"SCARABS OF A DEAD DYNASTY"
Since the anchor had been weighed at Naples, the days had passed
uneventfully for the indolently cruising _Isis_ with no word from
Galavia. But at last the operator caught his call and made ready to
receive. The message consisted of one word, and the word was "Cairo."
Cara, with no suspicion of what was transpiring in Puntal, beguiled by
the spell of smooth seas and _dolce-far-niente_ softness of sky, was
once more the frank and charming companion of the American days.
The single word of the Marconigram had left the American in perplexity.
Evidently either Karyl or Von Ritz was to meet them at Cairo. Probably
Cairo instead of Alexandria had been designated because the King had
taken into consideration the possible danger from the plague at the
seaport. He told Cara only that Karyl would join the vacation party
there and kept to himself the reservation that his coming probably meant
disaster. Yet when they reached Cairo there was no news awaiting them.
It was the night of a confetti fête at Shephard's Hotel. Among the trees
of the gardens were ropes of lights and the soft color-spots of Chinese
lanterns. Branches glittered with incandescent fruit of brilliant
colors. Flags hung between the fronds of the palms and the plumes of the
acacias, and among the pleasure-seekers from East and West of Suez fell
pelting showers of confetti.
After dinner Cara and the ladies of her party had withdrawn to their
rooms to prepare for the gay warfare of the gardens. Benton, awaiting
them in the rotunda, lounged on one of the low divans which circle the
walls of the octagonal chamber, beneath carved lattices and Moorish
panels; a cigarette between his fingers and a small cup of black coffee
on the low tabouret at his elbow.
The place invited lazy ease, and Benton was as indolent among his
cushions as the spirit of brooding Egypt, but his eyes, watching the
stairs down which she would come, remained alert.
Hearing his name called in a voice which rang familiarly, he glanced up
to recognize the smiling face of young Harcourt, his chance acquaintance
of Capri. He set down the small Turkish cup and rose.
"Come back to the bar and fortify yourself against the thin red line of
British soldiery out there in the gardens. You can get a ripping
highball for eight _piastres_," laughed the newcomer. But Benton
declined.
"I am waiting for ladies," he explained. "I'll see you again."
"Sure you will." Harcourt paused. "I dash up the Nile in the morning,
going to do Karnak and Luxor--you know, the usual stunt. Been busy all
day buying scarabs and mummied cats, but I want to see you sometime
to-night. By the way, I've heard something--"
"All right. See you later." Benton spoke hurriedly, for he had caught
the flash of a slender figure in white on the stairs.
In the war of the confetti, man makes war on woman and woman on man,
while over the field reigns a universal and democratic acquaintanceship.
Cara was on vacation, and a child--bent on forgetting that to-morrow
must come. It was characteristic of her that she should enter into the
spirit of the occasion with all the abandon it suggested.
Benton stood by as she gradually gave ground before the attacks of a
stout, gray-templed Briton, a General of the Army of Occupation. She
fought gallantly, but he stood doggedly before her handfuls of confetti,
shaking the paper chips out of his eyes and mustache like some
invincible old St. Bernard, and her slender Mandarin-coated figure
retreated slowly before his red and medal-decked jacket.
"Watch out!" cried Benton, who followed her retreat, forbidden by the
rules of warfare from giving aid, other than counsel, "The British Army
is putting you in a bad strategic position."
She had retreated across the flower-beds and stood with her back to the
rim of the fountain. Her box of confetti was empty and Benton also was
without ordnance supplies.
Young Harcourt suddenly stepped forward from the crowd.
"Here!" he cried with a smile of frank worship, as he tendered a fresh
box of confetti. "Take this and remember Bunker Hill!"
The British officer bowed.
"I surrender," he said, "because you violate the rules of war. Your
confetti is not deadly and your tactics are mediocre, but your eyes use
lyddite."
Inside Cara went to her room to wrestle with the tiny chips of
multi-colored paper that covered her and filled her hair. In the hall,
Harcourt came again to Benton.
"By Jove, she is a wonder," he said. Then he slipped his arm through
Benton's and led him aside. The American followed supinely.
"Benton, do you remember the talk we had about Romance?"
Benton looked quickly up to forestall any possible personality to which
he might object, but Harcourt continued.
"Do you know that chap, Martin--he doesn't call himself Browne now--has
turned up again? He's been here. Not ragged this time, but well groomed
and in high feather. To-day he left to go back to Galavia."
"Back to Galavia?" Benton repeated the words in astonishment. "What do
you mean?"
Harcourt laughed. "The scales have turned and his Grand Duke is to be
King after all."
Benton seized the boy by the elbow and steered him into one of the empty
writing-rooms.
"Now, for God's sake, what do you mean?" he demanded.
"That's all," replied the young tourist. "They've switched Kings. Oh, it
was so quietly done that the people of the city of Puntal don't know yet
it's happened. The King died suddenly and Louis will ascend his throne."
"The King died suddenly!" Benton echoed the words blankly. "I don't
understand."
"Neither do I. But Martin said the King was taken prisoner and tried to
escape. He was shot."
"How did Martin know?" asked Benton slowly, trying to realize the full
import of the boy's chatter.
"The news hasn't reached here, generally speaking. He said that the
King's death has not even been made public there, but the Countess
Astaride has been stopping here. Martin himself was in her party and he
helped her to decipher the news from the Duke's code-telegram." He
paused. "However," he added, "that may not interest you. The story
probably bored you at first, but having told you the original tale, I
had to add the sequel. What I really wanted to ask you, is to present me
to the wonderful American girl. You will, won't you?"
Benton's back was turned to the window. He wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief and stared at nothing.
"You will, won't you?" repeated the boy.
"Oh, yes, of course," Benton replied mechanically. "I shall ask
permission to do so."
Outside on the terraced veranda, where one sips tea and overlooks one of
the most varied human tides that flows through any street of the world,
Benton and Cara sat at a table near the edge--the man wondering how he
could tell her. Fakirs with spangled shawls from Assouit, bead
necklaces, ebony walking-sticks, scarabs and souvenir postcards jostled
on the sidewalk to pass their wares over the railing. Fat Arab guides
with red fezes and the noisy jargon of half-mastered French and English
discussed to-morrow's journeys with industrious globe-trotters.
On the tiles squatted a juggler from India. Under his white turban his
glittering, beady eyes appraised the generosity of his audience as he
arranged his flat baskets, his live rabbits and his hooded cobras for an
exhibition of mercenary magic.
Along the street, heralded with tom-toms, came a procession of lurching
camels, jogging donkeys, rattling carriages, acrobats leading dog-faced
apes and trailing Arabs in fezes--the pomp and pageantry of a pilgrim
returning from Mecca. Motors, victorias, detachments of cavalry swept by
in unbroken and spectacular show.
Benton sat stiffly with his jaw muscles tightly drawn and his eyes
dazed, looking at the girl across the table.
She turned from the street, eyes still sparkling with the reflected
variety of the picture that hodge-podged Occident and Orient,
telescoping the dead ages with to-day.
"Oh, I love things so," she laughed. "I'm as foolish as a child about
things that are new."
With another glance at the shifting tide, she added seriously: "And
every silly Oriental of them all is free to go where he pleases--to do
what he pleases. I would give everything for freedom, and they have
it--and don't value it!"
Then she saw the hard strain of his face. Slowly her own eyes lost the
glow of pleasurable interest and saddened with the realization of being
barred back from life.
The man bent forward. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table
with a clutch which drove the blood back under his nails. It was a hard
fight to retain his self-control. His question broke from him in a low,
almost savage voice.
"Cara!" he demanded. "Cara, is there any price too high to pay for
happiness?"
"What do you mean?" The intensity of his eyes held hers, and for a
moment she feared for his reason. Her own question was low and
steadying, but he answered in an unnatural voice.
"I hardly know--perhaps I have less right to speak now than
ever--perhaps more. I don't know, I only know that I love you--and that
the world seems reeling."
Something caught in his throat.
"I'm a cur to talk of it now. I want to think of--of--something else. I
ought to think only what a splendid sort he was--but I can realize only
one thing--I love you."
"Only one thing," she repeated softly. Then as she looked again into the
feverishly bright eyes under his scowl, the meaning which lay back of
his words broke suddenly upon her.
"_Was_!" she echoed in startled comprehension. "_Was_!--did you say
was?"
The man remained silent.
"You mean that--?" she said the three words very slowly and stopped,
unable to go on.
"You mean--that--he--?" With a strong effort she added the one word,
then gave up the effort to shape the question. Her hand closed
convulsively.
Benton slowly nodded his head. The girl leaned forward toward him. Her
lips parted, her eyes widened.
The next instant they were misty with tears. Not hypocritical tears for
an unloved husband, but sincere tears for a generous friend.
"Delgado escaped," he explained simply. "Karyl was captured." Again he
spoke in few words. It seemed that he could not manage long sentences.
"Then he tried to escape," he added.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, and leaned forward, speaking
rapidly in a half-whisper that sometimes broke.
"Oh, it's not fair! It's not fair! I want to think only how splendid he
was--how unselfish--how brave! I want to think of him always as he
deserves, lovingly, fondly--and I've got to remember forever how little
I could give him in return!"
"Yes, I guess he was the whitest man--" Benton stopped, then blurted out
like a boy. "Oh, what's the use of my sitting here eulogizing him. I
guess he doesn't need my praises. I guess he can stand on his own
record."
"It's monstrous!" she said, and then she, too, fell back on silence.
Suddenly she rose to her feet, carried one hand to her heart and swayed
uncertainly for a moment, steadying herself with one hand on the table.
The man turned, following her half-hypnotic gaze, in time to see Colonel
Von Ritz bending over her hand. With recognition, Benton started up,
then his jaw dropped and, doubting his own sanity, he fell back into his
chair and sat gazing with blank eyes.
At Von Ritz's elbow stood Pagratide.
Slowly Benton came to his feet, his ears ringing. Then as Karyl turned
from the girl and held out his hand to him, the American heard, as one
listening through the roaring of a fever, some question about affairs in
Galavia.
He heard Karyl answer, and though the words seemed to come from
somewhere beyond Port Said, he recognized that the former King tried to
speak in a matter-of-fact voice.
"I have no Kingdom. Louis took it."
Karyl had held out his left hand. The right was bound down in a sling.
But these things were all vague to Benton because it seemed that the
pilgrim's tom-toms were beating inside his brain, and beating out of
time. He could see that Karyl's eyes also were weary and lusterless.
Turning with an excuse for travel-stain to be removed, Karyl halted.
"Benton," he said. There he fell silent. "Benton," he said again,
forcing himself to speak in a voice not far from the breaking point,
"Blanco--Blanco is dead."
He turned on his heel and went into the hotel.
Blanco dead! For a moment Benton felt an insane desire to rush after
Karyl and demand his life for Blanco's. Some delirious accusation that
this man cost him every dear thing in life seemed fighting for
expression and reprisal, then he realized that the _toreador_ had won
his way into Pagratide's affection as well as his own. Tears came to his
eyes for an instant. He focused his gaze on a cigarette-shop across the
street.
"Lady!"
A grinning Egyptian face, surmounted by a red fez, showed itself over
the railing. The girl started violently and seemed for a moment on the
edge of hysteria. She laughed unnaturally. Thus encouraged, the
Bedouin's grin broadened until it radiated good-humor across the swarthy
visage from cheek-bone to cheek-bone.
"Nice scarabs, lady! Only five _piastres_--only one shilling," he
spieled. "Scarabs of a dead dynasty. _Très antique_."