It Happened in Egypt by C. N. Williamson & A. M. Williamson (page 4)

(Was that a flag fluttering on the horizon?)

“Well, then–it isn’t _my_ business, of course. But one can’t help being interested in him, he’s such a–such a romantic sort of figure, as you said yourself. And there’s something so high and noble about him–I mean, about his looks and manners–that one hates to be disappointed.”

“You _would_ have him with us, you know!”

“I know. And–and I’m glad I–we–_have_ got him. It’s a–it’s an experience. I suppose he’s rather wonderful. But don’t you think he ought to remember that he isn’t _exactly_ a prince? He isn’t even called Bey. And if he were, its not the same as being a prince of Ancient Egypt.”

“In what way has he presumed on his–er–near–princehood?”

“I believe he has–fallen in love with Biddy!”

“By Jove! _Let_ the flag flutter!”

“What flag?”

“Oh–er–that was only an expression. They use it where I live. Why shouldn’t he fall in love with Biddy, when you come to think of it?”

“He’s of a darker race. Though–he does seem so like _us_. Of course she couldn’t marry him. It wouldn’t do. _Would_ it?”

“I don’t know. I must think it over. Is that all you were going to tell me?”

“No. I suppose it’s natural he should fall in love with Biddy. She’s _so_ attractive! But the worst part about it is that he has _proposed_ to Aunt Clara.”

“Not possible!”

“Yes. He has. I saw part of the letter–the first part. She’s the only one of us who thinks it would be right to marry a man of Egyptian blood, because you know she believes she’s Egyptian herself–and she’s always talking about reincarnations. _I_ don’t see that It’s such a wonderful coincidence his name being ‘Antoun.’ It wouldn’t be so bad if he were in love with her; but it’s Biddy who is always right in everything she says and does, according to him–just as I am always wrong. Aunt Clara is richer than Biddy. I can’t bear to fancy that’s why he has proposed; it would take away all the romance”

“Don’t strip him of his romance yet,” said I, again torn between interest in Monny’s incredible statement, and excitement which grew with the growing in size of those flags on the horizon. “You may wrong him. If you saw only the _first_ part of the letter–“

“There could be no mistake. It was in hieroglyphics, and who but ‘Antoun’ would have written such a letter to Aunt Clara? She asked me to translate it, the night she dug it up at Fustât–“

“Dug–“

“And when I’d read as far as, ‘Beautiful Queen, Star of my Heart, be my wife,’ she snatched the paper away, and put it inside her dress, saying she’d look up the rest in one of my books.”

“Good heavens! You must have changed places at Fustât. That letter couldn’t have been for her!”

“It couldn’t have been for any one else. ‘Beautiful Queen’ meant Queen Cleopatra. She said so herself. I don’t know what she’s going to do about it.”

“Do about it?” I echoed desperately. “Why–” and just then my straining eyes saw that on the middle flag in the fluttering row were four large red letters on a white ground. Slaney had betrayed me! Everything depended on getting that flag down before those letters declared themselves to other eyes. “Excuse me,” I finished my sentence with a gasp.

Monny must have gasped also, as she saw me suddenly dash away from her at full speed of one-camel power. But I had no time to think about what she might think. I suppose I must have done something to the steering-gear of that camel, which coastguard camels do not permit. Whatever it was, it got me into the midst of camp before I could draw breath; but I have a dim recollection of being caught by Arab arms, and seeing suppressed Arab grins, as mechanically I felt to see how far the end of my spine stuck out at the top of my head.

“That flag! Pull it down!” was my first gasp, pointing convulsively to the banner which shrieked, “Cook!” “Quick–before they come!”

Dazed by my vehemence, several Arabs scuttled to obey the order, but there were too many of them. Each hindered his neighbour, and as I danced about, making matters worse, out pounced our withered chêf from the kitchen-tent.

“It was _he_ brought that flag, wrapped round something,” explained one of the men, in Arabic. “When he saw we had other flags, but none of Cook, he gave it to us to put over the biggest tent, because he thought it shameful to have no flag of the master’s.”

“Cook isn’t the master. I’m it,” I burbled, with a leap to catch the tell-tale square of white as it reluctantly came down. But I was too late. Sir John Biddell and Harry Snell, the newspaper man, came gallumping up on their camels before I could stuff the flag into my pocket.

“What’s the matter?” they asked, as their animals squatted to let them down. “Were you run away with? What are you so mad about? Hullo! What flag’s that–C-O-O-K!”

“It should be over the kitchen-tent,” I heard myself explaining. “Don’t you see? C-O-O-K! It’s the cook’s special flag. He brought it himself, but these chaps went and flew it over the dining-tent in place of the Union Jack. That’s why he and I are mad.”

And I thanked all the stars on Monny’s tent flag that none of the Set understood Arabic.

After this, how could I hope to explain to Monny that the hieroglyphic proposal was mine, and that she, not Cleopatra, ought to have dug it up? She isn’t a girl used to having men run away from her, on camelback or anything else–so naturally she thought me a rude beast, and showed it. Besides, even if I’d dared, I should have had no chance to straighten matters out; for though the flag-episode was after all no fault of Slaney’s, there were a few little things which had escaped even his Napoleonic memory; and it was only by combining the feats of an acrobat with those of a juggler that I saved my reputation during the next half hour.

No sight could have been more beautiful in our eyes than that village of white tents in the waste of yellow sand. Our wildest imaginings could have pictured nothing more perfect, more peaceful.

Tea was ready, in the huge dining-tent, where folding chairs were grouped round a white-covered table. The floor of sand was hidden with thick, bright-coloured rugs, and it was finding “T. C. and Son” on the wrong side of one which Miss Hassett-Bean’s foot turned up, that filled me with renewed alarms. Hastily I laid the rug straight, placed a chair upon it, and persuaded everybody to have tea before inspecting their bedroom tents. While they drank draughts and dabbed jam on an Egyptian conception of scones, I hurried like a haggard ghost from tent to tent, seeking the forbidden thing. Cook on the backs of the little mirrors hanging from the pole hooks!… Will it wash off?… No! Cut it out with a penknife! Down on your knees and tear off the label from the wrong side of another carpet! (Memo: Must do the one in the dining-tent when the people are asleep for the night.) Cram three Cook towels into my pockets. Hastily pin a handkerchief over the name on a white bit of a tent wall. Must have it cut out, and patched with something, later. Shall have to pay damages when I settle up with Slaney. Lady Macbeth wasn’t in it with me! All she needed was a little water. I have to have pins and penknives and pockets all over the place.

I didn’t get any tea. But that was a detail. And everybody was so delighted with everything that my spirits rose, despite a snub or two from Monny–for which Biddy tried to make up. People took desert strolls, or sat on dunes, and gazed into the sunset which couldn’t have been better if I had turned it on myself. Along the western horizon ran a pale flame of green blending with rose, rose blending with amethyst, and in the distance the Pyramids of Dahshur burned with the red of pigeon-blood rubies.

The wind had died among the desert dunes, and it was not till after dinner that any one realized the arctic fall of temperature. It was too cold to enjoy playing bridge or any of the games I had brought; and the only hope of comfort was in bed. People said good night to each other in the comparatively warm dining-tent, and then gave surprised shrieks or grunts (according to sex) at the piercing cold. Several of the elder ladies fell over ten-tropes, despite the large lanterns illuminating the desert, and had to be escorted to their bedroom tents, and soothed. After this, silence reigned for a few minutes, and I had stealthily begun to work on the biggest rug-label, when arose a clamour of voices and presently appeared the dragoman lent by Slaney.

“Eight ladies wishing hot-water bottles,” he explained.

But there were no hot-water bottles. We had thought of everything, it seemed, except hot-water bottles.

“I tell them very sorry but can’t have?” Yusef suggested, looking pleased.

“Let me think!” I groaned. “What about the mineral water bottles we emptied at lunch and dinner? Let the cook boil water, and we’ll supply the bottles.”

This was done; and I was proud of the inspiration, with the pride that comes before a fall. When I began to write, in my bedroom tent, wrapped in all the blankets of the bed that should be Anthony’s, I had the place to myself. But about midnight a head was unexpectedly thrust through the door-flap. It looked ghostly in the haze of colour made by the gorgeous appliqué work of high roof and octagon walls, which gave an effect of sitting at the bottom of a giant kaleidoscope.

“Who’s that?” I hissed, in a whisper meant to be discreet, but which roused a camel or two in the ring outside the tents.

“Biddell–Sir John Biddell,” replied the head. “I saw your light, and remembered you had your tent to yourself to-night. Those hot-water bottles have been leaking. There’s one at least gone wrong in most of the ladies’ tents. The married men have given their beds to girls who are drowned out. ‘Twas _your_ idea about those bottles, wasn’t it? I expect you’ll hear from it in the morning! Three of us want to come and camp in here with you.”

“All right,” I sighed, with a sinking heart. “I _like_ sitting up, and you can toss for the cots.”

* * * * *

At this moment Sir John Biddell reposes in one of them, General Harlow in the other. These gentlemen were so affected with the cold that they went to bed in their clothes, then got up to put on their overcoats, then got up again and put on their hats. On the floor lies a certain Mills of Manchester, rolled in all the rugs, except one which I have on, after surrendering my blankets. He has his head in a basket, to keep off the icy draught; and in the ruggy region of his spine, as he rests on his side, are the letters C-O-O-K. I wonder if I could rip them off without waking him up?

CHAPTER XV

THE DESERT DIARY TO ITS BITTER END

_Tuesday_: The principal water-cask has leaked; consequently not enough water to go round. Chêf said it was a question of baths, or soup. Considering the cold, most of the people voted for soup. Some washed in Apollinaris. Others douched with soda siphons. We can get more water to-night. Can’t think why the north wind doesn’t stop and warm itself while traversing the Mediterranean or the hot sands! It seems to be in too fierce a hurry and consequently cuts across the desert, like a frozen scythe, the moment its rival the sun has gone to sleep. I hear that Miss Hassett-Bean cried with cold as she dressed, and put on two of everything; but she is luckier than the younger women. Monny and Mrs. East, though warned that nights would be chill, have come clothed in silk and gossamer, and have brought low-necked nightgowns of nainsook trimmed with lace. This was confided to me soon after sunrise by a blue-nosed Biddy, hovering over the kitchen fire and –incidentally–ingratiating herself with the cook. It wouldn’t be Biddy if she weren’t ingratiating herself with some one!

Nobody yearned to get up early (I speak for others, as _I_ passed my night in the attitude of a suspension bridge between two folding chairs); but in camp where sleep is concerned, men may propose, camels dispose.

Their nights they spend in a ring of camelhood, huddled together for warmth; and if they do not have nightmare or bite each other in their sleep, mere humans in neighbouring tents may hope for comparative silence in the desert, if not near a village full of pi-dogs. At sunrise, however, a change comes o’er their spirit. They are given food, and made as happy and contented as it is their nature to be, which apparently is not saying much. Judging by the strange, inarticulate oaths they constantly mutter, they are equally accursed in their sitting down and their getting up. It is only when they are actually “on the move,” floating and swaying through the air–legs, tail, neck, jaws–that they have nothing disagreeable to say. Immediately after dawn this morning, our camels began to imitate every animal they could have met since the days of the Ark, when one had to know everybody. They mewed like cats, hissed like snakes, bleated like sheep, roared like toy lions, grunted like pigs, barked like dogs, squawked like geese, and bellowed like baby bulls. Also they gargled their throats like elderly invalids. It was useless trying to sleep; and when I had accomplished such bathing as the chêf permitted, I went out to see what was the matter. Nothing was the matter, except that the creatures had the sunrise in their eyes, and could see the camel-boys preparing their loads; but I was glad I had come out, because Biddy was there and the scene was beautiful. Shivering, we chuckled over the morning toilet of the camels, who turned their faces disconcertingly upon us, sneering with long yellow teeth, and bubbling as if their mouths were full of pink soapsuds, when they realized that we were laughing at them.

Incidentally we learned why the Baby Sphinx accompanied our caravan uninvited. His name is Salih; and he came because there’s a very important camel (the property of his father) who refuses to eat or stir without him. It is a most original and elaborate camel. It has a neat way of turning its ears with their backs to the wind, in order to make them sand-proof. If any person other than Salih touches it, an incredible quantity of green cud is instantly let loose over their turbans; but at the approach of Salih it emits a purring noise, preens its head for the nose-strap ornamented with a bunch of palmlike plumes, and playfully pretends not to want the bersím which the little black Sphinx thrusts down its throat in handfuls. This, it seems, is good camel table-manners. And it is to the tail of this animal that Salih clings on the march. If he is not there, the animal looks round, stops, or turns to charge at any Arab who jestingly misuses its idol.

Yesterday the miniature Sphinx was in a white robe. To-day he is in black. All the Arabs have changed their clothes, although they have brought no visible luggage except vague pieces of sacking. The dragoman is exquisitely arrayed, galabeah and kaftan gray-blue, with a pink petticoat, and a white one under that. I suspect that he sleeps beneath the dining-table–and the other Arabs among the kitchen pots–yet they are smarter than any of us Europeans, all of whom have a frayed air. This, I suppose, would not be so in desert-fiction. Nothing would be said about hot-water bottles leaking, or beetles beetling (one doesn’t come to Egypt to see live scarabs), or draughts raging, or camels gobbling, or flags flapping all night. (Memo: Abolish flags, even at expense of patriotism.)

Despite every desert drawback, however, Biddy and I agreed that the sunrise alone was worth the journey, and the pure air of dawn which, though cold, seemed perfumed by mysterious rose-fields. Just at sun-up the desert was lily pale–then, as the horizon flamed, a dazzling flood of gold poured over the dunes. The sun was a fantastic brooch of beaten copper, caught in a veil of ruby gauze, while here and there a belated star was a dull, flawed emerald sewn into the veil’s fringe. Shadows swept westward across the desert like blue water, showing a glitter of drowned jewels underneath; and though last night it had seemed that we were alone in a vast wilderness, now there were signs that a village lay not far off. A group of children in red and blue, staring avidly at the camp, were like a bunch of ragged poppies in the sand. Their mangy pi-dogs had ventured nearer, to smell sadly at the meat-safes hanging outside our kitchen-tent. A gypsy-woman with splendid eyes and a blue tattooed chin, breakfasted on an adjacent dune with her husband. Men like living hencoops passed in the distance. Patriarchal persons blew by, in that graceful way in which people do blow in Egypt, driving a flock of sheep, with a black lamb “for luck.” These men were dressed as their ancestors had dressed in the time of Abraham, and Biddy and I envied them. How nice, said she, to wear the same clothes for a hundred years if you happened to live, and never be out of fashion. If a few of your things dropped off by degrees, you were still all right, and nobody would be rude enough to notice!

Our faded family revived after breakfast, and even those who vowed they hadn’t closed an eye all night enjoyed the scene of striking camp. The big white tents fell to the ground like pricked soap-bubbles; whereupon their remains were deftly rolled up and tied on to the backs of bitterly protesting camels. Beds, mattresses, tables, chairs ceased to be what they had been and became something else. Camels made faces and noises. Arabs tore this way and that, doing as little work as possible. The cook fluttered about in his blanket, brandishing a saucepan. Yusef the dragoman made noble gestures of command, and our little desert city ceased to exist except on camels’ backs. It was shaved off the surface of the earth, and went churning and swaying along toward the next stand; the procession rising and falling among swelling dunes, under a sky which seemed to trail like a heavy blue curtain, where at the horizon it met the gold.

We travelled over pebbly plateaus, scattered with jewel-like stones. Sand-pyramids rose out of the glistening plain. Here and there were rocks like partly hewn sphinxes pushing out of the sand to breathe; other rocks like monstrous toads; and still others dark and dreadful in the distance as ogres’ houses. Altogether the desert gave us a truly Libyan effect, which made the Set feel that after all they were getting what they had paid for, with an introduction to a beauty and heiress thrown in. But apropos of this latter boon, it is dawning upon me that Rachel Guest is receiving more attention than Monny. This strikes me as inexplicable. There are more men than women in our party, all young except Sir John Biddell, General Harlow, and Mills of Manchester, a soft, fat sort of fellow whose first name you can never remember. It occurred to me on starting, that the desire of so many unattached young men to spend a week in the desert and the Fayoum, might not be unconnected with Miss Gilder’s intention to join the party. Not being jealous, I expected to see a little fun, and laugh over it with Biddy, who is a heavenly person with whom to share a joke. But if there is a joke, I haven’t seen the point yet, nor has she. There’s no disputing the fact that Miss Guest, the poor, brave school teacher on holiday, is the belle of the desert.

Of course, if Monny had stopped in Cairo, Rachel’s success with our men wouldn’t be astonishing. As Brigit and Monny warned me in their letters to the _Candace_, she grows better looking every day; but though she is distinctly of Monny’s type, despite those slanting eyes, she will never be a real beauty, or a Complete Fascinator, like our Gilded Girl. Besides, Monny has millions, and Rachel hasn’t a cent. Yet there it is! Miss Guest is having the “time of her life” in spite of leaky water bottles and bumping camels, while Miss Gilder might be an old married woman, for all the attention she gets from any man on this trip except me. What can be the explanation? Even those two exaggerately German-looking men with Bedr stared at Rachel from their respectful distance. It turns out that they camped not far from us last night. Yusef heard this from one of our camel-boys. But they kept to themselves, and didn’t come within a mile of us, so there’s nothing to complain of. Every one except Sir John delighted with to-day’s desert. He can’t see anything beautiful in yellow lumps that keep you sawing up and down, though he has no doubt the desert is full of other fools doing what we’re doing; and we could all see each other doing it if it weren’t for those darn dunes.

_Later_: Adventure for sandcart on one of the biggest plateaus. Looked all right from the top; but a shriek from Mrs. East put me to the dire necessity of sliding off Farag and running to the rescue. The plateau was broken off in front and became a precipice which, Cleopatra seemed to think, would not have existed had “Antoun” arrived in tune to arrange it.

Great wind came roaring up again about noon. Feared to learn that it had been impossible to get luncheon-tent in position. But when the time came to find it, there it was with its back to the blast, and its shady open front, of tile-patterned appliqué, offering the hoped-for picture of white table and smiling brown waiters.

While we lunched, the fierce gusts striking the back canvas wall were like the frightened flappings of giant wings, and the beating of a great bird’s heart. Otherwise we might have forgotten the elements as we ate, save for a slight powdering of sand on our food. But even that wasn’t bad, if we selected only the port side of our bread and chicken, leaving windward bits to the Arabs.

Our night camp was in shelter of the two vast dunes which hide the ancient city of Bacchias, now called Um-el-Atl, where we found “Antoun” awaiting us. He had started from Cairo in the morning on a coastguard camel, coming quickly along the camel route between Bedrashen and Tomieh, and the extra few miles to our encampment. Before we arrived he had sent the camel back with the mounted Arab who accompanied him; and somehow the camp seemed all the smarter and more ship-shape for the presence of the handsome Hadji, in his green turban. The Set are all extremely interested in him; and on hearing my version of his history, sketchily told, have taken to calling him “the prince.” Enid and Elaine almost fawn upon him, in their admiration of so romantic and splendid an addition to our party: a real, live Egyptian gentleman, with enough European blood in his veins to justify nice-minded maidens in cherishing a hopeless love for him, when he has safely vanished out of their lives.

Mrs. East made Anthony pick up pre-historic oyster shells in the desert, between flaming sunset and twilight, when the sky became a vast blue tent hung with a million lamps. And at dinner she was not nice to Enid and Elaine who admired her hero too frankly. She has developed an embarrassing clearness of vision as to other people’s former incarnations, especially their disagreeable or shocking ones. “Ah, it has _just_ come to me!” she exclaimed, her elbows on the table, looking dreamily into Elaine Biddell’s face. “You were _Xantippe_. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”

As for Enid, it seems that she was Charmian or Iris, Cleopatra can’t be sure which; but the girl has come to me saying that, if Mrs. East doesn’t stop calling her “My dear handmaiden,” one or the other of them will have to give up starting on the Nile trip next week.

_Wednesday_: We had lobster á la Newburgh for dinner, in mid-Libyan desert, and drank the chêf’s health in champagne. I don’t know which was to blame, or whether it was the combination; but in the windy middle of the night when tent flaps stirred like a nestful of young birds, there were demands for ginger and for peppermint. Now, ginger and peppermint happened to be the only two medicaments in the whole pharmacopoeia left out of the medicine chest. But nothing else would do. The more the things weren’t there, the more they were wanted; and all the people who had made notes to remember me in their wills, scratched me out again. Then, to pile Ossa on Pelion, the dogs of Tomieh arrived to pay a visit. They barked, of course; but they barked so much that the noise was like a silence, and nobody minded after the first half hour. The worst was, that they did not confine their demonstrations to barking. In order to signify their disapproval of our stingy ways, they took the boots we had confided to the sand in front of our tents to be cleaned, and worried them at a considerable distance. Some of the boots were past wearing when found, and some were not found. Judging from cold glances directed at me by those obliged to resort to pumps or bedroom slippers, one would imagine me the trainer of this canine menagerie. It has been hinted, too, that a conductor worth his salt would have filled up interstices of the medicine chest with toothbrushes. Several members of the party forgot to pack theirs in moving camp and they are now the property of jackals. A stock of toothbrushes is the one other thing besides peppermint and ginger and hot-water bottles that Slaney and I left out of our calculations; still, I do think bygones ought to be bygones. Anthony is the hero now, because it occurred to him to buy in Cairo flannelette nightwear, male and female, of the thickest and most hideously pink description. Had these horrors been suggested at the start, they would have been rejected with fury, in favour of lace and nainsook; but the contribution has made a _success fou_, at a crisis when vanity has been forgotten, and the girls are employing their prettiest frocks as bed covering.

_Another Day:_ Have now forgotten which, or how many we’ve had. This is Anthony’s hour–but he may take such advantage of it as he chooses–I’m indifferent. On top of my troubles I’ve contracted Desert Snivels. Whether the habit of using sand for snuff has produced the malady, or whether I’ve caught something (despite the tonic air) from nomads or oasis-dwellers, all of whom emit a storm of coughs and sneezes, I do not know. All desire to use this grand opportunity of taking Cleopatra’s advice and winning Monny’s love while for once she’s neglected by others, has died within me. My one wish is to keep away from her and the rest, except perhaps Biddy, and suffer alone, like a cat. Biddy has got Desert Snivels, too. It makes another link between us, like the memories of our childhood. We swop stories of symptoms. Both feel that sense of terrible resignation which desert babies have when their eyes are full of flies and no one takes them out.

The sky lowers. Big black birds flap over our heads like pirate flags that have blown away. They are the vultures which used to be sacred to Egyptians, and seem to labour under the delusion that they are sacred still. The sand blows into our back hair, and the Arabs make scarves and veils of their turbans. Apparently these Moslems never say any prayers, and the _Candace_ people feel they’ve been cheated of a promised sensation of desert life. The only religious thing the men do is to bawl “Allah!” when they lift the heavy, rolled up tents onto the camels.

People are beginning to grumble about their meals, which at first seemed to them miracles of culinary art. “Same old desert things we’ve been eating ever since Moses,” I heard Harry Snell mutter. And Sir John Biddell is sick of h. b. eggs. I suppose he means hard-boiled. I should like to feed him on soft-shell scarabs!

Tea is the only incident in the desert which has palled on no one yet. Very jolly, having finished the day’s exertion, and sitting on folding chairs inside tent door, teacup in hand, watching the winged shadows sweep across the dunes! One feels like Jacob or Rebecca or some one. There may be a fine saint’s tomb standing up, marble-white, against the rose-garden of a sunset sky, but one doesn’t bother to walk out and examine it at close quarters. There’s nothing like sitting still after a windy day on camel back.

We lack interest in history ancient and modern, although Egypt is the country which ought to make one want to know all other history. There may be a European war or an earthquake. We don’t care what happens to any one but ourselves. It is all we can do to keep track of our own affairs. As for ancient history, we content ourselves with wondering if Anthony and Cleopatra, when picnicking in the desert, dropped orange peel and cake to feed the living scarabs of their day.

We seem to be lost to the world, yet now and then we’re reminded that we have neighbours in the desert. We’ve had glimpses of a distant caravan which must be Bedr’s; and when we came in sight of our own camp last evening, we were just in time to catch a party of Germans being photographed in front of it, with our things for an unpaid background. Ever beauteous picture, by the by, your own encampment! White tents blossoming like snowy flowers in a wilderness; a dense black cloud, massed near by on the golden sand, which might in the distance be a plantation of young palms, but is in reality a congested mass of camels. You sing at the top of your voice “From the desert I come to thee, on a stallion shod with fire!” hoping to thrill the girls. But they are thinking about their tea. Girls in the desert, I find, are always thinking about their tea, or their dinner, or their beds. You would like (when your Desert Snivels improve) to walk with a maiden under the stars; but no, she is sleepy! She wants to get to bed early. Even the camels are most particular about their bed hours. It would be irritating, if you didn’t secretly feel the same yourself. But what a waste of stars!

_Some old Day or Other:_ Interesting but dusty dyke road into the Fayoum oasis. Every one enraged with Robert Hichens because “Bella Donna’s” Nigel recommended The Fayoum. “No wonder she poisoned him!” snarled Mrs. Harlow. Our Arabs riding ahead look magnificent, seeming to wade through a flood of gold, the feet and legs of their camels floating in a rose-pink mist. But alas, the flood of gold and the rose-pink mist are composed of dust–that reddish dust in which presumably the boasted Fayoum roses grow; and it blows into our noses. This upsets our tempers, and prevents our enjoying the pictures we see in the sudden transition from desert to oasis. Biblical patriarchs on white asses, disputing the high, narrow “gisr” or dyke road; women with huge gold nose rings; running processions of girls, in blowing coral and copper robes, large ornamental jars on their veiled heads, thin trailing black scarves and slim figures dark against a sky of gold. Blue-eyed water-buffaloes–gamoushas–and exaggerated brown-gray calves, with wide-open, boxlike ears in which you feel you ought to post something. Canals stretching away through emerald fields to distant palm groves; here and there a miniature cataract; children playing in the water, imps whose red and amber rags ring out high notes of colour like the clash of cymbals; now and then a jerboa or a mongoose waddling across the path; travelling families on trotting donkeys or swinging camels who pass us with difficulty. Camels everywhere, indeed, on dyke or in meadow; even the clouds are shaped like camels who have gone to heaven and turned to mother o’ pearl. There are horses, too; not little sand stallions like ours, but ordinary, plodding animals whose hoofs know only Fayoum dust or mud. Our desert creature, however, does not spurn them. On the contrary, though he pretends not to notice camels, cows, or buffaloes, he whinnies and prances with delight when he meets anything of his own shape, and assumes hobby-horse attitudes, much to the alarm of Cleopatra and Miss Hassett-Bean. Also, just to remind everybody that sand is his element, he shies at water, and almost swoons at sight of the Fayoum light railway.

Much wind again. But thank goodness out of Fayoum dust, and in desert sand for lunch! Prop up tent with our backs, leaning against the blast. However, we have now a special clothes-brush for the bread, and a moderately clean bandanna for the fruit. Plates, we blow upon without a qualm. Scarabei gambolling in the sand around our feet we pass unnoticed. This is the simple desert life!

But ah, what an encampment for the night! It makes up for everything, and a sudden realization of abounding health is tingling in our veins. We adore the desert. We want to spend our lives in it. Thank goodness we have two nights here, on the golden shore of the blue Birket Karun, all that’s left of Lake Moeris of which Strabo and Herodotus raved. From the dune-sheltered plateau where our white tents cluster, the glitter of water in the desert is like a mirage: a mysterious, melancholy sheet of steel and silver turning to ruby in the sunset, with dark birds skimming over the clear surface.

Suddenly the Bible seems as exciting as some wonderful novel. Not far from here ran Joseph’s river, making the desert to blossom like the rose. In tents like ours, perhaps, Abraham rested with Sarah, planning how to save himself by giving her to the Egyptian king. To see this lake is like seeing a bright, living eye suddenly open in the face of a mummy, dead for six thousand years!

Our best sunset; romance but slightly damaged by an Arab waiter wrapping up his head in a towel with which he had just dried our teacups and no doubt will again.

_Another Day:_ (Merely slavish to look it out in the calendar, and besides there is none.) All I know is, we’ve had two on the shore of Birket Kurun (I spell it a different way now, because no books ever spell anything in Egypt twice alike), “The Lake of the Horns”; and we’ve been on the water in some very old boats, in order to see things which may have existed once, but don’t now; and at present we’re encamped near Medinet-el-Fayoum, a kind of lesser Cairo: originally named Medinet-el Fâris, City of the Horseman, because of a Roman equestrian statue found in the neighbouring mounds of “Crocodilopolis.” We have just arrived, hot and dusty, with more dust of more Fayoum than we had before Lake Moeris. “Fayoum” means Country of the Lake it seems; and it really is a great emerald cup sunk below the level of the Nile –as if to dip up water for its roses.

However, the Set is happy despite the state of its clothes and its hair. None of us quite realized what the Fallahcen were really like before, or that the word Fellal meant “ploughman.” This has been market-day, and we met an endless stream of riding men, and walking women with black trailing garments. They had bought sheep, and goats, and rabbits, and quantities of rustling, pale green sugar cane, which they carried on their shoulders.

There were wild adventures for the sandcart, and watery spaces across which Cleopatra was carried (at her own urgent request) by Anthony; Miss Hassett-Bean by me and the strongest Arab. There were the wonderfully picturesque squalid mud towns of Senoures and two or three others, honey-yellow in a green mist of palms, against an indigo sky with streaks of sunshine like bright bayonets of Djinns. And then Medinet, through which our caravan had to pass _en route_ to camp, much to the ribald joy of smart, silk-robed Egyptian “undergrads” who strolled hand in hand along the broad streets near the University. They were big, fantastic houses to suit modern Oriental taste, painted pink and green, and set in shady gardens. And between high brick embankments we saw the river Joseph made–swiftly running, deep golden yellow like the Nile, with ancient water-wheels pouring crystal jets into enormous troughs.

This was our most fatiguing day, and we wanted our last encampment to be the best. We found the worst: a suburban meadow inhabited by goats and buffaloes. “Can’t we move somewhere else?” Cleopatra besought Anthony, to whom she appeals when he’s within appealing distance. “Isn’t this tour for our _pleasure_, and can’t we do what we _like_?”

Anthony absolved the camp-makers, explaining that we must be near the town in order to get carriages and see the sights we had come to see. Also our water supply had given out, and we must beg some from the “government people.” He hinted that it would be well to make the best of things; but Cleopatra, with her royal memories, is not good at making the best of what she doesn’t like. She wants what she wants, especially in her own Egypt, where things ought to know that they once belonged to her. Miss Hassett-Bean is quite as _exigeante_, in a different way, more Biblical, less pagan. Her criticism on the encampment was that it, and all her oasis experiences, are destroying her faith in hymns. “By cool Siloam’s Shady Rill,” for instance, used to be her favourite, but she doesn’t believe now that Siloam ever had a rill.

_Later: 11 p. m_. Fallahcen and Fellahah (doesn’t sound female, but is) pretended to have things to do on the frontier of their field and ours, as we were settling in, and stared unblinkingly at us, whenever we stuck a nose outside a tent. Also they laughed. Also they brought their dogs. But they couldn’t spoil the sunset, and Medinet was a colourful picture of the Orient, towering against the crimson west. I took Monny and Biddy into the town to see the bridge and dilapidated Mosque of Kait Bey, with its pillars stolen from Arsinoë. Anthony took Cleopatra, and most of the other unmarried men took Rachel Guest. When Brigit remarked rather sharply upon the ex-school teacher’s popularity, Monny laughed an odd, understanding little laugh. “I believe you think you know _why_ they’re all so mad about that girl!” exclaimed Biddy.

“Perhaps I do,” smiled Miss Gilder.

“_What_ is her fascination?”

“Bedr could have told you,” Monny cryptically replied. “He told several people.”

“What do you mean, child? I’m eating my heart out to know!”

“Don’t eat it, dearest. You can’t eat your heart and have it, too. And it’s your most important possession.”

“I wish you wouldn’t tease me when I’m tired. Is it part of the secret you and Rachel were always giggling over, when we first got to Cairo?”

“Yes, dear, it is, if you must know. But I don’t want to tell even you what the secret is, please! You might think it your duty to spoil Rachel’s fun, and she and I are both enjoying it _so_ much.”

“Can you guess what she means, Duffer?” Biddy appealed to me. “You know I wrote you that Monny and Miss Guest had a secret. I thought afterward it might have been only their plan to see the hasheesh den; but since then I’ve realized it was something else.”

“Even if I could guess, ought I to give Miss Gilder away, when she has just told you she doesn’t want you to know?” I asked innocently.

They both turned on me in a flash. (I expected that.) “_Do_ you guess?”

“I don’t see, if I do, why I shouldn’t have _my_ little secret,” I mildly replied. I knew that, after this, Monny would give me a good deal of her society, even though she might not have forgiven me for bolting to haul down the Cook ensign, in the midst of her confidences. But in truth I have not guessed the secret! My wits go wheeling round it, like screaming swallows who see a crumb. I get a glimpse of the crumb, and lose it again. In my present mood I almost regret that Bedr and his supposed Germans have not dumped themselves down in our field. It would have been like them to do so, judging by the aggressive checks on those mustard tweeds; but as a matter of fact the party has disappeared from view since just before Birket Karun. They may have turned back to Cairo; they may have been swallowed up by a palsied sand dune; they may have been eaten by jackals (we saw a dead one), or they may have taken to the fleshpots of a Greek hotel in Medinet; but the fact remains that, just when he might be useful, Bedr is not to be had.

In our tent to-night, I took advantage of our friendship to try and draw Fenton out a little on the subject of his feelings. It seemed the right hour to open the door of the soul. The Fallaheen having taken their families home, our tent-flaps were up, and only the stars looked in–stars swarming like fireflies in the blue cup of a hanging flower; but Anthony would speak of nothing more intimate than the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid, or his tiresome sheikh’s tomb. I yearned to tell him of the _contretemps_ about the hieroglyphic letter, but something stopped the confession on the end of my tongue, though perhaps in the circumstances, I owed it to Mrs. East. If he had mentioned her name the story might have come out; but the one drop of Eastern blood which mingles with a hundred of the West in Anthony’s veins makes him singularly reserved, aggravatingly reticent where women are concerned. I used to think that this was because he was not interested in them. But something–I can’t explain what, unless it’s instinct–tells me that this is no longer the case. Another interest has come into his life, rivalling his soldier interest, and the secret hope buried deep in our Mountain. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in the _timbre_ of his voice. It means Woman. But what woman? Is Monny right? Is he falling seriously in love for the first time in his strenuous life with Biddy, whom he picked out for admiration the moment he set eyes on her? Or is it Monny herself? I must be a dog in the manger, because I don’t like the idea of its being either.

He is asleep on the other side of the tent as I write. Desert dogs do not disturb him. He’s great on concentrating his mind, and when he goes to sleep he concentrates on that.

I wish he’d talk in his sleep! But even in unconsciousness, he is discreet as a statue.

_The Last Day. Evening:_ I am in disgrace, and am left alone to bear it, so I may as well finish my Desert Diary. It’s all an account of a lamb, just an ordinary, modern lamb you might meet anywhere. But I mustn’t begin with that, though it haunts me. In spirit it’s here in the tent, sitting at my feet, staring up into my face. Avaunt, lamb! Thy blood is not on _my_ head. Go to those who deserve thee. I wish to write of Crocodilopolis. Shetet, the city was called in the beginning of things; Shetet, or the “Reclaimed,” for the Egyptians stole land from the water, and made it the capital of their great Lake Province, which Ptolemy Philadelphus renamed to please his adored wife. Queen Arsinoë was charming, no doubt; and the Greek ruins and papyri of her day are interesting, but it is the city sacred to the crocodile god Sebek which can alone distract my thoughts now from the tragedy of the black lamb. If his Ka refuses to go I shall set crocodiles at it –ghosts of crocodiles mummied somewhere under the desert hills which separate the Fayoum from the Nile Valley.

We drove out to the ruins in a string of hired carriages, at an incredibly early hour this morning. As the night was one long dog-howl, and the dawn one overwhelming cockcrow, people were thankful to get up. But what a waste of hardly obtained baths before the start! Between Medinet and Crocodilopolis rose a solid wall of red dust. We had to break through it, as firemen dash through the smoke of a burning house; and when our arabeahs stopped at the foot of a mountainous mound, about a mile out of Medinet, the dust had come too. Scrambling up, with the wind on our backs, we began to breathe; but it was not until we had ascended to the old guard house on top of the pottery strewn height, that we could draw a clean breath. Then the reward was worth the pains.

Down below us, seen as from a bird’s-eye view, lay a vast, unroofed honeycomb. It’s size was incredible. The thing could not really be there. It was a startling dream, that endless gold-brown city of regular streets, and mud brick buildings, big and small, shops and houses, theatres and libraries, lacking only their roofs, deserted save by ghosts for thousands of years, yet looking as though it had been destroyed by a cyclone yesterday. Down there in the devastated beehive myriads of bees still worked frantically, human bees, which Cleopatra said were reincarnations of those who had owned slaves and killed them with forced labour, when Shetet was among the richest cities of the “Two Lands.” These bees of to-day worked to destroy, not to recreate, for the crumbling brick is the best of fertilizers–and fertilizing their land is the one great interest in life for the Fellaheen of the Fayoum. Furiously they tore at the remaining walls; furiously they packed away their treasure of dried mud in sacks; furiously they piled it on backs of donkeys and rushed away to make room for others. Each instant hundreds of wild figures in dusty black or blue scampered off, beating loaded donkeys, only to be replaced by hundreds more doing the same thing in the same manner. Yet always a few forms remained stationary. They were police guardians of the ruins, men armed with staves, whose business was to oversee each worker’s sack, lest some rare roll of papyri, some rich jewel which once adorned a pampered crocodile of the lake, should be found and stolen. Glimpsed through the red flame of blowing, ruby dust, the scene was a vision of Inferno; we on our mount looking down on it were in company of Dante and Virgil.

The rest of the day we gave to a light-railway excursion to Illahun and the brick Pyramid of Hawara. There was much laughing and shrieking among the girls of the Set (I don’t count Monny, who shrieks for nothing less terrible than the largest spiders) as Arabs pushed our trolley cars along the line; and we were frivolous even on the site of the labyrinth which was, perhaps, copied from the Labyrinth of Crete.

The Set were frankly disappointed in the few remains of granite columns and carvings; but vague memories of jewels seen at the Egyptian Museum waked an interest in the brick pyramid tomb at Hawara where King Amenemhat and his daughter Ptah-nefru lay for a few thousand years. All of us were eager for the “last camp tea,” when we got “home” from our expedition, and it was then that the tragedy happened: the tragedy of the black lamb.

How could I guess, when Yusef said the camel-boys wanted money to buy meat as a feast for the last day, that they meant to buy it alive?

When we arrived in camp, an idyllic scene was being enacted. A woolly black lamb with a particularly engaging facial expression was being hospitably entertained by all our men with the exception of the chêf. They formed an admiring ring round it, taking turns in feeding it with bersim, and patting its delightfully innocent head. It was difficult to say which was happier, the charming guest or its kind hosts.

“How _sweet_ of them!” said Miss Hassett-Bean. “I must write a few verses about this, for our home paper!”

Everybody joined with her in thinking the Arabs sweet, and Enid Biddell went round and took up a collection. The men arranged a football match for our benefit, to show their gratitude, and played so well and were so picturesque that Sir John and other ardent sportsmen pressed more money upon them. It was altogether a red-letter day for the camel-boys, quite apart from the fact that they would get rid of their noble benefactors to-morrow; and by way of a climax they had what we supposed to be a bonfire at dark.

“Aren’t all those white figures wonderful, grouped round the blaze?” asked Monny, who appeared on the whole satisfied with the way in which the desert had taken her. “And look, the flames are reflected on the clouds. I do believe it’s going to _rain_, if such a thing can happen here! I hope it won’t spoil the poor darlings’ celebration. Why, they seem to have something big and black hanging over the fire. What _can_ it be? Oh, it looks awful!”

“It is not awful, mees,” Yusef, standing near, good naturedly reassured her. “It very naice. It is the lamb, they cook for their supper. The genelman, milord, he give them money to buy it.”

“Lamb?” shrieked Monny, in a wild voice which brought a crowd round us. “_Lamb_! Not–oh, not–“

“Yes, mees, you all see it feeded when you come home, when you say it so sweet. Camel-boys find sweeter now!”

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “Fiends! They invited that lamb here, and brought it in their arms and played with it and did everything they could to make it think it was having a pleasant afternoon, and then –they _killed_ it!”

“Of course, yes, mees,” said Yusef, puzzled. “Why else for milord tell they can buy it? They kill and pound it up to make it good, and soon they eat in honour of the genelmen and ladies who have been so kind this naice trip.”

“I should like to kill _them_!” gasped Monny, preparing to cry, and flinging herself into Biddy’s arms. “Oh–_somebody_ give me a hanky –quick!”

We all felt mechanically in our pockets; but I, being nearest, was first in the field. It was a shock to see Monny wave my handkerchief away with a gesture of horror, and bury her face in a far inferior one tendered by Anthony.

“No _wonder_!” exclaimed Miss Hassett-Bean, who is not, as a rule, a Monny-ite. “You’re _quite_ right, Miss Gilder. Lord Ernest Borrow, I don’t see _much_ difference between you and a murderer!”

For a minute, I did not know what she meant. Then it broke upon me that the Arabs’ monstrous breach of hospitality to the lamb was laid at my door. I jabbered explanations, but no one listened; and just then the rain, which nobody had believed in, seized the opportunity of coming down in floods. The camels roared with rage and surprise; the camel-boys swore Arab oaths; the fire sputtered, and what became of the half-cooked lamb I shall never know. We rushed for the dining-tent, all soaked in an instant, with the exception of Brigit and Monny, whom “Antoun” protected with a long cloak.

Dinner was a gloomy feast, which might have been composed of funeral baked meats, though the chêf himself came to the door and vowed by all his saints that the lamb cutlets were not from _that_ lamb. So well did he exonerate himself, so eloquently did he protest that he had nothing to do with the camel-boys’ orgy, that another special collection was taken up for him.

“Poor, dear old gentleman!” sighed Miss Hassett-Bean. “I shall never be able to forget him. When I’m out of this awful country of _cannibals_, and safe in my own home, he will simply haunt me, passing his respectable old age, black though he is, chasing across deserts on camels, wrapped in a blanket and covered with chicken coops, at the mercy of any queer Christian who can afford to pay for him. It’s a _tragedy_!”

Perhaps she wrote her poem about the cook instead of the camel-boys. Luckily, however, at the last moment I remembered a superstition of the Ancient Egyptians. They were in the habit of sacrificing a black lamb to propitiate Set, the sender of storms. Our lamb _was_ black: and at the hour of his untimely death a storm was coming up. The dreadful deed, therefore, was turned into a Rite.

CHAPTER XVI

AN OILED HAND

That is where my diary of the desert stopped; for the adventure that ended our trip was not of the sort that mixes well with tragedies of lambs.

Before dinner Monny had apologized for refusing my handkerchief, I really believe because she was sorry she had misunderstood, _not_ because the rain had leaked through her tent, and she wanted me to give her mine. In fact, she and Biddy refused pointblank at first when Anthony and I suggested the change. They would not have told us that the water had come in on their beds if they had thought we would suggest such a thing. All they wished for was to have the tent-roof somehow mended before matters got worse. But we insisted, especially Fenton; and he is difficult to disobey. A look from him, and a drawing together of the black eyebrows has the same effect on the mind of a rebellious woman as an “Off with her head!” from an Arabian Nights Sultan, while I might vainly exert my ingenuity to achieve the result he gets by sheer mysterious magnetism.

It was bedtime when the leak showed itself, but the change of quarters was accomplished with military quickness and precision, as Fenton’s undertakings generally are; and almost before they knew what had happened, Monny and Brigit, who had been tent-mates during the tour, found themselves transferred bag and baggage to our tent, with the last clean sheets in the bedroom-Arab’s possession.

Transferred, we set ourselves to making repairs, and soon patched up the leaks. Rain at this season comes so rarely, it was not surprising that a stitch or two had been neglected.

Only the pillows and upper blankets had had time to get wet, and we had but to remove the coverings and turn the pillows. We both did this simultaneously, and simultaneously exclaimed “Hullo!”

“They’ve left their treasures” said Anthony, not with quite the masculine scorn of feminine weaknesses I was used to noticing in him. Indeed, he spoke almost tenderly, as a father might speak at finding the forgotten doll of an absent child.

Each of us stood with a wet pillow in his hand, gazing at his borrowed bunk. In the one I had selected, lay a small chamois-skin bag, attached to a narrow pink ribbon. In the bed chosen by Fenton, was a tiny white enamelled watch, on a platinum chain. Both these things had been covered by their respective owners’ pillows, and forgotten in the hasty change of quarters. The watch was Monny’s. She wore it round her neck every day–therefore the chamois-skin bag on the other bed must be Brigit’s. I told myself that in it she probably kept her pathetic store of money, hidden under her bodice by day, her pillow by night; and beholding this intimate souvenir of my childhood’s friend, my heart yearned over her.

“Too late to rouse them up now,” said Anthony.

“Yes,” said I. “We must have been twenty minutes or half an hour getting the roof to rights. They may be asleep, and if not, they won’t worry anyhow. They’ll know that their things are safe till to-morrow morning.”

Fenton agreed with this verdict, and each keeping charge of his own treasure trove, we went to bed and to sleep.

I am a champion dreamer. So much so, that I often find the life of dreamland rivalling in interest the life this side of sleep. I look forward to my dreams, as some people look forward to an interesting dinner-party; but that night I was too tired to inspect the dream-menu, before lying down to it. The first thing I knew, a handsome Egyptian god with crystal eyes, like those which Bill Bailey means to make the fashion, stood by my bedside. I asked him politely whether he were Rã or Osiris, deliberately picking the two best gods of the bunch in order to flatter him; but without answering, he pointed a bronze hand to the mat on which he stood. It was a white mat, and on it I read a word which evidently he meant me to take as his name: TAM HTAB. For an instant it seemed to me a fine name for an Egyptian god, though I hadn’t met it before. Then I burst out laughing disrespectfully. “Why, you’re only a Bath Mat wrong side out!” I heard myself sneering; and the god disappeared as a flash of lightning comes and is gone. In going, however, he stumbled slightly against the bed. It was a mere touch; but that, or my own voice, half waked me up.

“TAM HTAB,” I mumbled dreamily; and was just reminding myself before dropping off to sleep again that I must tell Biddy about the new bath god, when I realized that he had not quite gone. No, not quite gone! It must be he who still lingered by the bed, for it could be nobody else. Anthony would not come and hover silently at my bedside in the middle of the night. Besides, I was almost awake now, and I could hear the gentle, regular breathing of a man asleep: Anthony’s breathing.

“Go away, TAM HTAB,” I tried to say, but I was not awake enough to speak. He was bending over the bed. His face was near to mine. I felt rather than saw it. “How could I see in the dark?” sleepily, even fretfully, I asked myself. And yet, _was_ the tent dark?…It had been, I remembered that. I remembered that Anthony had got to bed first, and I had extinguished the two candles on the washhand-stand. Afterward, I had had to grope my way to the bed. Now, however, there was a light…a very faint, rather curious light. There seemed to be only a square of it, a square sloped off at the top. It was opposite my eyes, which really were open now, I felt sure. I couldn’t be dreaming this. It was like a queer-shaped window in the blackness, a window full of starlight, but close to the floor. Then the rain must have stopped. The stars must be out. Yes, but how could I see that? There was no window in the tent.

This thought dragged the last film of sleep off my tired brain, like a veil snatched away by impatient fingers on an unseen hand.

Odd! Those very words said over themselves in my head: “Fingers on an unseen hand.” And that was because a hand was being slipped cautiously, inch by inch, under my pillow. It was the Egyptian god’s hand. But I knew suddenly that the dream-god had turned into a thief: that the silver-glimmering square of light was one of the tent flaps unbuttoned and turned back. That the man must stealthily have pulled up a peg or two while we slept our heavy sleep, must have crept into the tent, soft-footed over the thick rugs, and now here he was, trying to steal.

After that, I did not go on with the thought. My dull reasoning snapped off as short as a dry stick. I made a grab for the hand under my pillow, seized a wrist, held it for an instant in a grip which must have hurt, then had the shame and disappointment of feeling it slip out of my grasp, like a greased snake. There was a stifled exclamation of pain or surprise, scarcely louder than a sigh, and I was out of bed and after a shadow that ran for the low square of starlight. Something caught and tripped me as I reached the opening. What it was I did not know then and don’t know now, but I had a vague impression that it was warm. If I had stumbled against a bare leg thrust out to stop me, it would have felt like that. Yet it could not have been the leg of the man running away. He was using both his, and must have used them well, for I was up and out from under the lifted tent flap which had fallen on top of me as I tumbled, before I could have counted five. Very wide awake now, I stood in the rough, sandy grass, under a sky encrusted with stars, and could see no one. Barefooted, I pattered this way and that, searching every shadow, but the whole camp seemed an abode of peace. There was not a sound or movement even in the black ring of sleeping camels. Rain had driven to shelter the roving dogs which had troubled us last night. The camp lanterns burned clear and strong, yellow and crude in the silver flood of starlight which dulled their radiance. The smell of earth and grass after the heavy shower was like the fragrance of tea roses. Could it be that an evil, stealthy presence had but just broken this sweet serenity with its vile intention, or had the whole incident been after all a singularly vivid dream? I should have believed so, if my hand which had clutched that other hand, had not been slippery with oil.

No, I had not dreamed. And suddenly a troubling thought leaped into my mind. “Biddy!” The name sprang to my lips and spoke itself aloud.

If this were for her! I had laughed at her forebodings. Sensational revenges such as she feared seemed so incongruous, so utterly unsuited to those laughing, long-lashed eyes of hers! Yet she had in her past life lived side by side with fear and tragedy for more years than I liked to count. And as she said, men such as those whom Richard O’Brien had betrayed had been known to reach out very far to take revenge. Biddy had done nothing. Surely they owed her no grudge. But she had known things. Perhaps they thought that she knew even more than she did know. Their organization was rich as well as powerful. It had many branches. Yet why should men use its power to hurt the widow of a dead enemy, now that they–or fate–had put him underground?

In a flash I remembered the chamois-skin bag, which she had forgotten under the pillow: and lifting the loosened canvas flap with its dangling pegs, I stooped to go back into the tent. Inside, I expected to find darkness, but instead I found light; Anthony up, setting a match to a candle wick, and looking a tall, dark silhouette in his pyjamas.

“What’s the row?” he calmly wanted to know–too calmly to suit my ruffled mood.

“A thief, that’s all,” I answered, hastily searching under the pillow where the unseen hand had been. Sheet and pillow-case were slimy with oil, yet the chamois-skin bag was safe. “But he didn’t get what he wanted!” I finished.

“Good,” said Anthony, who had lighted both candles. “Let’s go look for him.”

“I’ve been, and couldn’t see anything.”

“I know. I heard a sound. I sang out, and you didn’t answer, so I thought something must be up. Let’s have another try. I’ve got Miss Gilder’s watch.”

I slipped Biddy’s bag into the pocket of my pyjamas, and pulling on our boots we went out into the night.

“It’s _their_ tent I’m thinking of,” I said, though I’d never talked of Brigit O’Brien’s affairs to Fenton. “If some one had planned to rob them, not knowing of the change we made at the last minute–“

“All our Arabs did know–“

“I’m not talking of them. We’ve been here two days. Any one could have spied on us enough to find out which tent was Mrs. Jones’ and Miss Gilder’s.”

“You’re thinking of Bedr?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I am. Biddy never believed they were Germans.”

“Who, those chaps in checked clothes he had in tow? By Jove! yes–I heard her speak of a scar on the forehead of one.”

“She thought he might have been Burke, the fellow in the street row, that night at the House of the Crocodile.”

“These things happen to heiresses in old-fashioned story books,” said Anthony. “But there’s nothing that happens in a story which can’t happen in real life, I suppose–especially to _such_ a girl. She–“

“Oh, but I wasn’t thinking of her!” I began, then stopped, shocked because it was true, and also because I was unwilling to tell why my thoughts had turned to “Mrs. Jones.”

“We must find out if they’re safe,” I went on. “The thieves seem to have got clear away and we’re not likely to find them, unless they’ve gone to our old tent–“

“Come along,” said Anthony. “We’ll slip on something, and call the ladies as softly as we can, not to disturb the others and have the whole camp buzzing like a beehive. When we’re sure _they’re_ all right, we can attend to such details as searching for tracks.”

He seemed as eager as I was, to know that the two women were safe; but there was no sign to tell me about which one he chiefly concerned himself.

A minute transformed him from a pyjamaed Englishman into a robed Egyptian of that old-fashioned order which despises things European. Only, he forgot to put on his turban. I didn’t think of the omission myself at the time, but I recalled it later.

Going to the tent which had been ours, I scratched on the tight drawn canvas near the spot where I knew one of the folding iron bedsteads was placed. “Biddy–Biddy!” I called gently, and after a few repetitions I heard her voice, rather sleepy, a little anxious, cry, “Is that you, Duffer?”

“Yes,” I whispered, seeing the tent quiver in the region of some big cushiony buttons. “‘Antoun’ and I are both here. But don’t be scared. Could you come and peep out from under the door flap a minute?”

“Yes,” said she. “Go round there, and I’ll come.”

There was not much delay, for Biddy’s crinkled black hair needs no night disfigurements by way of patent curlers. In a few seconds the door flap waved, and Biddy looked out into the starlight, the yellow glimmer of a candle flame within the tent silhouetting the Japanesey little figure wrapped in a kimono. Behind her dark head and above it, floated a mist of bronzy gold, which I took to be Miss Gilder’s hair. There seemed to be quantities of it, and I should have been feverishly interested in wondering how long it was, if I had had time to think of anything but my thankfulness that Biddy and Monny were both safe.

“Are either of you ill?” asked the creamy Irish voice which had never sounded half so sweet as now, in the starlight and fragrance of this strange night. “Because if you are, I’ve some lovely medicine–“

“I wouldn’t frighten them any more than I could help, if I were you,” I heard Fenton mumbling advice in muffled tones at my back.

For obvious reasons I made no audible answer; but I had just been resolving not to tell Biddy my suspicions unless it were necessary to do so.

“No, we’re not ill,” I assured her. “But there’s been a silly sort of scare about a sneak thief: may have been a false alarm, and we won’t say anything about it to-morrow, if others don’t. We’re horribly sorry to disturb you and Miss Gilder, but we couldn’t rest without making sure you hadn’t been worried.”

“_You_ heard nothing, did you, Monny?” Brigit threw a question over her shoulder to the floating mist of gold.

“No, and I wasn’t asleep either,” Miss Gilder’s voice answered. “I was lying awake thinking about its being our last night–and lots of things.”

“I was lying half awake, too, thinking of ‘lots of things,'” Biddy mimicked her friend, “or I shouldn’t have heard you so easily when you scratched on the canvas. Oh, by the way, Duffer, did you or Antoun Effendi find a little chamois-skin bag under the pillow?”

“I found it,” said I, and this gave me a chance I had been wanting but hadn’t quite known how to snatch. “I was rather worried over the responsibility. Of course you knew that we’d take care of your treasures.”

“It’s all my money, and–and just _one_ other thing!” Biddy answered, with an odd little hesitation in her manner and a catch in her voice. “I should hate to have anybody open that bag. I’m thankful it’s safe. With you, I know it’s _sacred_. All the same, I’d like to have it, if you don’t mind the bother.”

“You oughtn’t to carry the thing about with you, if it’s so important,” I scolded her. “Why not leave your secret treasure, whatever it is, and most of your money, in Cairo, when you come off on an expedition like this?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled evasively. “I’m used to having this thing with me. I can’t think how I forgot it under my pillow. I never have before. It isn’t the sort of–of valuable one keeps in a bank. Monny embroidered the bag when she was a little girl. It was her first work. I taught her how to do it, and she gave it to me for a birthday present. I wouldn’t lose it for the world.”

“You shan’t,” I said soothingly. I had heard what I had been afraid to hear; but why should Biddy’s trip be spoiled by another worry if I could shield her? We could not _know_ that the oiled hand had been groping for that bag; and I resolved not to distress Brigit by putting the idea into her head at present. “Go to sleep again in peace, both of you,” I went on. “All’s well, since _you_ are well. Probably some prowler has been sneaking round the kitchen-tent.”

“Yes. The news of the lamb has gone forth!” said Biddy. “Good night!”

“Good night!” I answered.

Down went the tent flap, and hid the sparkle of eyes in starsheen, and mist of gold in wavering candle-light. We trusted that the two had crept back into their beds; but we did not return to ours. We took one of the camp lanterns and searched for footprints–those which were freshest after the rain. The rough grass growing sparsely out of the sandy earth was not favourable to such attempts, however; and even at dawn, when we looked again before the camp was stirring, we made no notable discoveries such as amateur detectives make, in books.

Our next expedition, as soon as light came, was to the town, where we inquired at the few hotels, and put questions to the police. Nobody answering the description of Bedr and his two companions had been seen in Medinet, and we had to go back to camp baffled.

There was our adventure; and when we reached Cairo by train, the mystery of the oiled hand was still unsolved.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHIP’S MYSTERY AGAIN

I expected a black mark for the lamb and every little desert difficulty, but, to my surprise, only our joys were remembered. Those who had stayed in Cairo exchanged tales with the desert travellers, and it was astonishing to hear what a marvellous week we had had. Each day had been better than its brother. In fact, our trip had been one long, glorious dream of golden sands and amethyst sunsets; the camels were as easy to ride as sofas, and combined the intelligence of human beings with the disposition of angels; the camp was as luxurious as the Savoy or the Plaza; and to me and that wonderful Antoun Effendi all credit was suddenly due. Not to be outdone, the stayers in Cairo had had the “time of their lives.” They had not been herded together like animals in a menagerie, as in Colonel Corkran’s day. The girls had not only been to dances, but had danced with darling pets of officers, friends of Ernest Borrow; while their mothers had been asked to those fascinating picnics they get up in Egypt, don’t you know, where you dig in ancient burial grounds and find mummy beads and amulets. Somehow or other, all these people attributed their pleasures to me, as they had blamed me for their mishaps; and my spirits were at the top of the thermometer three days later when, after some hard work, the _Enchantress Isis_ was ready to start “up Nile.”

Sir Marcus wanted “his tours to be different from every other Nile tour, and a little better.” He wanted to “show what he could do,” and he was beginning well. Though the _Enchantress Isis_ had had a past under other owners, she looked as if this were her maiden trip, and she was as beautifully decorated as a débutante for her first ball. Her paint was new and gleaming white; her brass and nickel glittered like jewellery; and even those who thought nothing quite good enough for them, uttered admiring “Ohs!” as they trooped on board.

“The Highway of Egypt” was a silver-paved road, leading to adventure. The masts of native boats lying along the river bank were etched in black lines crowding one over another, on the lightly washed-in background of blue. Near by, the great Kasr-el-Nil bridge gleamed with colour and life like a rainbow “come alive”; and the _Enchantress Isis_ looked as gay and inviting as a houseboat _en fête_ for Henley regatta. She was smaller than the most modern of the Nile boats, for she had been sold cheap to Sir Marcus by another firm: but she was big enough for his experiment, though he had turned some of her cabins into private baths and sitting-rooms. Her three decks towered out of the water with a superior air of stateliness, such as small women put on beside tall sisters; and her upper deck was a big open-air sitting-room. There were Turkish rugs on the white floor, and basket chairs and sofas with silk cushions. On the tables and on the piano top there were picture-books of Egypt, and magazines, and bowls of flowers. From the roof, sprouted electric lamps with brass leaves and glass lotuses; and smiling Arabs in white from turban to slippers had blue larks flying wide-winged on their breasts. Oh, yes, Sir Marcus was “doing” his clients well, that was patent at first glance, and became even more conspicuous to the eyes of the Set as they wandered into the dining saloon, drawing-room and library, or peeped into each other’s cabins. Sir Marcus himself had come on board ostensibly to see us off, really to watch the effect of his boat upon Cleopatra. He lay in wait for her outside the door of her suite (the best on board), pretending to engage me in conversation, but forgot my existence as she appeared. The ecstasy on his big face was pathetic, as his brown eyes fixed themselves on a quantity of artificial blue lotuses she held in her hands.

“Do you like ’em, Mrs. East?” he ventured.

“Do I like what?” she inquired, that quiver of impatience in her tone which she kept for her unfortunate adorer.

“The–those flowers,” he stammered. “I–“

“They’re _awful_!” she exclaimed. “The rooms are lovely, but these dreadful artificial things some _silly_ person has stuck all over the place spoil the whole effect. I want to find an Arab to take them away. Or do you think I might throw them overboard? No one _could_ like them, I’m sure.”

“Of course, chuck ’em overboard–or hand ’em to me, and I’ll do it,” said Sir Marcus, looking ready to cry. “But–they’re _lotuses_, I suppose you know? I heard you say you’d give anything to have some.”

“Not artificial ones,” explained Cleopatra, _belle dame sans merci_. “I can’t stand artificial flowers even on hats, much less in rooms. Who could have put such horrors all over my _salon_?”

“I don’t know,” Sir Marcus lied stoutly; “but it shan’t happen again. There ain’t any real lotuses to be got, so maybe the–er–the decorator–” his meanderings died into silence, as he took the bunch of flowers from Mrs. East, and viciously flung them as tribute to the Nile.

“After all, we oughtn’t to do that,” said Cleopatra. “In the beautiful old days real lotuses were given to the Nile. These are an insult.”

“They aren’t meant as such,” the big man apologized, all joy in his fine boat and the compliments he had received crushed out of him. I knew now that he had hovered at Cleopatra’s door hoping for a cry of pleasure. Probably he had ransacked Cairo for the lotuses, or telegraphed to Paris, before his cruel lady went from him into the desert. I was sorry for the “boss,” though a snub or two would be good for him, no doubt, and perhaps were being specially provided by a wise Providence. But I had other things to think of than Sir Marcus Lark’s love-troubles: Monny, for instance, who at last had found a letter from “Madame Wretched” in Cairo, and had wonderful schemes in her head. On board the _Laconia_ I should have thought such schemes obstinate and headstrong, the wish of a spoiled child to do something dangerous, to meddle in matters which did not concern her, and to have “an adventure.” But I understood the Gilded Rose a little better now. I began to see the real Monny as Biddy saw her, bright with the flame of courage and enthusiasm and passionate generosity, behind the passing cloud of superficial faults. She wanted everybody to be as fortunate and happy as she, and was prepared to be exceedingly trying and disagreeable in the effort to make them so.

We had not been on board ten minutes when Biddy told me about the exciting letter, and escorted me to find it and Monny. Miss Gilder was in the act of insisting that General and Mrs. Harlow should accept her suite, and that she should take their cabin. The matter had to be argued out before she could spare attention for anything else; but as she made it clear that the Harlows were not to pay extra, their scruples were soon conquered. “The baggage hasn’t been put into the cabins yet,” she explained breathlessly to me, “so that’s all right!”

In my astonishment, I forgot Madame Wretched. “But why,” I adjured Monny in my professional tone, as conductor, “why on earth should you sacrifice yourself to these people? What have they done for you? I thought you didn’t like them?”

“I don’t,” she replied, calmly, while Biddy listened, smiling. “That’s why I gave them my suite–at least, it’s partly why.”

“I should think the other part of the ‘partly’ is more convincing,” I remarked; and Monny blushed.

“Perhaps you know that your friend Antoun Effendi thinks me the most selfish as well as the most obstinate girl he ever saw,” she said. “And I don’t intend to have foreigners like him go on doing American girls an injustice. Besides, maybe he’s right about me–and I want him to be wrong. I hate having all the best things there are everywhere, just because I’m rich. The Harlows wanted a suite, and they couldn’t afford to take one. They were looking sadly through the door at my rooms and envying me, so I thought I would change. I was _determined_ to change, whether they would let me or not. They are old; I’m young, and I shall enjoy thinking I’ve done something nice for people I thoroughly dislike, as much as _they_ will enjoy having their own bathroom.”

“If Mrs. Harlow could hear you calling her old!” gurgled Biddy.

“Well, she _is_ old. And she’s perfectly horrid, much more horrid even than Miss Hassett-Bean; so I’d rather give my suite to her and her husband than any one else. Biddy and Rachel are together, and Aunt Clara is alone. I’m robbing no one but myself.”

“How do you know Antoun Effendi thinks you selfish and obstinate?” I inquired. “Surely he wasn’t rude enough to say so?”

“He was indeed, the day I _would_ have the coastguard camel, and he came after me when it ran away,” she confessed. “And you’re not to tell him about the suite. I didn’t give it up to please him.”

“I thought you did,” I ventured, “in order that Egyptian princes shouldn’t do injustice to American girls?”

“I meant,” she explained hastily, “that I like to know they’re _wrong_ about us. And now what was it that Biddy and you wanted to say? Oh, poor Mabel’s letter! How thankful I am to get it! I’ve been wondering if I dared write, and thinking of all sorts of desperate plans. But, Biddy thought we must wait till Wretched was off his guard. You see, we shall have to rescue her when we get to Asiut.”

I would have answered, but a look from Biddy enjoined silence. And so we were in touch with the “Ship’s Mystery” again! I took the envelope, which was addressed to Miss Gilder in a distinctively American handwriting, strange to see coming from an Egyptian harem.

The letter began abruptly, and showed signs of haste:

“You were so good, I know I can appeal to you, but I’m not sure if there’s any way to help me. I began to be frightened on the ship, when _he_ behaved so queerly, just because I talked about the most ordinary things to one or two men. He made me stay in my cabin–but you’ll remember that. Already it’s like ages ago! I tell myself now that I was almost happy then. At least, I believed I was his _wife_, and that it was better than being poor, and a governess to hateful French children in Paris. He was kind, too–he seemed to love me; and I thought it was like living in a romance to marry a Turk. He swore he’d never loved any one except me, that he’d never been married, and that he wouldn’t try to convert me or shut me up like Turkish women. But everything was untrue and different from what he said. I hardly know how to tell you, for you will think it horrible, yet I must tell. When I came here, I found he _had a wife already_, and a perfectly fiendish little girl. It is legal in this dreadful country to have four wives, but I don’t care about the law. I want to get away. I’ve been cheated. This isn’t marriage! I don’t know what will become of me, for I haven’t any money, but I’d rather starve than stay. I heard Mr. Sheridan say on board ship that it was easy to get a divorce in Egypt or Turkey. Maybe he meant me to hear, thinking some day I might be glad to know. But I can’t get a divorce while I’m shut up in this house and watched. Now, _he_ suspects I want to leave him (since a scene we had about the wife), and he won’t let me go out, even into the garden. You are my only hope. You’ll wonder why I don’t try appealing to the American Consul here, instead of to you. I suppose there must be a consul–Asiut seems a big, important town. I’ll tell you why I don’t. For one thing, there mayn’t be a consul. For another thing, the woman who has promised to post this wouldn’t do so if she guessed I was writing against my husband, who is her brother-in-law, and she would guess if she saw an envelope addressed to a consul, although she knows scarcely any English. I have to talk to her in French. He thinks she is devoted to him, and that she’s explaining the Mussulman religion and ideas of a woman’s life to me, or he wouldn’t let her come. It’s true, she is loyal to him, in a way. She wouldn’t help me to escape. But I think women in the harems like to have secrets with each other, which they hide from their men. I’ve told her about you, how pretty you are, and a great heiress and she’s so interested, she’s dying to see you. She hopes, if she posts this letter, that you will call on me on your way up the Nile. She can perhaps find out what day your boat is to arrive, through her husband, and then she’ll try to come to our house on the chance of meeting you. I’m almost sure she’ll keep her promise and post this letter. If not –if he sees it, maybe he will kill me. I believe now he would do anything. But I must run the risk. Do come. Do think of some way to help.

“MABEL.

“I don’t feel I have the right to any other name, for surely as he has a wife I’m not truly married.”

“Well?” asked Monny, as she saw me finish and fold up the letter. “You were horrid about her at first, but just at the last minute on the ship, you were good, and kept Wretched Bey talking, so I might have my chance with Mabel. If you hadn’t, I shouldn’t like you as much as I do. And I’m sure even you’ll be anxious to do something now.”

“Yet we don’t wish Ernest or Antoun Effendi to run into danger, do we, dear?” Biddy suggested, coaxingly. “When you wanted to show the letter, I said yes, but–“

Monny listened no longer. Her eyes were sparkling, as they looked straight into mine. “Antoun Effendi!” she repeated. “Tell me first –because, you know, you are his friend–what would he think about a case like this? Whatever he is, he’s not a Mussulman, I’m sure. Still, he’s not one of us–“

“You’re sure he’s not a Mussulman?” I echoed. “What makes you sure, when you know he’s been to Mecca, unless somebody has put the idea into your head?” “His own head put it there,” she answered. “I saw it without his turban, the night of the alarm in camp. It wasn’t shaved, as I’ve read the heads of Moslem men are. It was a head like–like the head of every Christian man I know, except that it was a better shape than most! So, as he isn’t Mussulman, he might not mind our trying to help this poor deceived girl?”

“Shall I ask his advice?” I inquired, rather drily perhaps.

She hesitated for an instant, then said “Yes!”

“You seem certain that whatever he thinks, he won’t betray your plan.”

“I am certain,” she replied, looking rapt. “He’s not the kind of man who betrays.”

“You’re right,” I said. “He’s not the kind of man who betrays. He’s the kind that helps. Though in such a case as this–you know, the very meaning of the word “harem” is “sacred” or “forbidden.” Still–we shall see!”

We could not “see” at once, however, because Anthony had not come on board. Even when the hour for starting arrived, there was no Anthony, no message from Anthony. “Your friend isn’t going to leave us in the lurch, is he?” asked Sir Marcus, watch in hand. He had meant to travel with us as far as Beni Hasan, our first stop, and return to Cairo by donkey and train, but had changed his intention and was going off at once–I thought I could guess why. “The _Enchantress Isis_ ought to be under way this minute, but Antoun and you are our chief attractions. We can’t leave him behind.”

I agreed. We could not leave Anthony behind, but I was not worrying. If he had to drop down out of an aeroplane, I felt sure that having said he would come, he would keep his word. So, while Sir Marcus stared at his watch and fumed, I rushed usefully about among the ladies who clamoured for their luggage, or complained that their cabins were too small for innovation trunks. I showed them how these travelling wardrobes could be opened wide and flattened against the walls, taking up next to no room; I assured each woman in confidence that she had been given the best cabin on the boat; I dealt out little illustrated books about the trip; I advised people which tables to choose in the dining-saloon, and consoled them when the places they wanted were gone. Still, the _Enchantress Isis_ had not stirred, and a rumour was beginning to go round that something had happened, when suddenly I saw Antoun Effendi’s green turban.

“Thank goodness!” muttered Sir Marcus, putting his watch into his pocket. And then Mrs. East came swiftly across the deck from the door of her own suite, where she must have stood watching, hidden behind the portière. “Oh, Antoun Effendi!” she cried, and though her face was turned toward us, she did not seem to know that we existed. How Anthony looked at her we could not judge, for we saw only his back; but her eyes must have told Sir Marcus a piece of news. He glanced from her to Fenton, and from Fenton to her, with the expression of a school-boy who has been punished for something he hasn’t done. Then he turned to me as though to ask a question; but shut his mouth tightly, as if gulping down a large pill, wheeled, and left me without a good-bye. I wondered, Cleopatra-fashion, what he had done in his last incarnation to deserve these heavy blows in the hour which should have seen his triumph. “What if he changes his mind and doesn’t want Fenton and me after all?” I asked myself. To my surprise, I realized that it would be a genuine disappointment not to be wanted by Sir Marcus Lark. The Mountain of the Golden Pyramid had nothing to do with this. It was borne in upon me that I had begun to enjoy the rôle of conductor; and certainly I was learning lessons in high diplomacy which might be useful in my career.

Anthony, who was free as an eagle from questions of innovation trunks and how to give everybody the best cabins, and places at table, looked as if he were bound for the Island of Hesperides, on a voyage of pure romance. The air of gravity and responsibility he had worn in Cairo and in the desert was gone with the starting of the boat. I knew suddenly, without asking him, that his mission had been of a far more serious nature than the transplanting of a sheikh’s tomb; that there had been something else, and that it had finished at the last moment in success.

“Sir Marcus was worrying about you,” I said, when the importance of unpacking left the deck empty save for Anthony and me.

“You weren’t, were you?” He was smiling at me in a friendly, confidential way that showed a happy mood.

“Not I! I knew you’d turn up, as you’d said you would.”

“Thanks, my good Duffer. But now it’s over, I don’t mind telling you that it was a toss up.”

“You mean there was a chance of your failing us–in spite of the Mountain?”

“Well, I meant to bring this off somehow. But my first duty was to finish up the Cairo business. I simply had to finish it, and I did. It was a–rather bigger job than the sheikh’s tomb racket, though of course that was on the cards, too. Everything’s all right now; but I spent last night in getting the full details of an Arab plot to blow up the house of a rich Copt, who’s been of great service to the Government. Some of the young Nationalists think that the Christian Copts are put ahead of Moslems by the British, and there are jealousies. The whole set of men concerned in this affair were arrested an hour ago, so all’s well with the world! I’m free to turn my face toward the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid–free to enjoy myself, although I must stick to my turban still.”

“Are you getting tired of it?” I asked.

“I’ve been tired of it since the first day I put it on. I don’t like play-acting for long. But it was necessary. And it has had its advantages as well as disadvantages for me.”

I should have liked to ask another question then, but dared not, so instead I told him about the letter from Bechid Bey’s beautiful American bride, Mabella Hânem, the “Ship’s Mystery” of the _Laconia_. Anthony listened, as the _Enchantress Isis_ slipped past the Island of Roda, past Ghizeh, past old Cairo and still older Babylon, then out on to the broad bosom of the river where the Nile Valley lay bathed in sunshine from Gebel Mokattam in the east, to the Libyan hills–haunt of departed spirits–in the west.

“Miss Gilder wants me to help, does she?” he asked at last. “She told you to tell me about this?”

“I warned her that you mightn’t approve,” I explained. “I said you had more knowledge of Egypt in your little finger than I had in all my gray matter, and you might think that nothing could be done–“

“Tell her I think something may be done,” he interrupted me. “And before we reach Asiut we’ll plan out how best to do it.”

“You and I?”

“You and _she_ and I. She has brains as well as courage.”

“She?”

“Of course I mean Miss Gilder.”

“Oh! Is it ‘of course’? There are others who answer that description.”

Fenton smiled. “But it’s going to be her show.”

“She is under the impression,” I reminded him, laughing, “that all Egypt, including the Nile, and you and your green turban, are her ‘show’.”

Anthony did not answer. Perhaps already he was thinking of something else. I should have liked to be sure exactly what his smile meant. Was it for Monny? Was it for Biddy? Or only for an adventure which he saw in the distance?

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ASIUT AFFAIR

Nothing could be less appropriate to the Spirit of the Nile than our spirit in setting out. We had turned our backs upon medieval Cairo, and our faces toward Ethiopia. Our minds should have teemed with thoughts of early gods, and the mysteries of their great temples. But not at all. Medieval or prehistoric, it was all one to us in our secret hearts, which throbbed with passionate excitement over our own small affairs of to-day, and to-morrow. Little cared we, as our white boat bore us southward, on the bosom of the sacred river–little cared we for the love-story of the Great Enchantress–pupil of Magician Thoth, –fair Isis, in whose honour that boat was named. Her tragic journey along this river, whose stream she could augment by one sacred tear, should have been followed by our fancy. We should have seen with our minds’ eyes the lovely lady asking news of the painted boat which carried the dead body of her murdered husband Osiris, asking always vainly, until she thought of questioning the little children. But instead we thought of our own love-stories and amusements. We played bridge, and danced the Tango on deck; we drummed on the piano, or warbled the latest musical comedy airs. Above all, we flirted, or gossiped about those who flirted, if for any reason we were off the active list of flirters ourselves.

To be sure, we had brought learned books, and took pains to leave them in our chairs, open at marked passages of deep interest to students. We even scribbled heterogeneous notes, if for a moment there were nothing more amusing to do; and bits of paper scampered wildly about the deck informing those who retrieved them that “Nub” was ancient Egyptian for “gold,” that Osiris created men and women from the tears he wept over his own body, cut in pieces by Set; that the ivy was his favourite plant; or that “scarabeus” was the Greek word for a blue-green beetle, which created itself from itself, becoming the symbol of eternal life. All this, however, was affectation. Each hoped others might think that he or she was not an ordinary tourist: each wished to pose as a devotee of some phase of history concerning gods, temples, or portrait statues, anything not difficult to “study up.” But life was too strong for us. The colour and glamour of the Nile got into our blood. Hathor, goddess of Love, bewitched us into doing queer things which we should not have dreamed of doing if we hadn’t drunk “Nile champagne.” Yet after all, what did it matter? We were absorbing what our hearts, if not our minds, called out for: the enchantment of Egypt.

More or less conscientiously I performed the duties Sir Marcus Lark had bribed me to perform. I gave neat little lectures, and tried to remind people, whether they liked it or not, that almost every moment the boat was taking us past places of astonishing interest.

The so-called tombs of “Beni Hasan,” the _Enchantress Isis_ stopped for us to see, in order that we might admire wall-paintings in rock chambers, and gabble about Queen Hatasu or King Seti and his mother Pakhet, the “Beautiful Lady of the Speos.” But it was difficult to rouse emotion concerning things which we glided by without visiting.

Ruined temples were everywhere, “thick as flies,” as I heard Harry Snell say to Enid Biddell; but why bother about them, when finer ones were waiting further down on the menu-card of the Nile-feast? Especially when there was a pretty girl to walk the deck with, meanwhile? As for Tell el-Marna, the Heretic King’s great city, the general vote went against a visit to the ruins. Antoun Effendi praised it as one of the most interesting places near the Nile, because with the exception of Queen Hatasu and Rameses the Great, Amen-hetep IV was the most human personality in Egyptian history. But only Monny, who was making a hero of Aknator, really wished to delay at the Disc Worshipper’s Utopia. It must have seemed strange to the Gilded Rose not to have her will prevail; but there was a “clique” on board who appeared to find pleasure in thwarting Monny. Her sacrifice to the Harlows was misunderstood. She had made it, said those who did not like her, in order to gain credit for unselfishness, or to have an excuse for displaying herself _en route_ to the public bath, in a dream of a dressing-gown, and a vision of a cap, carrying a poem of a sponge bag. Rachel Guest was still mysteriously more popular than Monny, and was said to have had two proposals on the first day. She didn’t want to get off the boat to see irrelevant painted pavements, in the harem of Aknaton’s royal palace, and her laziness won, when the vote was taken. But what did anything matter, if the glamour of the Nile was in our blood?

Not one of us but thrilled to the droning cry of the shadoof men on the brown banks, as the dripping water jars went up and up, tier after tier above the river level. Not one but felt a strange allurement in the passing scene; the dark mystery of palm groves, whose slender stems were prison bars against the shining sky; the copper glow of the mud-bricks in piled-up villages; the colour of the flowing water, where secret gleams as from flooded gold mines seemed to glint through masses of dead violets, that floated with the tide. No eye so dull that it could not see how the shadows on land and water were painted at evening with a blue glaze, like the bloom on old scarabs and mummy beads, and broken bits of pottery that art cannot copy now.

In her way, even Miss Hassett-Bean felt the charm of the Nile, and its shores of brown and emerald and peacock-purple. “I don’t call it _scenery_,” she explained. “Except when the light is different, or there’s some green stuff for cattle growing on the banks, everything’s the same yellow-brown; and nothing happens but palms and mud villages, and shadoofs, and a few Arabs, or camels, or those ugly water buffaloes they say the devil made, to show what he could do. But the funny thing is, you can’t bear to shut your eyes for a single minute for fear of missing a tree, or a mound, or one of those tall-masted gyassas loaded with white and pink pottery: they all seem so ridiculously _important_, somehow! Then, there’s that bothersome north wind following you, and trying to freeze your spine, unless you pounce on the best seat where it can’t reach. If you put on your fur coat you’re too hot; if you don’t you’re too cold. At night your bed creaks, and so does everybody else’s. You hear a creaking all down the line when people turn over, which gets on your nerves: but you soon forget; and the whole experience is so perfectly wonderful that I’d like to spend the rest of my natural life going up and down on a Nile boat!”

Through the opalescent dream of these first days and nights, shot the fiery thought of our mission in Asiut. I had been surprised at first that Anthony, who knew so well the dangers and mysteries of the East, encouraged Miss Gilder to meddle in so delicate an affair; and there had never been any explanations between us. But I told myself that his motive was sympathy with Monny’s desire to help: or else he had been tempted to associate himself with her in an adventure where again, as once or twice before, he had been able to win her gratitude. Perhaps both motives combined.

As for Mrs. East, she frankly sulked. Intuition told me that she had never dared speak to “Antoun Effendi” about the proposal in hieroglyphics (so difficult for me to explain) which she attributed to him. Never had she dared say: “You have written me a love letter. Why don’t you follow it up, and give me a chance to answer it, one way or the other?” But it was puzzling her, disappointing her, if not breaking her heart, that he avoided rather than sought her, on this glorified houseboat where “the Egyptian Prince” was more or less a hero with romantic women. While we four planned, in thrilling whispers, how to rescue the “Ship’s Mystery,” and Rachel Guest walked the deck with Bill Bailey or Harry Snell, Cleopatra was reduced to writing picture post-cards. I thought, if Sir Marcus had but the inspiration to reappear at some stopping place farther on, she might be ready to forgive him the false lotus flowers: and perhaps he would come, for the Lark type is as difficult to snub as Cleopatra’s Needle. I was half inclined to send him a telegram, on some excuse or other.

* * * * *

We came to Asiut in the morning, and it was to be a long stop, for there was much to see, and every one was excited at the thought of our first Nile town, a town already of Upper Egypt, which made it seem that we had come a tremendous way from Cairo. For us, Egypt existed no longer as a country, but as a golden brown, purple-green river-bed and a flowing stream of history on which we floated; so it was fun for those having no special mission, to feel that once again bazaars and more or less sophisticated “Sights” awaited their pleasure. I had given my after-dinner lecture the night before, trying to behave as if I were not boiling with emotion, and had told those who deigned to listen that Asiut, “City of the Wolves,” was the capital of a province. I had babbled, too, about the tombs which self-respecting tourists must see, even if they hurry over the inspection of carvings, cartouches, and representations of very small queens smelling very large lotuses (most Egyptian queens apparently spent much of their time, lightly clothed, and smelling lotuses, a ladylike pursuit for those about to have their portraits taken); in order to find time for the mummied cats, the bazaars, the silver scarves, the red and black pottery, and the images of wolves, crocodiles, and camels cheap enough to be freely bought for poor relations at home. “Antoun” and I hinted at business which must prevent our joining the sightseers, who would be chaperoned by the dragoman. Luckily, they got the idea into their heads that our affairs were connected with Sir Marcus, and the “trip.” We were pitied, rather than blamed, but our real difficulty was with Mrs. East, as Monny did not wish Cleopatra to be let into the secret. If she knew, she would want to be in the adventure, and in Monny’s opinion, Aunt Clara was a dear, but unfitted for adventures.

We planned that Brigit and Monny should call upon the wife of Rechid Bey, whose house would be easy to find. If they were admitted, they would try to bring her out, as if for a drive, for it seemed a case of now or never if she were to escape. In case she were able to come, they would take her straight to the American Consulate, which I was to visit meanwhile, in order to explain matters. But if the rescuers were refused admission, the Consul must be entreated to give active help. I, as a “diplomat,” was considered a suitable person to deal with this side of the affair; and Antoun Effendi was to keep unobtrusive guard within sight of Rechid’s house until Brigit and Monny, with or without a companion, should come forth safely. As I said, however, the difficulty was Mrs. East. She would expect her niece if not Brigit to go about with her, and would not be easily persuaded to join any other party. As for Rachel, we need not think of her, as she had been annexed by the Biddells, who would otherwise have lost Harry Snell. But Cleopatra! What to do with Cleopatra? It was Anthony who had an inspiration.

There lived near Asiut, it seemed, an Italian who bred Sicilian lap-dogs, said to be like those which had been favourite pets in the day of Cleopatra the Great. Indeed, Antony was supposed to have given one to the Queen. Now, Fenton asked permission to present a Sicilian lap-dog to Mrs. East, a dog so small, so polite, that he could be taken anywhere. Anthony could not go himself to select the gift, but would find an interpreter as a guide to the kennel and bring her back to the exploring party. Cleopatra, delighted with her hero’s thoughtfulness, caught at the idea: and when the Set went tearing furiously away in arabeahs or on donkeys, Mrs. East followed sedately in a carriage with the elderly Greek interpreter, and Miss Hassett-Bean, who also fancied the idea of a Sicilian lap-dog, to replace the lamented Marmoset.

Everything glittered at Asiut. The sun glittered on the water; palm trees in gardens glittered as the wind waved their big green fans; the white or pink facades of large, square houses glittered, those fine houses along the Nile, in one of which Rechid Bey was known to live. But brighter than all glittered the silver scarfs which Arabs begged us to buy. Hanging over arms raised to show them off, the shining folds glittered like cascades of running water in moonlight. “Very cheap! very beautiful!” cried the merchants. “Ladies, see here! Your gen’lemen, they buy for you!”

In spite of “Antoun’s” dignified refusals, putting the men off till our return, they ran after us, waving scarfs and shawls and robes, white as scintillating hoarfrost, pink as palest roses, purple as sunset clouds, green and golden as Nile water, or sequined black as a night of stars. Their vendors feared that if we did not buy of them, others might beguile us, and saw danger ahead in a distant group of rivals crowding round some tourists from another boat. This group we had to pass, and as we did so, who should break out from the glittering ring but Bedr.

He came toward us, humble and cringing, giving the beautiful Arab salute. “Dear gen’lemen and ladies!” he exclaimed. “I am very happy to see you again. Won’t you shake hands, to forgive, because I meaned no harm, and did no wrong thing but obey the sweet ladies’ wish when they would go to that House of the Crocodile. I too much punished when I been sent away.”

“That’s past now, and forgotten,” said Monny, shrinking slightly from the outstretched hand. “Perhaps it wasn’t your fault, that trouble we got into, but we didn’t need you afterward, anyhow, and probably the people you are with now are nicer to you than we were.”

“Oh, no peoples could be nicer, though they are very nice, my two gen’lemens you seed with me in the desert. They travel with me yet. We go everywhere by trains, because it takes not so much time as the boats. And Miss Guest, that nice good young lady, is she well?”

“Yes, she is very well,” replied Miss Gilder, beginning to be restless, her beauty-loving eyes avoiding Bedr’s face, as had been her habit when the man was in our employ. She did not like to hurt his feelings (Monny can’t bear to hurt the feelings of any one below herself in wealth or station, though apparently she doesn’t consider that one is bound to be kind-hearted with the rich); but I could see that she wanted to escape. Never had she liked Bedr. He had been Rachel’s man from the first. “Miss Guest has gone to see the tombs,” Monny explained.

“You not go there, and to the bazaars? I take my gen’lemen in a few minutes.”

“We shall go by and by; just now we’ve other things to do,” said the girl evasively, rather too evasively, perhaps. But in the hope of killing two birds with one stone (luring the man to betray his secret if he had one, and then shunting him), I broke in.

“How have you been getting on,” I inquired, looking into the squint eyes, “since that night I saw you at Medinet-el-Fayoum?”

But the eyes opened wide, with a stare of innocence.

“You see _me_ there, milord? I thought your party had not come when we went away. My gen’lemen not like that camping place, and we stay there not even one night. You must make mistake, and think some other man me. Sure!”

We could not help laughing at the “Sure!” It was spoken in so truly an American way that it was funny on those lips. Afterward, however, it struck me in remembering the scene, that the man’s accent in speaking English was even more distinctly American than it had been. This was odd, if he had been associating with Germans; but natural if his new clients were Americans.

Another question was on my tongue, but before I had time to speak, Monny cried out: “Oh, there’s Wretched Bey, in a carriage, all alone with some luggage! I hope he’s going away!”

Naturally we turned, but I saw Biddy raise her eyebrows warningly. The girl looked puzzled, as if, for an instant, she did not see what she had done that was wrong. But I guess that Biddy’s distrust of Bedr as a possible spy was still alive in her breast. She did not know of my suspicions concerning the “camp thief,” for the affair at Medinet, thanks to a white fib or two, had never assumed serious proportions in her mind. It did not need that, however, to make her feel that Bedr’s ears were not fit receptacles for secrets.

Monny had not been mistaken. It was Rechid Bey, leaning comfortably back in an old-fashioned but not badly appointed open carriage, drawn by two very decent horses, and driven by a smart, red-sashed, white-robed negro. We saw him in profile as he passed along the road at some distance, but he was reading a paper with an expression so placid that I felt sure he had not seen us. On the seat beside him was a suitcase with the air of having been made in France; and circumstantial evidence said that Monny’s wish was to be granted.

I glanced hastily at Bedr, to observe, if I could, whether the girl’s impulsive exclamation had aroused undue interest; for it was not unlikely that he had seen Rechid Bey and Mabel landing at Alexandria the night of his first meeting with us. But the ugly face showed nothing.

“If you have things you want to do, my ladies,” he said, “please excuse that I have keeped you. I go to my gen’lemen or they give the men with the silver shawls too much money.”

The “gen’lemen” in question were more interested in observing our movements than in completing any bargain with the street vendors; nevertheless Bedr hastened back as if in great fear that they might be cheated. An arabeah waited for them; and having bought a scarf or two, they drove off before we had parted to go our several ways. An arabeah was in attendance upon us, also, and we put Brigit and Monny into it alone, for Rechid Bey’s house, the driver informed us, was not far off.

“Good luck!” I said encouragingly, and Brigit smiled gayly at me; but Monny was looking at Fenton. She was telling him something with her eyes; and, with a significant little gesture, she touched the small leather handbag she carried.

“One would think she was a suffragette with a bomb,” I remarked to Anthony, trying to speak easily, as though I were not at all anxious, when the carriage had turned its back on us.

“Instead of which,” said Anthony, gazing at the dark head and the fair head, as earnestly as if he never expected to see them again, “instead of which, she’s merely a brave girl with a pistol that she knows how to use. Or, anyhow, she says she does.”

“Great heavens! Has she got one in that bag?” I gasped.

“She has. My Browning.”

“Jove! You gave it to her?”

“I did. Last night.”

My heart began suddenly to feel like a cannon ball, in my breast. I felt that I had not understood the situation, and that now I did not understand Anthony–though that was far from being a new sensation.

“I thought that _you_ thought there was no danger?” I bleated. “You know Egypt and I don’t. I didn’t want them to go in for this thing, but when you said it would be all right, I yielded. I wish to heaven I hadn’t!”

“Do you think if you hadn’t given in, Miss Gilder would have given up?”

“You and I together could have kept them both out of the business.”

“Only by sheer force. You see, Miss Gilder was interested in this girl and fond of her before she met you. So was Mrs. East. As Rechid tricked the pretty little governess by making her believe she would be his first and only wife, they don’t look upon her as married to him: And I think they’re right. Don’t you glory in them both for knowing there’s a risk, yet taking it so gayly for that foolish child’s sake?”