they sound. The reader must remember that my horse and I were utter
strangers to each other. This the mare resented with all the fire
of the most pure-blooded Arabian steed than which no animal is more
difficult when aroused. With true feminine deceptiveness she concealed
her feeling for a considerable period during which we gathered
tremendous speed. Then suddenly, after a great leap in air, she landed
stiff-legged, stock-still in a cloud of sand. Fortunately I had taken
care to twist the Bassikunu cloak firmly about the pommel of the saddle
or all had been lost. As it was I flew straight on over the animal’s
head, fetching up with a snap and swinging downward violently at her
feet. She immediately reared, endeavoring to kill me with her sharp
hoofs. I now hung like a human apron under her foaming muzzle, her eyes
luckily being blinded by the heavy folds. In a trice I threw my arms
about the thrashing knees, and, quickly slipping my grip down to the
fetlocks, crossed her fore-legs, throwing my full strength against her
shoulder as she fell. With a whimper of defeat the gallant beast rolled
over on her side while I sat comfortably on her head and regained my
breath, thanking my stars for the years of experience on our western
plains which now stood me in such good stead.
Then, unwrapping the burnous, I looked long and steadily into the
blood-shot eyes of the animal below me. Gradually the wild gaze
softened until with a sigh of resignation the soft lids dropped and
the tense neck relaxed. As plainly as a horse could the mare said “I
surrender; you are my master.”
I instantly rose, taking the animal at her word and she stood
peacefully still while I tightened the girths. From then on there was
no more trouble from that quarter.
If we had travelled fast before we now fairly flew. The sorrel swung
steadily on as if to make amends for her past captiousness. By this
time the sun was below the horizon and purple shadows vast and
threatening rose from the wastes about me, vague towers and impalpable
wraiths of darkness that loomed and fled. The low voice of the night
wind began its sobbing. Often there would come to my ear the sound of
a broken, inarticulate sentence as if some inhuman tongue had babbled
a mysterious language: again the gray shape of a jackal glided swiftly
along the edge of my vision or a desert rat scuttled across my path. As
the darkness deepened it became peopled with all manner of visionary
terrors and I could readily understand and accept the myriad djinns,
evil spirits and ghosts of the misty East.
An hour later, as my heart sank lower, the sorrel suddenly checked her
stride, faltered and came to a full stop. “Poor brute,” I thought, “you
are spent. It is the beginning of the end.” But as if to contradict
me she thrust out her nose and neighed shrilly, following this by a
cautious advance. Plainly she had detected something of which I was
not aware. Sure enough, a hundred yards farther on I caught the sound
of low moaning, pitiful but inexpressibly human and comforting in that
dark wilderness. We made our way quickly in the direction of the sound
and were soon rewarded by seeing a vague black form against the desert
grayness. Hastily dismounting I bent over the object.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Pity ... pity....” begged a weak voice.
[Illustration: ZALOOFA
“She was a Circassian, lured from the convent-school of
snake-charmers at Timbuctoo.”]
[Illustration: Zaloofa]
Bending lower I saw that the speaker was a woman, young and beautiful,
her pale features haggard to the point of exhaustion. When I had
given her a reviving draught from my emergency flask and assured her
of my friendly attitude she outlined her pitiful story. It was another
sample of Azad’s dastardly work. She was a Circassian, lured from the
Convent-school of snake-charmers at Timbuctoo. For a month she had been
the sheik’s favorite, then cast aside, poisoned as he thought and left
to bleach on the sands. But her constant inoculation with the venom of
her pets had made her practically immune to the deadly toxin and for
three days she had lain helpless ’neath the furious sun, struggling to
reach Tabala.
“Tabala!” At the word I sprang up. “Whither?” I cried. “Tell me
quickly. I go but to procure aid.”
“’Tis not far,” she murmured. “An hour’s ride, perhaps, under yon
constellation of El Whizbang.” And with the words she lapsed into
unconsciousness. Covering her gently with my cloak I leaped into the
saddle. Bright above me glistened the starry diadem of El Whizbang and
once more the sorrel and I thundered on through the night, our hearts
alight with courage and hope.
The desert woman’s direction was straight and sure. With startling
suddenness a group of tall palms sprang into being. The neighing of
my excited mare roused muffled cries, movement, bustle and confusion
as vague tents disgorged their startled inmates. “Swank! Whinney,
Ab-Do-men!” I shouted.
Answering shouts of “Traprock” pierced the night.
There was no time lost in parley. A brief pause for rest, a change of
costume, a fresh mount and with twenty picked men armed to the teeth I
turned back over a road I was not likely to forget.
“Westward-ho!” I shouted, heading the gallant troop, and we thundered
off to the rescue of all that I held most dear.
CHAPTER VIII
_Sheik to Sheik_
CHAPTER VIII
In the short interval at our camp I had given Ab-Domen explicit orders
as to just what to do. Twenty of the best tribesmen and all the
available horses came with me. The men were mostly Moplahs with a few
Kadas. They had long roamed the desert and having had much experience
with tourists, were as rapacious and blood-thirsty a lot as one could
wish. In addition I had Swank and Whinney, trusted and true, with the
exact amount of intelligence necessary to handle the turbulent natives
and no more.
Ab-Domen stayed with the caravan. His instructions were to retrace his
steps with the outfit which was, of course, slow moving. He was to make
one day’s journey after which he was to pitch camp and be prepared to
welcome us back or dig in and resist to the death should Allah so will.
My parting with the ponderous dragoman had been unusually affecting and
it was with a stern, set countenance that I headed my impetuous band.
For some time we rode in silence. The vault of heaven was still black
at the zenith but at its eastern edge glowed a widening band of
silver that flickered and ran fitfully about the horizon as the flame
runs around the wick of an oil stove. I never light my four-cylinder
blue-flame without thinking of that momentous hour. Back of us the
star, El Whizbang, sank to its usual matinal extinction, a faithful and
exemplary planet, having performed its good deed for the night. We soon
reached the crouching form of the Circassian woman with whom I left
supplies, a loaf of bread, a goatskin of camels-milk and several of the
latest magazines and whose location I marked for Ab-Domen’s guidance
with a small red flag mounted on a spear. Thus we left her, looking
like the eighteenth green of a desert golf course.
In the growing light the trained eyes of my Moplahs easily followed
the vague tracks of my previous ride. No wind had risen to disturb the
shifting sands and though invisible to me their practised vision easily
picked up the trail. They were much puzzled when we reached the site
of my struggle with the sorrel where the deep hoof marks and trampled
sand were plain to all. “You fell?” asked Ouidja, a cadaverous Kada.
I laughed at the idea and shortly narrated the incident to their
great delight, and ejaculations of “_Bishmillah!_” “_Biskra!_” and
“_Wahully!_”
Day now streamed lucidly over the undulating plain but though the
tension of the previous hours was somewhat relaxed by action the
increasing light brought to me an increase of anxiety. By now Azad’s
camp would be astir. At this very moment the attack might be beginning
if--alas! it had not already ended. This despairful thought prompted an
attempt on my part to shorten the distance between us.
Between our present position and the original site of Azad’s camp
lay an hour’s hard riding. From that point he had gone north while
my course had been east. We had been describing two sides of a right
angle. Obviously the intelligent thing to do was to close the triangle
and take the shortest possible route along its hypotenuse. “Halt!” I
ordered.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE
“Superb! you are like a swift-running tide-race foaming over a hidden
reef.”]
[Illustration: The Rescue]
Hastily dismounting I drew an accurate diagram on the desert, which
is ideally adapted for geometric study. All my life long I have clung
to the knowledge that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the
sum of the squares of the other two sides. It stood me in good stead
now. Quickly figuring the approximate distance which Azad and I
must have travelled I leaped into the saddle with a cry of “Q.E.D.” to
the mystification of my followers. From now on I was leader indeed.
According to my figures and time allowance the distance to be travelled
should be about nineteen miles which, with our superb animals, we could
expect to travel in a little more than an hour. “Pray Heaven Euclid was
right,” I murmured.
The sun had cleared the horizon and struck brightly on our flowing
cloaks.
“You are a wonderful sight!” cried Swank, who had ridden off at a
distance to take a photograph. “Superb! You are like a swift-running
tide-race foaming over a hidden reef!”
But I was oblivious to his poetic similes for, far off but dead ahead,
I seemed to see an answering gleam of white and a faint dusty blur on
the horizon. My heart stood still as my horse bounded forward more
swiftly than ever.
“On!” I shouted hoarsely. The others caught the infection of my
excitement and we thundered onward.
Yes! ... it was Azad and his assassins!
After an interminable half-hour we could see them plainly. The attack
was on in all its fury. Very evidently Azad’s men had seen our
approach, even as we had detected them, and had thrown themselves on
their quarry with the idea of having that part of the job done with
before we could come up. But they had reckoned without the intelligence
and courage of Lady Wimpole and the brute obstinacy of her husband.
Wimpole, it appeared later, the instant he suspected the hostile
intentions of Azad’s party, had formed his group into a British square
which he considered absolutely unbreakable.
We could see the huddled formation in the center with the encircling
cordon of Bassikunus galloping about it. The sight of a merry-go-round
invariably brings back that tragic picture. Soon we heard the fierce
cries of “_Blida! Laghouat blida!_” a Bassikunu form of unprintable
torture which clearly accounted for the desperate resistance of Effendi
and his men. Poor Effendi! I had feared he would give up at the first
shot, but I did him an injustice.
Now we were only a half-mile away but O, what dire things can happen in
a half-mile. How I cursed the desert for its magnificent distances as
I urged my horse forward. An occasional shot, a scream, an imprecation
now mingled with the rising dust. At intervals twos and threes of
the attacking party broke from the circle, darted forward and plucked
some screeching fragment from the human wall. A camel dashed by me,
bellowing piteously, the upper third of his hump cut cleanly off by
some terrific sabre-swing which gave him the singular look of a table
topped mountain. Brick by brick, stone by stone, life by life, the
living parapet was being torn away.
Now in the center I could see the little group of defenders, smoking
revolvers in hand, Effendi-Bazam crouching low, praying and firing
simultaneously, Lord Wimpole, white as paper, Lady Sarah--my Sarah!
redder than ever; a flaming beacon of courage, her bottle-green veil
flying behind her and her eyes snapping behind her dark-blue glasses.
Horrors! The square had crumbled!--the wall was down.
With a loud cry of “_Blida!_” the desert-scum rose like a tidal-wave
overcoming the gallant group in a final heart-rending crash. A cloud of
dust, pierced by wails of agony, obscured the ghastly details of the
picture.
At times like this one does not think clearly; one acts. It was so
in this instance. Without a word being spoken Swank and Whinney
ranged themselves on either side of me, my Moplahs forming a
dense triangle at our backs. The enemy had instantly whirled about
presenting everywhere a front bristling with guns, lances and gleaming
_simlas_--the long, curved desert-swords. With increasing speed we
hurled ourselves at the mass. Representing as I did what efficiency
experts call the “point of contact” my position was one of extreme
danger.
Let me but dispose of the first man! He was a gigantic fellow with
a gun approximately twelve feet long pointed directly at me. As he
pressed his finger to the trigger my automatic barked and he crumpled
up with a blue-edged hole in his forehead. The next instant our
crushing wedge split Azad’s warriors into fragments. In that first
moment of terrific impact Swank and Whinney stood by me nobly. Only men
trained in the rush-hour tactics of civilized subways could have come
through alive.
With the first penetration accomplished it was a case of hand to hand
fighting. Everywhere were struggling knots of humanity, swaying,
plunging, stabbing, slicing ... it was hell let loose. A single thought
in mind, I searched frantically for Lady Sarah. She was nowhere to be
seen. Weaving my way between sprawling groups I fought toward the edge
of the battle. Then I saw the devilish Azad’s scheme, for at a distance
of a hundred yards were two horsemen, a muffled figure between them,
galloping furiously to the southward. Crafty villain! under cover of
the fighting his idea was to escape.
Free of all obstacles I sped after them, rapidly gaining on their
encumbered progress. It was two to one but what cared I. Seeing
themselves overtaken they reined up while Azad’s bodyguard took
deliberate aim through the sights of his long gun. I could almost feel
its cold muzzle on my brow. But they had reckoned without the power
of the woman they carried. With a convulsive spring she threw herself
about the marksman and his bullet whistled over my head; a second later
he fell pierced by the last ball from my automatic which I flung into
the sand. In a flash I was alongside.
“Azad,” I shrieked--“your hour has come!”
His usually calm face was twisted with evil passion, not unmixed with
terror. Without the help of his henchmen the weight of the English
woman had been too much for him and I saw her huddled body slip from
his grasp and fall heavily to the sands. He pulled savagely at his
beast’s mouth with the evident intention of backing and trampling
her to death. But at that second I resorted to an old Moplah trick
which is the pride of our tribe.
[Illustration: SHEIK TO SHEIK
“Azad,” I shrieked,--“your hour has come----.”]
[Illustration: Sheik to Sheik]
At a distance of ten feet I pointed the muzzle of my gun into the sand
and using it as a vaulting pole described an arc in the air. Even so
I should have been severely if not fatally wounded for the low-lived
creature was alertly awaiting my descent to meet me with an inescapable
blow of his razor edged _simla_.... I say “inescapable” for who can
dodge in the air? But wait.... At the very second when by all the laws
of gravitation I should fall against the sweeping blade, at the very
instant when the wiry desert pirate delivered what he meant should be
my death blow ... I pressed the trigger of my gun and fired it into the
sand. The recoil of these Arab weapons is enormous. For an appreciable
time my flight was not only arrested but reversed.
Bird-like I leaped lightly clear of the whirring blade only to fall
with a crash on the baffled nomad’s head, enveloping him in my burnous
under the folds of which I dragged him to the ground.
It was now a Sheik to Sheik contest; in-fighting of the most inward
character.
Fighting in a burnous is very much like fighting under the bed clothes,
a pastime in which I had often indulged during my school-boy days.
Moreover I was master of numerous grips and holds which are not in
the Arab vocabulary. But Azad was at grips with death and knew it; in
addition I felt sure that he still had his pistol which, if he could
but press it against my side, would be unfortunate.
His wiry strength surprised me. He constantly slipped from my grasp. It
was like fighting a basket of eels in a clothes-hamper. Hither and yon
we thrashed. Once I got a grip on his Adam’s apple and thought to have
wrenched it from his throat but his teeth closed on my ear lobe and I
loosened my hold. Now I heard the thud of horses’ hoofs, footsteps and
approaching voices.
“Club him! Club him!” shouted some one.
But the rescuing party were in a dilemma. They could not tell which of
the struggling forms to club. Resolved not to let go of my enemy, with
my brain reeling and the blood pounding in my temples I decided on a
desperate expedient.
“Club us both,” I shouted with my last ounce of breath.
A heavy blow sounded and the figure in my arms relaxed. Before I could
cry “Hold!” a second blow fell. A white light blazed before my eyes and
I knew no more.
CHAPTER IX
_Mine at Last!_
CHAPTER IX
They told me afterward that I lay unconscious, hovering twixt life
and death, for four days. On the fifth my temperature rose and I was
seized by a delirium in which I babbled of early days, my boyhood in
Derby, travels, dangers, women ... I know not all I said. But paramount
in my thoughts was Lady Sarah whose name I called at intervals. Prior
to coming up with Azad’s men I had not slept for seventy-two hours. I
had ridden scores of miles, been wounded a dozen times and suffered
from the keenest anxiety. The final blow on the head, added for good
measure, had been the death of one less virile. But my will-to-live won
out.
On the fifth day I slowly opened my eyes and gazed, mystified at the
vision above me. It was Lady Sarah’s face but through my filmy pupils
it loomed vague and indefinite like the harvest moon in a fog. Then my
vision cleared.
“You?” I questioned.
She smiled and placed a finger on her lips with the familiar nurse’s
gesture.
“Sh ... you must not talk.” She wore the conventional nursing
costume in which all women look well. As she turned to busy herself
professionally with a tray of medicine bottles a mounting tide of color
suffused her cheeks spreading to the ears and neck until they were a
rich mahogany. Blessed creature! She too had suffered during her vigil.
At the thought I had an absurd vision of one of Giorgione’s red angels
bending over me. A weak laugh faltered on my lips. She was at my side
in an instant, bottle in hand.
“Time for meddy ... then go bye-bye.”
She poured out a moderate portion of something potent and pre-war. I
sank back with a sigh of satisfaction. How good she was to me! and how
gentle!... “Meddy” “Bye-bye” “Good-night, Nurse.” I was asleep.
* * * * *
How delightful are convalescent days. The mind is so keen and every
stage of improvement brings such a thrill of adventure from the first
bit of solid food to sitting up, being read to, talking and the bliss
of the first cigarette. Then later came visits from friends, dainties
sent in and the gradual putting-together of the past. Flowers, too--a
vase of purple bugloss-blossoms from Effendi-Bazam. He too had been
struck down and barely rescued just as two Bassikuni were about to
carry out their threat of _laghouat blida_. I wept like a child at his
tenderness.
Lord Wimpole’s tent had been turned into a sick room while he occupied
mine. I do not think he liked the arrangement but Lady Sarah had taken
these matters into her own hands. Little by little the story was told
me, of how my men had turned the tide of battle and annihilated all
but a handful of Azad’s forces who had fled into the desert. Seeing my
grievous state a messenger was sent to Ab-Domen which resulted in the
consolidation of the two caravans.
“How fortunate you arrived just when you did!” exclaimed Lady Sarah one
evening, clasping her knees in her long bony hands. “Another second
would have been too late!”
“Nonsense,” blustered Lord Wimpole pulling his stubby moustache, “we
should ’ave stood ’em off. You can’t break a British Square y’know.”
“My eye,” said his wife coldly, flicking a cigarette ash in his
direction. “They were all over us and you know it.”
Wimpole mooned out of the tent while I was telling his lady of my
fortunate application of the “pons asinorum.”
“What is that?” she queried. “My French is atrocious.”
“An old geometric theorem; the bridge of asses over which every school
donkey must pass.”
“And you did!” she enthused. “How clearly it brings home the advantage
of a college education.”
Thus we passed long hours in tender confidence during which I told
her many things, she listening for the most part, as I recounted my
life from its infancy, with a nursery anecdote here and there, some
droll saying or madcap prank which I played on Miss Stafford, my
first teacher. No detail seemed too slight to interest this wonderful
creature to whom I vowed to bare my whole existence. Step by step I
worked my way through infancy to adolescence, boyish sports, my skill
at mumblety-peg, my first affair with Norah Flaherty who worked in the
melodeon factory....
It was at the close of this tender incident that she bent over me late
one evening to tuck me in, her rose-rimmed eyes glowing into mine.
Involuntarily my arm encircled her gaunt framework drawing her down,
close ... close. Thus she knelt by my cot for a long moment before she
rose with an effort at self mastery.
“I think you can get up tomorrow,” she murmured, and the curtains
swished softly on the night air.
“What happened to Azad?” I asked one day.
Whinney, who was visiting me, flicked an ash from his cigarette.
“Your men claimed him after he came to. They buried him, Moplah style,
you know?”
“Rather!”
I could see the wretched creature hands and feet bound, planted up to
his neck in hard-packed sand. The eyes invariably went first, toothsome
morsels for the vultures,--then came the ants and flies.
“We kept him alive as long as we could,” said my friend, “occasionally
that Circassian girl used to go out and sprinkle salt and sand on his
sore spots.”
“That will be all for today,” I remarked, for I was still weak.
It was a matter of ten days before I began to feel my full strength and
resilience returning, days of short walks and long rests in a shaded
_chaise-longue_. Whinney and Swank had laid out an excellent nine-hole
golf course where I was soon able to join them. Golf in the desert is
a simple affair, the course being entirely of sand one needs but two
clubs, a driver and a niblick. It is like playing in a gigantic bunker
and my game soon came back to me. Then there were afternoons of gazelle
and gecko hunting with sloughi-hounds, the only dogs which can stand
the peculiar conditions of the desert for which nature has equipped
them with bushy, protective eye-brows, short beards and curiously
splay-toed feet which give them great speed over soft sand. Another
pastime of our leisure hours was the Arab’s favorite pursuit of hawking.
No standard Sheik travels without his hawk or hawks, hung in gay
cages from their pack camels and the women folk are constantly busy
knitting hoods for the poor creatures who spend so much of their
time blindfolded. The reason for this constant blindfolding I had
never fully understood until Ab-Domen explained it. The theory is
that a hawk’s eye is only capable of just so much looking and it
would therefore be supremely unwise to let him wear his eyes out in
the contemplation of useless objects such as people and camels. Now,
however, was the hawks’ holiday and the air was specked with the
graceful creatures careering at dizzy heights like motes in a sunbeam.
They are recalled by a whistle which they obey with the marvellous
intelligence of a day laborer at the noon hour, dropping whatever work
they may be engaged in to settle quietly on their masters’ wrists.
An exception to this statement must be made in the case of a hawk in
pursuit of an _opapa_, a desert fowl closely akin to the Australian
carpenter-bird which it resembles in its hammer-head, saw-bill and
long, nail-like claws. Many a morning in the Cowba district (East
of Sydney) I have been awakened by the building operations of these
creatures whose nests are solidly framed of gum-wood which is later
stuccoed with a mixture of bird-lime and feathers. But I digress....
The _opapa_ of which I started to speak is for some reason unknown to
ornithology the deadly enemy of the hawk and once sighted is the object
of a relentless attack. Seated one day in the encampment I witnessed
a grewsome battle between two of these implacable rivals of the air.
The recall had been sounded, but the hawk paid no attention to it. His
one thought was the complete annihilation of his antagonist which he
accomplished by repeated attacks, closing-in, ripping-off tender strips
of flesh and actually devouring the entire carcass save the saw-bill,
bony hammer-head and nails; in other words, the hawk, in mid-air
ate the artisan and dropped only the tools, after which he returned
peaceably to his master.
But our position in the camp was becoming increasingly difficult.
Our water supply had been thrice replenished from the Tabala station
which was at an inconvenient distance. Moreover the guardian of the
wells began to protest against our frequent calls. “Caravans come and
caravans depart, but you are repeaters,” he said in effect. My strength
now was completely restored; under my folding burnous I could feel the
steel contours of hardening biceps, triceps and forceps. Will-power,
ambition, the old love of adventure were again in the ascendant.
Now arose a difficulty which was destined to result in vital
consequences. I refer to the division of responsibility between Lord
Wimpole and myself. Here were two caravans each with an acknowledged
leader. During my illness the supreme command had fallen in the
Englishman’s hands. Incompetent though he was he could not bring
himself to relinquish it. Temporary power had gone to the little
lace-maker’s head and the inevitable battle of wills began. The first
open break occurred during a discussion as to future plans. Wimpole
was all for a continuation of the life of ease and luxury which so
well suited him. His absurd suggestion was an immediate removal to
Tabala with an indefinite stay there. My decision was to push on to the
beckoning East according to my original plans. In vain we argued. “Very
well, we split,” said his lordship, his brow like thunder, his lower
lip protruding like a camel’s.
The thought of leaving Lady Sarah was unbearable. Nevertheless with
a heavy heart I resolved on the sacrifice, ordering Ab-Domen to make
preparations for our departure. But an incident occurred which modified
this laudable design.
Wimpole, since his re-establishment in his own tent, had reverted to
his old manner of brawling domesticity. Sounds of strife resounded
nightly from their quarters, the grumbling of his heavy voice, rising
to imprecation, the crash of china and an occasional cry of protest
from his unfortunate wife. Nevertheless, as far as I knew, he had not
resorted to open violence. Pained and apprehensive I continued my
preparations. Daily the _doolahs_ trotted to and fro busily loading the
camel-packs and striking all but the necessary tents. The eve of our
separation arrived.
[Illustration: TWIN BEDOUINS OF THE EAST
Traprock and Whinney constantly on guard against possible surprise.]
[Illustration: Twin Bedouins of the East]
The Wimpoles gave a dinner in their luxurious dining-tent. I sat on
Lady Sarah’s right, her husband being at the other end of the table.
It was a mournful feast. My heart was too full for food but I quaffed
the succession of vintage wines with reckless abandon. Our last evening
together! At the thought my hand stole neath the napery to be met by
that of my loved-one which awaited me as a bird awaits its mate.
“Up Jenkins!” cried Swank gaily. I crushed him with a look. But my
caution was useless. At his end of the table Lord Wimpole was already
far gone in drink. He was playing a harmonica, his favorite pastime
when thus afflicted. Back of his chair Effendi patiently awaited his
final collapse. His mental attitude was particularly quarrelsome and as
the libations gained their mastery he became more and more provocative
until Lady Wimpole rose with a sigh and moved toward the tent entrance.
There she turned and her lips silently framed the words “Follow me,” a
command I was able to obey almost instantly as my host was engaged in
an interminable story which he had told twice before.
Stepping beyond the circle of light I peered into the gloom. Lady
Sarah’s figure was dimly visible, a patch of gray against the
blackness. Joining her we strolled well beyond ear-shot. And yet we did
not speak.
What was in our hearts lay too deep for words. It was the moment of
supreme renunciation. She looked long and searchingly in my eyes and at
last words came.
“My Sheik!” she murmured, resting her hands on my shoulders.
I drew her, trembling, to me.
“Lady Sarah,” I whispered, lifting her heavy fringe of bobbed hair that
she might hear my low heart’s cry, “my Sarah of the Sahara, we have
had our little hour, thee and I. Now, by the law of thy people we must
part. But by the law of my adopted people, the Moplahs, thou art mine,
my desert woman, my sweet sand lark.”
She drew back affrighted. Though I had spoken before in an exalted
strain I had never so definitely approached the topic of love. Then she
took my hand again.
“O, El-Dhub,--” she said, “what you say is sweet and true. Thy words
are as the nightingale’s song. My heart and my love are indeed thine,
but see how I am encompassed ... By all the laws of my people I am
bound to my over-lord yonder.... I can not free myself....”
From the glowing tent burst a wild strain of harmonica music, fierce,
exultant.
“God pity me!” I cried. “Farewell!”
Choking with emotion I staggered to the tent.
“Swank!--Whinney!--we start at once.”
They tumbled from their places.
“You are mad! At this hour? Man alive....”
“Very well.... Call Ab-Domen ... he and I will start ahead with four
camels. I must ride tonight.”
As they obeyed my order Lady Sarah slipped by me into the tent, her
eyes dark with pain. Ab-Domen sleepily led out a small group of camels
and the necessaries for our advance party.
“Due East,” I said to Whinney, “leave out Tabala and proceed to the
next station at Hammababa. We will await you there.”
“Right-o--Goodbye ... and good luck. We ought to get there in three
days.”
My friends turned in for they needed sleep badly. A few moments later
Ab-Domen and I were ready for departure. Suddenly a piercing scream
rang from the Wimpoles’ tents and Lady Sarah rushed into the night.
“El-Dhub!”
“Here,” I answered.
“O, take me with you. Look ... he has done it again.”
She held up her arm and I saw the deep teeth-marks of her dog of a
husband.
“Damn him.... I will kill him ’ere we go.”
“No, no,” she cried. “I think I have done that.... I struck him ...
with a chafing dish.”
“Up, then ... mount.”
She took her place on one of the camels. There was no thought of
hesitation. Forth we fared on the swiftest of my bactrians forth into
the velvet night. Our camels travelled tactfully side by side. So
matched were their gaits that Lady Sarah could rest her head on my
shoulder as we rode. It was not until six hours later, in the dawn,
that I discovered that sometime during the night Ab-Domen, the wily old
devil, had given us the slip.
CHAPTER X
_Death in the Desert_
CHAPTER X
“Do you see anything?”
“No.” I lowered my binoculars.
“’Straordinary!”
Lady Sarah spoke casually but I detected the undertone of anxiety in
her voice.
We had now been three days in the desert. To put the matter shortly,
we were lost. Gaze as we might there was no sign of the Hammababa
station nor of any other. Ab-Domen Allah’s defection had doubtless
been well-meant. Under more sophisticated conditions he had acted
similarly before; but his absence now was deadly serious. Versed as he
was in the art of star-reading, a member in good standing of the Desert
Trails Club, it would have been simple for him to set us on the right
track. Also, relying on his knowledge I had taken no pains to look
up constellations, distances, or direction. Our progress was a blind
advance, made the more so by our blinding love.
Ah, Sarah, my desert dish, canst thou forget that joyous pilgrimage
neath the myriad eyes of night, throughout which I ever remained thy
slave, reverent, respectful, devoted?
Be that as it may, we should have come up with Hammababa long ago but
never so much as a palm frond had we seen. The devil of a camel is
that once off the proper direction he keeps right on in the wrong one
without the slightest deviation. Nothing like instinct ever troubles
them. The desert is sprinkled with the bones of fool beasts that have
pursued this single-track policy into places where there wasn’t a sign
of sustenance and where they have just naturally died.
This thought did not cheer me any more than the condition of our water
supply. I figured that if we had overshot Hammababa we might possibly
hit the water-hole at Rhat, but this was a long chance which I should
have hated to back with any real money.
When one is lost in the desert one doesn’t say much about it. It is
not at all like being on the wrong road in a motor where a man’s wife
always knows he is wrong and loudly proclaims it. Lady Sarah was a
trump; she never peeped. We just kept plodding on late at night and
early in the morning, resting during the heat of the day and neither
of us voicing our suspicions. Finally on the morning of the fourth day
I thought it was up to me to say something.
“Do you know, Lady Sarah,” I began--“I suspect that this sort of thing
isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Nowhere that matters apparently,” she said calmly. Then, pointing
skyward. “Have you seen those kites?”
I _had_ seen them, first one, then two ... then two more ... appearing
for just a second in the sky, then vanishing, and I knew what they
meant. Shaking off a chill of forboding I dismissed the foul creatures
with an intrepid wave of my hand.
“Our bones were not born to be bleached,” I said cheerily.
“Here’s hoping,” was the brave reply.
Thus began the fourth day. It was a day of forced riding. Riding the
lead-camel I urged the beasts to their best gait, keeping a close eye
on my pocket compass.
“Hew to the East, let the sand fall where it may,” was my thought. Pad
... fell the cushioned feet of our animals, pad ... pad ... pad ...
mile after mile into nothingness. From noon until four o’clock we
rested, then, on--until nearly midnight when we sank exhausted for a
few hours’ sleep. Food and water supply were running low. “Tomorrow,” I
thought, “we _must_ find something!” closing my eyes on the desperate
hope.
I awoke to a fresh catastrophe. In organizing our flight-caravan
Ab-Domen had included an extra pack-camel, an Asian dromedary, the
meanest type known to man. This made five beasts in all. Due to thirst
and exhaustion they were nervous and irritable. The sound which aroused
me was a loud roar almost human in its savageness.
The dromedary had attacked my high spirited mount and before I could
shout a word of command or interfere in any way the entire group were
mixed in an inextricable battle-royal. A fight between two camels is
a dangerous thing to approach; five made a storm center which was as
menacing as a buzz-saw.
Amid a wild bellowing they charged, bumped, bit, kicked, whirled and
fell, lashing, thrashing, smashing ... my heart sank as I heard the
rending crack of bone against bone. After a mad half-hour they lay
compactly locked, exhausted, blood-shot, panting and glaring, hump
locked with hump, teeth bedded in soft flesh, legs protruding at every
angle like a pile of animal jack-straws.
When I was able to drag them, one by one, apart I knew that the worst
had befallen us. Out of twenty legs, seventeen were broken! Not a
single beast was able to stand.
“Tremendous, wasn’t it?” said Lady Sarah.
I nodded. In spite of its import the tragedy could not fail to be
spectacular.
“Better milk the female,” I said.
Lady Sarah managed to extract about a gallon from our only cow-camel.
With heavy hearts and heavier loads we began our fateful march across
the wastes--afoot.
Just how long or how far we walked is not quite clear in my mind.
At times we were unreasonably gay. Day and night became confused.
We struggled on when we were not too exhausted. Snatches of an old
refrain, “The Japanese Sandman,” burst from my lips; then I would sing
the old Indian love lyric “Cold hands I held, behind the Samo-va-ah,
where are you now,--where are-ah you now?” And we would both weep,
watching our tears vanish in the aridity underfoot, “like snow upon the
desert’s dusty face.”
On an undated day we lay down for what we felt to be our last rest.
We had done our best and it was not enough. In the early dawn Fate
mocked us again. A tractor caravan passed at a distance of half a
mile, part of the regular bus line between Tripoli and Assouan, their
head lights shining dimly in the wan light. Struggling to my feet I
tried to run toward them. Ignominious though it might be to be rescued
by such contraptions I had another’s life to consider. “Jitney!” I
shouted--“Jitney,” but the noise of their motors drowned my voice and,
the effort proving too much, I fell forward, gazing mournfully after
the receding tail-lights, two dim, red sparks that rose and fell and
vanished.
“What was it?” asked Lady Sarah, half-aroused.
“Citroens,” I answered.
“French ... for lemons,” she said with a weak smile, sinking again to
lethargy.
Later in the day we managed to advance a few miles. I think we crawled
part of the way. All supplies were now exhausted. I was burned like
a cinder; Lady Sarah was a flaming red--she never tanned; she was
peeling, I remember, but still beautiful. Suddenly I sank back and
pointed with trembling finger--“Look! Look!” I cried through cracked
lips.
Before us not over a mile away, in a low depression of the desert, lay
water! blessed water, fringed with green trees, to which I could see
animals coming to drink, impala, umpahs, gazelles and countless birds.
“The Rhat-hole,” I shouted, “Courage! dear witch; we shall win through
yet.”
Yard by yard we made our painful advance. The details grew clearer
until in my fevered imagination I could hear the cool splash of the
pool. And then, with the suddenness of a cinema fade-out the picture
vanished.
“Mirage,” I gasped.
There was no answer. Lady Sarah had fainted.
A hoarse kite-cackle sounded in my ears as I too sank in merciful
oblivion.
CHAPTER XI
_Antony and Cleopatra_
CHAPTER XI
“You say you followed the kites?” I asked.
“Yes, Your Altitude,” said Ab-Domen, “for several days I kept away,
for I thought you might wish ... that is ... the lady ...”; he grinned
maliciously.
“It was not pre-arranged,” I said coldly.
“Then I began to see the birds,” he continued. “I was worried. When I
found your smashed camels--by the way you were lucky in one respect,
for the beasts attracted the birds and held them back for a day--then
I was really worried. I knew I should be useless without supplies so
I rode at top speed to the caravan, changed camels for horses and
overtook you--just in time.”
“Good old Ab-Domen,” said Lady Sarah patting the oriental’s shoulder.
We were resting at the Rhat-hole which was not so far away as we had
supposed. The mirage we had seen was of the close-range variety and
had we had sufficient strength to keep on we might have reached it for
ourselves.
Our camp was at some distance from the pool in order not to disturb
the wild life to which it is so necessary a feature. These desert
water-holes differ in character from the South African variety. The
vegetation is less dense and more low-growing and the animals are
mostly limited to those of the locality, jerboa, jackals, whiffle-hens
and so on.
We did no shooting for it has always seemed to me extremely unsporting
to kill unsuspecting animals while they are satisfying their thirst. It
was sufficiently entertaining to sit quietly in our compound and watch
the amazing variety of visitors to the filthy but refreshing waters.
Being the only source of supply in a large area it was occasionally
visited by creatures whose natural habitat was many miles away. Among
others a lean elephant who had evidently strayed far from his haunts to
the southward. He was one of the lop-eared Sudanese type, almost dying
of thirst. It was interesting to see how in his case necessity became
the mother of invention for, having drunk as much as he could, he
proceeded to fill his trunk against future need, hanging the end over
his ear in order to conserve the precious liquid.
Here, too, we got our first hint of the distant Nile country toward
which we were aiming. A group of ibis stalked along the edge of the
pool while, keeping very much to himself, I saw a specimen of the rare
Egyptian wart-hog whose snout is spiraled to aid him in piercing the
sand in search of lizard-eggs, his favorite food.
Our way was now comparatively easy. We were in the region of
Anglo-Egyptian influence where the efficiency of the British Government
has established a chain of oases at distances much nearer than that
provided by nature. Where water does not exist in natural wells it has
been reached by boring or is piped in. Ab-Domen checked off the list
of probable station stops. Wun, Borku, Liffi Ganda--the largest of the
artesian oases,--Bongo, Meshra and so on, straight to the Egyptian
frontier....
It seemed unwise to leave Ab-Domen at this juncture for every time I
had done so the results had been unfortunate. As I looked back on my
plight in Azad’s camp and my narrow escape from death in the company of
my bronze beauty I realized that now, if ever, was a time for playing
safe. Lord Wimpole was left behind, a thing of the past, lost, to all
intents and purposes, in the desert.
“He was carted off to Tabala the morning after you and Lady Sarah
left,” Swank told me. “He hadn’t come-to when they started so I don’t
know how he took her departure.”
Much I cared! I snapped my fingers.
Restored to health, nourished with a generous supply of delicious
food, my monumental desert mate was more lovely than ever. The peeling
process was over and she appeared re-born, a creature of red and gold.
How I looked forward to the Nile, with all its romantic associations.
The river came in sight at last after what seemed interminable days
crossing the low Wady Mahall hills. Late one afternoon I caught its
silver sheen where it wound its way between the fresh green of the rice
fields.
“Look!” I pointed. “’Tis the Nile, O, my beloved.”
“My Antony!” ... she scarcely breathed the name. She was really
wonderful in her way of catching the spirit and elevation of the
moment; her early education must have been thorough.
Our last day’s march was through fields of Egyptian cotton and Lady
Sarah made a remark that startled me.
“Horace owns slathers of this,” she said.
I grimaced at the name which showed she was thinking of him, and
quickly drew her attention to a lovely field of sesame and lilies
planted in alternate rows. Here and there a band of native workmen
were weeding the vegetable-ivory-plants in preparation for the annual
inundation. So shallow was the alluvial loam that their rude implements
frequently reached the underlying sand rich with the records of past
centuries, for this entire valley is but the graveyard of earlier
civilizations. Our passing excited mild wonder and one brawny Nubian
tossed me a skull which Whinney said was clearly that of a man of the
bone-age. How petty seemed the ticking of my wrist-watch measured by
the chronology of these mute memorials!
We intercepted the river in its upper reaches between the third and
fourth cataracts, which are little more than rapids. In the village of
Hannik we rested, part of the caravan continuing to Red Sea ports while
my camels guided by Ab-Domen turned northward along the river bank.
Acting as my advance agent the faithful Turk made splendid arrangements
for river boats between the cataracts and lower down at Assouan I found
a magnificent dahabeah.
[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN DEITY
Bel-Toto, one of the lovely servitors of Lady Sarah on her dahabeah,
the El-Sali.]
[Illustration: An Egyptian Deity]
It was the most comfortable craft of its kind that could be devised and
was painted a brilliant emerald green, Lady Sarah’s favorite color.
Ab-Domen had not overlooked her name, El-Sali, in the vernacular, which
adorned the bow. Crew, supplies, all were in readiness.
In the cabins lay fresh clothes suited to the locality and climate. A
native _fellah_ in immaculate white bounded forth whenever I clapped
my hands while Lady Sarah’s needs were looked after by a dusky Syrian
maid who fawned at her feet or swung her fan until we sent her away on
one pretext or another. My desert queen was a gorgeous picture when she
first mounted the companion-way steps and stood under the green and
white awning. She wore a _kaftan_ or portiere of brilliant blue draped
over her shoulders, its fringe in which were hung small silver bells,
reaching to her knees. This was supplemented by green silk trousers of
ankle length, sandals and a soft scarf. All nails, both toe and finger,
were bright with rouge and the underlids of her eyes were deep blue
with native Kohl. She was an arresting sight.
Everywhere were jewels or pendant ornaments, bangles for wrist and
ankle, and long jade earrings so that she clinked when she walked like
a tray-full of drinks. I had donned a light weight burnous of two-inch
striped material suitable for a man in the early forties and discarded
my heavy Moplah turban for a _tarbush_. Our servants, overcome by our
beauty, backed down the companion-way crying upon Allah to protect them
from such blighting splendor.
Of all the days of my life those which succeeded are perhaps the most
beautiful. Can one imagine more exquisite conditions? Alone with the
object of one’s adoration on the wonderful Nile, the most sentimental
and sedimental of rivers. It was a voyage through Paradise, the life of
lovers in lotus-land....
Swank and Whinney, in a smaller craft, followed our course. For the
passengers of El-Sali life was an uninterrupted dream. Day followed
bright day in this rainless land while we drifted lazily on our way
watching the panorama of palms and quiet river-life, natives gathering
locusts from which they squeezed the honey, green-and-gold ichneumons
flashing in the sun, shimmering fields of henna and fragrant basil,
fishermen seeking ancient carp and the curious _boyad_ which has
feathers in place of scales, children playing with a _tetrodon_ or
ball-fish which they toss about gaily, whispering groves of mulberry
trees, marshes pink with mallow amid which stood flaming flamingos and
ibis both sacred and profane, water buffalo, okaki, coneys ... there
was no end to the variety and interest. Occasionally we stopped at
native villages and wandered in to the little bazaars inspecting the
curious wares, purchasing here and there a graceful reed basket, an
ornament of native turquoise and silver or a roughly cut emerald from
the mines at Jebel Zabara.
Ab-Domen had given orders for our entertainment and nightly we were
hailed by dancers and singers from the shore or in boats. These came
aboard, Swank and Whinney joined us and we watched their performances.
Some of the dervishes were remarkable.
Further down the river we began to pass the tombs and monuments of
the ancient dynasties and here the entertainments became more and
more elaborate for Ab-Domen cleverly utilized the crumbling temples,
gigantic columns and seated figures as a background for the performers.
At the temple of Philae, notably, he put on a superb show with three
principals and a chorus of six Egyptian beauties which caused Swank
and Whinney to tie their dahabeah alongside forthwith.
Late into the starry night I sat with my loved-one, continuing the
story of my life which had been so often interrupted, filling in the
details of my college career with its mad, glad days and then my plunge
into exploration, the wonderful things I had accomplished, the people
I had met, the honors ... it is not my way to talk about myself but I
felt I should tell all to this wonderful woman. She was such a superb
listener, quiet, mute.
“Say something,” I murmured, brushing her locks, sweet with jasmine and
asphodel, “speak, my oleander.”
“I am speechless,” she said.
I have always loved women of that sort, the simple, quiet ones,--broad
between the eyes,--are they bovine? stupid? I do not know. They listen
to me.
Thus Lady Sarah lay in her _chaise-longue_, quiet, smiling, listening
to my odyssey. Sometimes her eyes closed and it almost seemed she
slept....
CHAPTER XII
_The Tomb of Dimitrino_
CHAPTER XII
It is not my way to pass through a country without drawing from it as
much information and interest as possible. All my life I have been
a close student of archeology and here was an opportunity not to be
missed of pursuing certain investigations which had been attempted by
others and which I myself had begun and abandoned when the war called
all able-bodied men to the colors.
Like all Englishwomen Lady Sarah had a keen interest in investigations
of this sort and heartily seconded the suggestion that I should give a
day or two to the clearing up of some of the dynastic mysteries which
have baffled historians for many years.
“But I can’t go with you, my dear,” she said. “These pyramids and
sphinxes and things are simply infested with people from home ... it
wouldn’t do, you know ... after I get my divorce, all right, but until
then....”
How sane she was!
I left her in the dahabeah, watched over by Ab-Domen who had by this
time safely convoyed his camels to Cairo.
“For three days only,” I whispered, holding her tightly, “more than
that I could not bear,” and without daring to look back I fled.
My objective was in the nearby terrain of the Valley of Kings but I
knew better than to search in the actual valley itself which has been
completely mussed by the hundreds of excavators who have sought the
missing chapters of Egyptian history. Here, it is true, they have found
much that is interesting and worth-while. The recent discovery of the
tomb of King Tut-Ankh-Amen was a creditable performance. But I was
after bigger game than that!
In beginning my quest I was greatly aided by certain papers which I had
purchased many years ago from an old Levantine in Aden. He knew little
of their value or I should never have secured them but vague markings
on the first documents told me that the packet belonged originally in
the library of Alexander the Great. Later they found their way into the
archives of the Bab-el-Mandeb himself. Need I say more?
I therefore kept to the north of the beaten track of exploration. The
expressions on the faces of numerous excavating parties which we passed
were amusing. They considered me insane to search for buried testimony
in a location to which no reference was made in their data. Such is the
narrowness of many learned men.
Our group was small consisting of not more than a score of _doolahs_ in
addition to my usual companions Swank and Whinney. Five camels carried
the provisions and tools. The indications contained in my papers was
so precise that I felt that I could verify their statements with very
little delay. Either they were true or false and that could be soon
determined.
It was necessary to lay a very careful course following the exact
compass-directions of my palimpsest. This done we were soon swallowed
up in the immensity of the desert. It was strange how, like a great
mother, the land enveloped and enfolded us. But now I trudged it with
different feelings for back of me, waiting in the dahabeah, was Sarah,
my tiger-mate, my tawny desert-rose! Our plan was to go immediately
to Paris where she was to join the American divorce colony, for she
wished to be forever freed from her outrageous husband. This being
decided, I urged her to make haste so that the teeth-marks might still
be shown in evidence, for they were rapidly paling. Wimpole!--the cur
... what had become of him?
[Illustration: ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASSOUAN
Native musician performing on the Balipsa, one of the earliest
Egyptian wind-instruments.]
[Illustration: On the Outskirts of Assouan]
Revolving these matters we marched on, stopping at the end of five
hours for luncheon and a siesta. Here the _doolahs_ resorted to a
curious trick for, by wriggling their bodies, they wormed their way
into the sand and completely disappeared save for an occasional toe,
elbow or kneecap which lay, oddly detached, on the burning floor. In
this way they escaped the direct rays of the deadly sun. Three hours
later the march was resumed.
Not long after I ordered a halt. We had reached a point as near as I
wished to go to the object of my search, for it was a part of my plan
to make the actual discovery alone. Much as I respected the two men who
were with me I was too old a bird to ignore the fact that practically
every great discovery is marred by an attempt to divide the credit. In
matters of this sort it is best to be alone.
Camp for the night being established I quietly strolled off by
myself. The sun still hung well above the horizon and I estimated
that I had fully two hours of daylight, though I took an electric
flashlight as an extra precaution. The character of the surrounding
country was peculiar in the extreme, consisting of thousands of small
dome-like hills like bee-hives, each so like the other that my sense
of orientation was instantly lost. Not over a half a mile from camp I
looked for our party and realized with a start that I was searching in
exactly the opposite direction from the right one.
“Careful!” I thought, studying my compass: “this is dangerous country
to travel in.”
In a few moments the camp had disappeared. Proceeding with the greatest
care and constantly consulting both my papers and my compass I steered
as straight a course as possible between the soft hillocks. An evening
wind was rising and I noticed that its slightest breath was sufficient
to ripple the hill-sides like shaken silk. In a stronger blast the
mounds must actually move. Not without a sense of disquiet I observed
that the landscape back of me had already changed slightly--or did it
only seem so?
One hour of my precious time had passed. Should I go on--or return?
Hesitating, a fresh detail lured me forward. To the north-west and
dominating the surrounding mounds rose one considerably higher.
According to my documents I should now be at the site of the most
astounding discovery possible in this corner of the world. Resolved to
make a last inspection from this hill I made my way toward it.
Even as I ascended its eastern side a thrill crept up my spine for I
could see that the ground sloped sharply away to the west which, my
papers said, it should do. And on the top of the knoll I stood aghast.
Yes! it was true. I had found it. I, Walter Traprock, American, stood
awed, silent and alone, looking down into the Lost Valley of Bulls, the
burial place of Dimitrino, the First of the Pharaohs.
Let me say here that I do not belittle the importance of Tut-Ankh-Amen,
but may I also point out that he has been widely acclaimed because he
was the _last_ of the Pharaohs? Dimitrino, I repeat, was the _first_.
It is obvious to whom the greater credit must go. Year after year, for
centuries, historians have groped for some allusion, some hint which
should guide them to the spot which lay before me.
The tomb occupied the center of a small valley in which the purple
dusk already lay heavy. Against my better judgment, chuckling
excitedly, I ploughed down the sloping banks, passed between two
gigantic porphyry bulls and finally stood beside the mausoleum itself.
Though intending to make only a cursory examination one exciting
detail led to another. The smoothly worked granite blocks with their
close joints excited my wonder. Near the top of the dome in a band of
ornamentation I noted a bronze ring artfully worked in the design.
It was comparatively easy to climb the curving sides and reach this
stone. It was large and I had not the faintest idea that it would
move. Imagine my surprise then when it slid slowly under a strong
pull and I gazed down through a square opening into the blackness of
the actual burial chamber. With a thrill of fear I bent forward, head
and shoulders through the aperture and flooded the great room with my
flashlight. Wonder of wonders! What splendors lay below me.
I had only time to glimpse a dazzling array of gold and brilliant color
when my legs were suddenly lifted up from behind and I was thrust
violently forward through the opening. Twisting as I fell I quickly
flashed my light upward. The great stone was slowly sliding into place
but in the narrowing space the beam of my flash fell on the distorted
features of Horace Wimpole.
My head suddenly swam with dizziness and I fainted.
CHAPTER XIII
_Buried Alive_
CHAPTER XIII
My revival was sudden and violent. For a second I lay semi-conscious;
then realizing my predicament, every fibre rebelled at the ridiculous
situation. Caught ... caught again, like a rat in my own trap. Blindly
I rushed about in the blackness of the tomb. Underfoot resounded the
crash of fragile furniture, the splintering of priceless relics. My
head struck some sort of musical instrument built on the tambourine
order which fell to the floor with a weird jangling of copper discs.
Then I stumbled over a great urn and lay panting amid the fragments.
Where was my light? In a sickening panic I groped for it ... thank God!
my hand closed about it almost instantly ... perspiration dripped from
my forehead. I did not press the button of my flash at once. Somewhat
calmed by its possession I brooded bitterly, glad that the darkness
could hide me from myself. Fool! ... _fool_ that I was to have been so
trapped ... to have felt so fatuously secure. Not a thought had I given
to Wimpole during my exquisite “_rêve d’amour_.” He was dismissed ...
waved away like a wraith. But he had materialized.
How had he done it?
A score of answers thronged my brain. Disguised, perhaps he had
accompanied me, mingling with my humble _doolahs_ or, more probably,
had followed me, keeping apart, weaving his way, snake-like, through
the hills, watching and waiting to strike the dastard blow. G’r-r-r ...
I ground my teeth in impotent rage.
But stay ... this was idiotic. Gradually I calmed and for the first
time switched on my light. Playing it on the ceiling I realized that
all trace of the moveable stone was lost in the complicated decoration.
Climbing a wall which curves inward is one of the most difficult
feats in the world, though I have been able to do it in the past. But
now it seemed so futile. Any search of the ceiling would have lacked
direction. Without moving I gazed sombrely about me.
I was buried alive, there was no getting away from that. Having chewed
this bitter cud for several minutes I resolved to put my spiritual
house in order, so to speak. My first act was to make my will,
something I had frequently proposed and as often postponed. It occurred
to me now that my position was probably unique in drawing up this last
testament after I had been entombed. All that I possessed I left to
Lady Sarah in fee simple or to her heirs or assigns forever, to have
and to hold, from now on until death us do part--the form was strictly
legal and I signed Whinney’s name as witness, per W. E. T. to make all
sure.
“And now,” I thought, “for my last words.” In vain I tried to evolve
some simple, compact sentence which would epitomize my entire life but
the subject was too large. Finally I compromised on a five-hundred word
obituary outlining the main events of my career. I then recited what
I could remember of the burial service and considered that I had been
decently laid away.
With these rites performed I could composedly take stock of my
surroundings for it occurred to me that I could put my time to no
better use than by writing a careful inventory of the contents of the
mausoleum. That much at least could remain as my legacy to the culture
of the world. Then for the first time I realized the magnitude of the
discovery in which I had so completely lost myself.
For the benefit of those interested in archeology I will give a mere
outline of the main features, the principal one of which was, of
course, the basalt sarcophagus of the King himself. Beside this in a
similar receptacle a few sizes smaller lay his favorite Queen, Heck-To.
Ranged about the walls was a dazzling array of royal furniture, boxes,
chairs, beds, chariots, tables, vases and so on. All the latter were
of solid gold heavily encrusted with gems. Many of the vessels were
filled with food but the contents of the wine jars had unfortunately
evaporated so that I could only look forward to dry fare for a brief
period.
The picture writing on the walls was of immense interest and showed
Dimitrino at his favorite pursuits, hawking, hunting, catching scarabs
and playing Mah Jong which even in his day was an old game. One
intimate close-up portrayed the monarch using a dial system telephone
which the modern world is now re-discovering with so much trouble.
Another section showed him teaching archery to his son who afterwards
became Melachrino I.
Numerous passages were in verse which, in hieroglyphics, is effected
by rhyming the symbols in idea, a bird with an egg, a bow with an
arrow, a snake with a woman, and so on. A scene very lovely in color,
depicted the Queen’s mother, Eks-Ito, being devoured by vultures, the
King and his son looking on.
About the sarcophagus stood the tutelar divinities, Psh, Shs, Pst and
Tkt, the big four of their day. The queen’s lid bore an intaglio of
Thothmes indicating that she had a hare-lip. Hundreds of articles I
listed carefully in my note-book, becoming completely absorbed in my
work.
Then gradually a chill horror numbed my body. _My light was going
out!_ There was no doubt about it. It was fainter than it had been.
The battery was fading. To die, thus, in the dark! ... horrible. My
determination to complete my catalogue drove me to fresh effort.
Having completed the movable objects I made a closer inspection of
the sarcophagus itself. On the top carved in high relief lay a coiled
snake. As I reached my hand toward it, to my amazement, its head raised
and I saw the coils stiffen. Across my brain flashed the thought that
this was the King’s “Ka,” his spiritual familiar and guardian. But no,
that was rot; the creature was alive!
Subconsciously a ray of hope sprang in my breast. Not realizing just
why, I reached my light toward the serpent. When it had almost touched
him he glided silently over the edge of the stone, dropped with a thud
on the tiled floor and flowed like a black stream to the edge, back of
a delicate table, where he disappeared.
In a frenzy I hurled the furniture out of the way and cast myself on
the floor playing my light before me. There was the snake’s exit, where
a tile was loosened against the side wall. And if his exit, why not
mine?
Idiot, not to have thought of it before! The construction of tombs
is peculiar. They have practically no foundations. In this country
with no frosts or moisture it is only necessary to go an inch or two
below the level of the hard-packed sand. Dashing the tile aside I felt
the surface below. It was friable and crumbled easily under my hand.
Scratching the sand deeply with my pen-knife I scraped up the top layer
with a shallow copper bowl. In another moment I was burrowing madly
like an excited mole.
In an hour I was completely submerged. My flash was thrust in my breast
pocket where I could occasionally play its waning beam on the tunnel
before me. But I soon learned to do my work in the dark, passing the
sand back of me and worming my way forward. Above me I could feel the
masonry of the enclosing wall, first on my head, then my shoulders,
waist ... legs ... I was free of it.
As I began to turn my tunnel upward the sound of a solid slump caused
me to play the light over my shoulder and look back as well as I could.
A large mass of sand had fallen from the roof of the tunnel. Not being
able to dig with my feet or to turn in the passage any retreat was cut
off. It was do or die now and with desperate energy I wielded my scoop.
Strange that I did not reach the surface! On, on, I went and still
there was no light ahead. My sense of direction became confused. Was
I going upward or digging my grave deeper and more irrevocably in the
arid earth. My strength, unusual though it is, was giving out and this
dreadful doubt as to my direction served further to sap my energy.
“One hundred more scoops”--I vowed ... still no air ... fifty more ...
twenty-five ... ten ... one ... I broke through. Air, blessed air, cool
and refreshing as water. Panting I lay with only my head above ground.
It was night, and such a night! blowing a gale with the wind heavily
freighted with sand. But amid the stinging drifts I rolled over and
slept the sleep of a child.
The bright sun woke me and I staggered to my feet shaking the sand from
my garments and staring stupidly before me. My experience came back
slowly like a confused dream. The tomb. O, yes ... the tomb ... but
where was it? I rubbed my eyes. There was no tomb. And then I realized
what had happened.
During my incarceration the gale had heaped the sand-drifts about my
prison until it was completely covered. No trace or trail indicated its
position. Of my tunnel there was not a vestige and I realized why it
had taken me so long to reach the surface.
The entire topography had changed. Wily old Dimitrino! To tuck his tomb
away in this shifting, evasive landscape where he was literally here
today and gone tomorrow!
Thank Heavens my compass could not run down and I still had my records.
At the thought of the return trip memory re-illumined the flame of
anger but, close on its searing glow, burst the effulgence of love.
Faint from hunger but buoyed by my inextinguishable passion I stumbled
through the distorted territory where, verily, as the old Hebrew says,
“the little hills skip like rams.”
CHAPTER XIV
_Love Lost_
CHAPTER XIV
Early in the dawn I began my return. The wind had fallen and progress
was not difficult. Once out of the curious hill country which had again
taken the lost Valley of Bulls into its embrace it was a simple matter
to locate my camp which was the only visible object in the open desert.
My companions were overjoyed at my return for, though an overnight
absence on my part was not unusual, they were always anxious until I
put in an appearance.
But their welcome was submerged in their wonder at my orders for an
immediate return to Assouan.
“What’s the idea?” questioned Swank, “we’ve just got here, we’ve
accomplished nothing; it’s....”
I cut him short with a severe glance vouchsafing only the remark “Foul
play is afoot. Make haste.”
He saw that something serious had happened and obeyed unquestioningly.
The rank and file of my safari were delighted at the prospect of
getting back to the comforts of the more civilized river-life. More
than once it was on my lips to tell my American companions the story
of my entombment with all its possibilities of future riches and fame,
but the thought of Lady Sarah lay too heavily on my heart. This burden
of apprehension I must carry alone. Weighed down with my individual
anguish I plodded silently across the sand, my mind too busy with
pictures of what might have happened to even note the signs of our
progress, the merging of the desert into the fertile fields with
their long lines of irrigation ditches, the flourishing plantations
of capsicum and marrows alive with chattering apteryxes and flocks of
four-horned sheep.
With a start I realized that we were on the outskirts of Assouan.
“Come with me,” I said, detaching my fellow countrymen from the
natives. We ran on ahead and soon came in sight of the El-Sali moored
by the river bank. She was ominously quiet. Bursting into the salon
I gazed upon a picture which was the exact counterpart of my most
lurid imagining. The room was a wreck, curtains torn down, vases
broken, rugs twisted, chairs and tables overturned. Ab-Domen lay
unconscious under the ruins of the victrola. A low moaning from the
apartment beyond led us to Lady Sarah’s maid, likewise in the stupor of
exhaustion.
When at last the faithful dragoman was partially revived he breathed a
harrowing story of assault and abduction.
“Lord Wimpole came ...” he gasped ... “he had twenty men ... Lady
El-Sali fought like a tigress ... you see?...” he motioned weakly at
the surrounding chaos.... “I, too, did my best....”
“Where did they go?”
He shook his head. “Down river ... where to I do not know.”
There is an excellent highway along the Nile bank from Assouan to the
Delta. In half an hour we were on our way, mounted on the best of our
horses.
“Sarah!” I screamed in my agony, “it can not be that we have lost each
other so soon!”
[Illustration: IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMID
Zaloofa, the slave girl, wearing the costume of the native Awabodas.]
[Illustration: In the Shadow of the Pyramid]
My only hope was that Wimpole, solacing himself with the thought that
he had effectually put me _hors de combat_, would loiter on his way.
But this ray was soon extinguished for inquiry at the villages on
our route informed us that the Englishman’s party had gone through by
motor! At the word my heart sank; all thought of overtaking him was out
of the question. Yet, desperately, we kept on.
It was late at night when the lights of Cairo twinkled in the distance.
Leaving our horses and chartering a powerful car we were soon speeding
towards Alexandria. The first sun’s rays lighted the listless sails
and gleaming hulls of the ships at anchor, battered tramps and giant
liners from overseas, trim yachts, an occasional sombre battleship
and thousands of sturdy fishing craft. Two vessels were my immediate
object, the Wimpole’s Undine and my own Kawa. A long scrutiny from
the rising ground back of the Port failed to disclose them. Parking
our car we lost ourselves in the forest of masts along the harbor’s
edge. It was impossible that Triplett had failed me but locating him
was like finding one’s automobile after a foot-ball game. Standing on
various pier heads I cupped my hands and bellowed “Kawa-a-hoy” until I
was twice threatened with arrest by the local constabulary. Meanwhile
Swank and Whinney were paging my captain in other directions, the
former cruising about in a rented rowboat while the latter conducted
a personal canvass of the water-side drinking-parlors. In one of these
Triplett was eventually discovered. He was amazed at my early arrival.
“I didn’t look fur ye fur a week,” he protested.
“Is the Undine in the harbor?” I asked.
“Wuz, last night ... takin’ on supplies all day; moved out by the
lighthouse at sundown.”
“Quick, man; let’s get aboard. We must board her.”
The Kawa lay surrounded by a huddle of small boats the crews of which
objected violently to being shoved aside but we forced our way through
and eventually cleared the end of the pier and stood out toward the
mole, our kicker-motor chugging valiantly. I had fetched my glasses
from below and soon located the Undine. She was nearly two miles
distant and to my consternation showed every indication of being about
to get under weigh.
“We must make better time,” I urged. “Can’t we crowd on more sail or do
something nautical?”
“Crowd on nothin’,” said Triplett. “Wind’s dead agin us.” He spat
sourly as was his wont and I knew from the glint of his one useful eye
that what man could do he would do. Foot by foot we crept up on the
slender Undine out of whose buff funnel smoke poured with increasing
volume. We could now see the glint of her brass work and read the name
under her stern. The squeak of the davit-blocks reached us as the tiny
launch was hauled up and swung in-board; then came the clink, clink of
the capstan. It was up-anchor now and no mistake.
At that moment Swank made one of the greatest blunders of his life
and that is saying a lot. Overcome by excitement he seized a large
megaphone and before I could stop him raised it and howled “Undine
a-hoy!”
“Fool!” I shouted striking the instrument from his grasp.
It was the very thing which he should not have done. In quiet we might
have slipped alongside. Now all was activity aboard the yacht. Sailors
ran to and fro, bells rang sharply, the anchor swung dripping over the
bow and a lather of white foam bubbled up from the obedient screws.
We were not over a hundred yards away. In desperation I seized the
megaphone. “Stop, in the name of the law,” I shouted; it was all I
could think of at the time.
A harsh laugh was my answer followed by a shriek, the well-known shriek
of my beloved, which tore my heart strings. In the salon I caught a
glimpse of two struggling figures; then, just as other bulky forms
intervened, a bright object flew through the open porthole. At that
moment the Undine’s stern swung toward us and gathering headway she
shrank rapidly to a tiny speck on the distant horizon.
We hove-to. “Lower the dingy,” I ordered. Alone I rowed toward the
bright object which I had seen fly from the cabin window. If it were
what I hoped ... yes ... a bottle. Within was the briefest sort of
message, merely the word ... “Ritz.”
Back in my cabin I pondered in bitter perplexity. “Ritz?” It was a call
to follow her ... it was a meeting place ... but which Ritz? There are
so many.
I am not one to give up easily. Gradually a scheme formed in my mind.
I would establish an inter-Ritz communication system with agents in
all branches. Triplett’s appearance in the doorway interrupted my
ruminations.
“Where to, sir?” he asked.
“London,” I replied and, a moment later, felt the Kawa veer toward the
great English city.
Fate in her inscrutable way was to end my search almost before it had
begun. Eight weeks later I sat in the tea room of the Ritz-Carlton in
London. Opening my paper I scanned the headlines dealing with cable
despatches, racing news and financial exchange until an item, brutal in
its brevity, assaulted my attention as with a hammer stroke.
“Lady Sarah Wimpole Dead.”
The room swam about me. After a tremendous effort at self mastery I was
able to read what followed.
“The death of Lady Sarah Wimpole, nee Alleyne, of Alleyne House and
Wimpole Manor, Nottinghamshire, will come as a shock to her many
friends. Her medical advisors, Dr. Keech and Dr. McGilvray, confess
themselves as much mystified by the nature of the malady which has
proved fatal. In all respects the symptoms were those of hydrophobia,
which is not an admissible diagnosis since Lady Wimpole had but just
recently landed from her yacht, the Undine, upon which she and Lord
Wimpole have been cruising in Eastern waters. It is suspected that the
disease may have been conveyed by a parrot of which the defunct Peeress
was very fond and the bird--very wisely in our opinion--has been
destroyed.”
[Illustration: SAD MEMORIES
“The smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection.”]
[Illustration: Sad Memories]
How clearly the tragedy stood before my eyes. Wimpole, mad cur that
he was, had had his way! My first impulse was to shoot him down as he
deserved. Second thought said no. Let him live out his wretched life
until un-reason claimed him as she was bound to do. Within a year he
was incarcerated, a hopeless maniac, fighting and biting at his keepers.
Time has softened the pain of this, my most tragic adventure. Out
of the wreckage of my hopes and dreams the lovely moments rise like
mountains from mist. Sitting alone in my study, brooding over the
romances of my life, none has quite the charm of this, the most
disastrous and incomplete.
It was my plan--after Lady Sarah’s divorce and our marriage--to return
to the desert where we had great plans for commercial development, the
building of sand-paper mills and hour-glass factories,--but there!
These were but bubbles blown away by the touch of reality. With our few
brief moments of complete joy I must be content.
That I should return to follow out our plans alone is inconceivable.
All speaks too clearly of her influence who called me back to reign
once more as El-Dhub ak Moplah. The sandy desert is her likeness. The
smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection. The rocky features of the
Sphinx are those of my Sarah of the Sahara. Wullahy!
THE END
_A Selection from the
Catalogue of_
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
[Illustration]
Complete Catalogues sent
on application
The Cruise of the Kawa
By
Dr. Walter E. Traprock,
F. R. S. S. E. U.
[Illustration]
A delicious literary burlesque--superlatively amusing. Here are found
the _wak-wak_, that horrid super-seamonster; the gallant _fatu-liva_
birds who lay square eggs; the flowing _hoopa_ bowl, and the sensuous
_nabiscus_ plant; the tantalizing, tatooing, fabulous folk music; the
beautiful, trusting Filbertine women and their quaint marriage customs,
as well as the dread results of the white man’s coming--all described
with a frank freedom, literary charm, and meticulous regard for truth
which is delightful.
The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the literature of modern
exploration. Nothing like it has ever come out of the South Seas. It is
_the_ travel book of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special
photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the exciting,
amusing, and entertaining story of an exploration in the South Seas.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London
My Northern Exposure
_The Kawa_ at the Pole
By
Walter E. Traprock
[Illustration]
Similar in format to the famous _Cruise of the Kawa_, this new volume
carries the reader on an exciting and riotously funny expedition to the
frozen north. It is an account of the adventures of the redoubtable Dr.
Traprock (and party) who set out to discover the real North Pole--but
undertake their voyage in a most unusual manner. The incidents,
accidents, and final discoveries in this merry burlesque are certain to
afford as much, if, indeed, not more enjoyment than the first _Kawa_
story.
21 gorgeous full page illustrations.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.