths to the left he took, since any of
them would ultimately bring him to his destination, and if one should
prove impassable he could always return. Crossing a flat-topped mound,
he descended the slope beyond and saw beneath him a rugged bowl dotted
with minor ruins, probably of those stone huts which occurred in the
Valley of the Kings. He stood looking down. It might be wise to avoid
this valley, which no doubt contained pitfalls and across which he
would have to climb rather than walk.
Then, as he hesitated, suddenly he saw something--something that
caused him to shrink back, to inhale sharply--to wish he were not
alone.
A figure was moving in the deep shadows of the hollow--a figure
definitely horrible in such a place at that hour. It presented the
appearance of a tall, gaunt man! There was a faint light, too, a
fitful, elfin light which rose and fell--rose and fell--among the
ruins!
All the old confidence with which Barry had walked through this place
of the dead now deserted him. He recognized that he was afraid--and
was ashamed of the recognition. But he retraced his steps swiftly,
never pausing or glancing back until he had regained the main path.
Then, from behind him, far behind him, came a sound.…
Someone or something was climbing up from the bowl of the little
valley!
In the profound silence of that place the noise was clearly audible. A
jackal was out of the question; for no four-footed creature is more
silent than a jackal in its comings and goings. He stood still,
listening intently. Footsteps!--unmistakably those of a man and not of
any four-footed beast!
Immediately facing him where he stood was an irregular mound of rock
and sand, outlined on the right by the silver of the moon, but a place
of ebony shadows on the left. He crossed into the shadow and waited.
Nearer and nearer came the approaching footsteps. Whoever was coming
up from the valley of the ruined huts was about to enter that narrow
gully through which Barry had walked!
Half a dozen reasonable explanations presented themselves, but his
mind rejected them one after another. Eeriness touched him with a cold
finger. He watched the vague slash in a wall of darkness, which, from
his present position, represented the entrance to the gully. Now, the
one who approached was coming along it. In another moment he would be
out. Three more paces must bring him into the light.
Barry’s heart was beating rapidly. He was afraid--and did not know of
_what_ he was afraid.
And now he realized that the one who walked had cleared the gap,
although he could not yet see any movement in the shadow. A
second--two seconds--three seconds elapsed… and a man came out into
the moonlight.
It was Danbazzar!
CHAPTER XV.
THE HAWWARA
Automatically Danbazzar’s hand dropped to his hip, the first
intimation Barry had of the fact that he carried arms; then:
“All right!” cried Barry, and stepped out of the shadow, conscious of
an almost ridiculous sense of relief.
But, for a moment, Danbazzar did not move.
“What are you doing here!” he demanded--for it was less a question
than a demand.
Barry experienced a momentary vague resentment.
“If it comes to that,” he replied, “what are _you_ doing here?”
Danbazzar smiled and came forward, shrugging his broad shoulders and
dismissing the matter with a slow, graceful wave of his hand.
“I believe,” said he, “that we have both got the ‘jumps.’ _I_ am here
because my donkey boy refused to come beyond the end of the valley at
this time of night. And as we have no accommodation for a donkey, I
let him return to Kurna. As a matter of fact, I helped him start!”
“I see,” said Barry, meeting the fixed stare of those strange eyes.
“For my part, I was taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep. But
weren’t you prowling about in the hollow down yonder?”
“I was,” Danbazzar replied gravely. “I had an idea that someone was
hiding there, watching me--and I won’t be spied upon.”
“That’s odd!” said Barry; “because _I_ had a notion I saw someone
there about five minutes ago.”
“Is that so? What was _your_ impression--a tall thin man?”
“Yes,” Barry nodded, “unpleasantly like an unwrapped mummy!”
“Humph!” Danbazzar lighted a cigarette. “Very queer! Evidently you’re
not aware of the fact that that little hollow is supposed by the Arabs
to be haunted!”
Side by side they proceeded up the slope, Danbazzar heading
confidently for the camp. He seemed to know these desolate hills as he
knew every street and every alley in Cairo. For Danbazzar, Egypt had
few secrets.
“However,” said Barry, “if we really saw anybody, it was probably some
harmless eccentric who lives alone in one of the ruins.”
“It may have been,” Danbazzar murmured, “or it may not! What news of
the tomb?”
“They are still enlarging the opening, but except for Hassan and the
younger Said, no one has been through yet.”
“I’m very anxious,” Danbazzar declared.
“You can’t be more anxious than I am!” cried Barry.
“Possibly not,” the other admitted, “but my anxiety may be different
from yours. I have spent several hours to-day with Mr. Tawwab.”
“Yes,” Barry prompted eagerly--“what do you think he knows?”
“I don’t think he knows anything. He’s just guessing. But he takes it
for granted that we’re digging somewhere--for something. We’re going
to be watched, or intimidated, or both!”
“Intimidated!” Barry echoed.
“Exactly!” Danbazzar nodded in his slow, grave fashion. “I practically
made Tawwab an offer in the roundabout ceremonious fashion which alone
they understand. He intimated with equal circumlocution that he didn’t
think the price high enough. I told him in a complimentary speech of
fifteen minutes to go to the devil. He pressed on me several cups of
coffee and nasty musk-scented cigarettes. Then he gave me to
understand in the course of twenty minutes or more that I had his
official permission to go to hell likewise. We parted perfectly good
friends, though. It was a question of terms. But I think he holds the
winning card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well!” Danbazzar shook his leonine head. “Mr. Tawwab reverted to the
story of these Hawwara Arabs reported from El Kharga. I thought it was
just plain lying when he spoke of it at first, but as he came back on
the matter to-day I knew there was more in it. He informed me, with
deep regret, that a party of the Hawwara had been reported on the
caravan road some five miles south of Araki.”
Coming from moonlight into shadow at that moment, Barry met the glance
of the speaker’s eyes.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that they are coming in this direction?”
“That’s what Tawwab implied,” Danbazzar admitted. “They must have come
from the Farshût road, and now they’re heading our way. He professed
to be much concerned about our safety, pointing out that at this
season our camp was a very lonely one. It’s true enough that, after
leaving Kurna, except for a few scattered houses we’re pretty well
isolated.”
“But what do you think he was driving at?” said Barry. “These Arabs
are surely peaceable enough?”
“As a rule they are,” was the reply, “but a wave of fanaticism will
sometimes pass through a tribe, or a section of a tribe, and then they
go Mad Hatter. However, I certainly know why Tawwab kept coming back
to it.”
“Why?”
“To drive the price up! He was good enough to mention that his
relations with the sheik who seems to be at the head of this
mysterious movement have always been of a most cordial character.”
“The devil take it!” Barry muttered. “Why can’t he mind his own
business!”
“Well,” Danbazzar smiled, “departmentally speaking, this _is_ his
business! If he handled it properly we should find ourselves under
arrest to-morrow! No!”--he shrugged his broad shoulders--“Mr. Tawwab
holds the cards. We’ll play as long as we can play, after which we
must _pay_.”
A beam of light shining out across the bottom of the _wâdi_ and the
unmistakable rattle of poker chips signified that John Cumberland and
the Professor were still at their game. The appearance of Danbazzar,
however, broke it up, and, eagerly listened to by the party, he gave a
detailed account of his visit to Luxor.
“I can’t imagine any reason for the Arabs coming in this direction,”
said John Cumberland, when Mr. Tawwab’s warning had been repeated to
the party.
“There can be only one reason,” Danbazzar returned gravely.
“What is it?”
“This camp!”
He tensed his lips in a grim manner, reaching across for the bottle of
Martell Three Stars, his favourite beverage in moments of reflection.
“Of course,” Professor Blackwell broke in, “they may assume that we
have large sums of money in our possession.”
“They would assume rightly!” Barry remarked. “Can you count on the
men, Danbazzar?”
“On the excavators?” the latter inquired, pouring out a drink and
turning his eyes toward the speaker. “On every man of them.”
“We haven’t arms enough to go round,” John Cumberland murmured. “Oh!