She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
“It was written that we should succeed,” said Hassan.
“What?” Barry demanded, conscious of a new tingling in his veins.
“It was the work done last year,” Hassan continued calmly, “which made
it possible. If we had known, sir, with a little more time and trouble
we could have completed. The second portcullis is broken. I cannot say
how it was broken. But we have made a way through.”
“Well!” Barry cried. “What’s below?”
“A small square chamber,” Hassan replied, “without any decorations. On
the right is a doorway. It has been closed with square blocks and
cemented up. We have removed one of these blocks without great
difficulty. When the warning came I had just shone the light of a
torch through the opening, sir, which the workmen had made.”
“Yes!”
Barry grasped his arm hard.
“It is the burial chamber,” Hassan went on calmly. “A great granite
sarcophagus is there, untouched.”
Almost too excited for speech, Barry pointed, and Hassan, gravely
inclining his head, took from beneath his robe a pocket torch.
Stooping, he led the way down the shaft.
At the side of the first portcullis was an irregular opening wide
enough for a man to squeeze through. Hassan went first and then so
directed the light of his torch as to assist Barry to follow.
“Now, sir,” he said, as the latter joined him in the lower part of the
tunnel, “be careful here. The roof has fallen. It is this, I think,
that broke the second door.”
Bending forward, and at one point going on all fours, the two pressed
on. Presently, climbing through a gap not more than eighteen inches
high, over a mass of broken granite which seemed to have fallen from a
deep cavity in the roof, Barry suddenly remembered Professor
Blackwell’s theory about the second portcullis.
The heat in the lower part of the shaft was oppressive, but having
proceeded for another twenty feet the descent ceased. They found
themselves in a small, square chamber hewn out of living rock, some
three paces across, and perhaps nine feet high.
At first glance the wall upon the right resembled that in front and
that upon the left; but the trained eye of Hassan es-Sugra had almost
immediately detected the trick. It was plaster covering square
blocks--in part at least. This plaster had been chipped away--it was
several inches in thickness--over a space of a square yard or so.
Beams of wood and all sorts of excavators’ implements lay about the
apartment. And, presumably by means of these, one of the blocks had
been forced into the chamber beyond. The effect was that of a small
square window in a very thick wall.
“Take the torch, please,” said Hassan, “and shine it through and a
little to the left.”
He passed the torch to Barry. And the latter was surprised to find
that his hand was shaking slightly. Hassan es-Sugra smiled.
“Triumph is sometimes terrible, as well as defeat,” he said.
Barry grasped the light and thrust it forward into the opening. A beam
shone out before him, upon a rose sandstone sarcophagus! The covering
was accurately in place. Clearly no human hand had touched it for
centuries.
He experienced a curious choking sensation. He turned the light
slowly, so that the beam moved along the top of the sarcophagus lid
and beyond, upon the wall of the chamber.
The wall was brilliantly and beautifully painted. Immediately before
him, slightly to the right of the sarcophagus, the disk of white light
came to rest. Barry could feel his heart thumping against the rough
stone upon which he rested. He was staring at a symbol in high relief,
exquisitely coloured. It was that which meant: “She Who Sleeps but Who
Will Awaken.”
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. TAWWAB COMES TO TERMS
“In my opinion,” said Professor Blackwell, “the whole thing might be
described as a demonstration.”
John Cumberland nodded.
“I agree with you,” said he.
“You are right,” Danbazzar confirmed, “and we’ll have proof of it in
the next few hours.”
“In what form?” Barry asked.
“A visit from Mr. Ahmed Tawwab!”
Danbazzar tensed his lips, looking fiercely from face to face. The
anxious night was ended, and in the light of early morning this was a
somewhat haggard company. Danbazzar with Hassan es-Sugra had been up
onto the crest and had explored the Farshût caravan road for some
five miles northwest of the camp, but had found no trace of the Arabs.
It was possible that they were still somewhere in the vicinity, but
Danbazzar considered this unlikely.
“We’ll drive right on!” he boomed. “I wouldn’t check now for a million
dollars! The work below can’t be heard in the valley, and all we have
to watch for is that we’re not seen coming or going.”
“Mahmoud tells me that two or three of the men are nervous,” said
Barry.
“What about?” his father inquired--“the Arabs?”
“Yes.”
“They’d better keep their nerves out of sight!” roared Danbazzar’s
great voice. “If Hassan sees any signs of nerves he’ll knock stars out
of them!”
“A most surprising character,” Professor Blackwell murmured.
“He’s the most efficient headman, sir,” Danbazzar assured him, “at
this kind of work that ever came out of Egypt. We’re surely lucky to
have him.”
“Quite!” said the Professor. “I quite agree.”
Mahmoud, grinning cheerfully, appeared with steaming coffee, and as
the sun crept up into the sky the vapours of the night disappeared.
Triumph was in sight. The discovery of the granite sarcophagus, alone,
in John Cumberland’s opinion justified the expedition.
“Even if it were empty,” said he, “its existence confirms the
authenticity of the papyrus.”
“It won’t be empty,” Danbazzar asserted confidently. “That lid has
never been moved since a Rameses reigned in these parts. When early
tomb robbers have been at work, it’s generally found smashed.
Certainly they would never have taken the trouble to put it back
again.”
“There is another possibility,” Professor Blackwell interrupted. “I
believe it was Dr. Rittenburg who mentioned it: the possibility that
the story of Princess Zalithea was merely a sort of religious
ceremonial. I am disposed to share his theory. I seem to recall that
no bull has ever been found in the Apis mausoleum. The sarcophagi are
all empty.”
John Cumberland, behind the speaker’s back, pulled a wry face.
“True enough, Blackwell,” he admitted; “but then the lids had all been
moved!”
“Quite, quite!” the Professor said. “The parallel is not exact, I
agree.”
“There’s no damned parallel at all!” boomed Danbazzar. “Inside this
granite sarcophagus there’s a wooden sarcophagus, and in that there’s
a mummy!”
“How long will it take to remove the other blocks?” Barry asked
excitedly.
“We ought to be in to-night!” was the reply. “It’s an easy job. That
doorway was only temporarily walled up--as we might have expected.”
“And what about lifting the lid?”
“We have a set of jacks for the purpose, Barry,” his father replied.
“They are in the cases that were shipped from Birmingham to Port Said.
It is this sort of heavy gear that makes our position so dangerous. If
Mr. Tawwab saw those jacks, for instance----”
“Quite!” said Professor Blackwell, and poured out another cup of
coffee, to which he added a finger of rum.
Danbazzar had brought some mail across from Luxor, including a cable
for Barry from Jim Sakers, which had infuriated the former to the very
limits of endurance. It was conceived as follows:
Called on Mr. Brown yesterday afternoon. Door was opened by Princess.
Recognized description. Height five eight. Age fifty-two. Weight
thirteen ten. She carried a rolling pin at beginning of interview and
threw it at end of same. Congratulations.
Jim.
There was also a letter from Aunt Micky touching briefly upon the
principal causes of dysentery in hot climates and emphasizing the
claims of Vichy water as a dentifrice. There was much home chat about
mutual friends, and then a brief postscript which read:
Avoid Nile boils. I had one on my honeymoon.
Barry hurried back to the excavation, his father accompanying him.
Danbazzar had a number of arrangements to make in regard to the
transport of necessary implements to the tomb, and it was considered
desirable that one representative of the party should remain in camp.
Therefore Professor Blackwell remained.
And so it happened that late in the afternoon, while the Professor sat
in the shade before his tent, studying through a magnifying glass a
number of small bones from the arm of a mummy, neatly arranged upon a
sheet of white paper, he started suddenly and looked up from his task.
The cause of his disturbance was a distant shot. It came from
somewhere between the camp and Kurna, and ordinarily it would not have
aroused especial interest. This morning it had a particular meaning.
Professor Blackwell placed the specimens inside the tent, and,
standing up, clapped his hands sharply. An Arab appeared from the
kitchen. In the absence of Mahmoud, who was a specialist in the kind
of work now going forward in the tomb of Zalithea, this man was
preparing the midday meal. But he had other duties; and, as he saluted
the Professor:
“Danbazzar Effendi!” said the latter, and pointed southwest.
The Arab saluted again and set off at a steady trot along the _wâdi_.
Professor Blackwell peered into the kitchen. He found nothing more
formidable going forward than the slow stewing of a sort of vegetable
ragout; and so he contentedly lighted his pipe, which had gone out.
Already the morning was uncomfortably hot, and Professor Blackwell’s
costume must have occasioned some little comment had he seen fit to
wear it before a class of students at Columbia. It consisted of canvas
shoes, B.V.D’s and a sun helmet. The more exposed parts of his person
presented a glistening appearance, occasioned by the presence of a
certain pungent oil with which he anointed himself against the onset
of mosquitoes and sand flies.
About half an hour later Danbazzar appeared, followed by the Arab
messenger. His was a picturesque and attractive figure. His great
height and breadth of shoulder appeared to best advantage in such
attire as he wore now: A very clean white shirt with sleeves rolled up
above the elbow, the low pointed collar unbuttoned, white breeches,
and tan riding boots. He wore also a soft felt hat, wide brimmed,
light gray in colour, and he held a cigar between his small,
strong-looking teeth.
“You got the signal?” he asked abruptly.
Professor Blackwell nodded.
“Half an hour ago,” he replied.
“Then we can expect him almost any time,” said Danbazzar.
“Have you got everything ready to be moved up to the tomb?” the
Professor asked.
“Yes.” Danbazzar nodded. “I’m only waiting to get the measure of
Tawwab. Then I’ll shoot it all along.”
They were apparently deep in conversation and quite unaware of the
presence of any stranger, when presently Ahmed Tawwab strolled into
the _wâdi_. He was smoking a cigarette and looking about him, as one
who lounges in Bond Street, or idly glances at the notices in the
lobby of his club.
Danbazzar suddenly saw him, and:
“Why! Mr. Tawwab!” he exclaimed, and jumped up. “Look, Professor,
who’s here!”
“Surely, Mr. Tawwab?” the Professor murmured. “How fortunate you find
us at home!”
Mr. Tawwab agreed that Fate had indeed been very kind, coffee was
prepared, and a perfectly meaningless conversation began. After a long
time:
“Mr. Cumberland and your other young friend will be returning
shortly?” Mr. Tawwab inquired.
“Probably in an hour or so,” Danbazzar assured him. “They are visiting
one of the more interesting tombs.”
“Ah! the tombs--Yes. I thought they might be shooting.”
“Shooting?” Danbazzar echoed. “No, I don’t think so; not this
morning.”