[Illustration: “Allahu akbar!” he said; “the stranger is welcome to all
that I possess” (See page 233)]
THE LAST
EGYPTIAN
A ROMANCE
OF THE NILE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANCIS P. WIGHTMAN
PHILADELPHIA
EDWARD STERN & CO., INC.
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
EDWARD STERN & CO., INC.
PUBLISHED MAY 1, 1908
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED TO
Mr. Edward Stern
A FELLOW TRAVELER IN THE
WILDS OF EGYPT, BY
The Author
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I. Where the Desert Meets the Nile 9
CHAPTER II. Hatatcha 30
CHAPTER III. The Dragoman 39
CHAPTER IV. The Treasure of Ahtka-Rā 52
CHAPTER V. A Roll of Papyrus 63
CHAPTER VI. Kāra Bathes in the Nile 71
CHAPTER VII. A Step Toward the Goal 83
CHAPTER VIII. His Grandmother’s Mummy 95
CHAPTER IX. Aneth 104
CHAPTER X. Lord Cromer’s Reception 112
CHAPTER XI. Setting the Snares 122
CHAPTER XII. Nephthys 132
CHAPTER XIII. The Talisman of Ahtka-Rā 142
CHAPTER XIV. Rogues Ancient and Modern 150
CHAPTER XV. Winston Bey is Indignant 156
CHAPTER XVI. Kāra Threatens 177
CHAPTER XVII. Aneth Surrenders 187
CHAPTER XVIII. Finding a Way 194
CHAPTER XIX. The Abduction 217
CHAPTER XX. The Sheik Agrees 226
CHAPTER XXI. Lotus Eaters and Crocodiles 237
CHAPTER XXII. The Dragoman’s Inspiration 247
CHAPTER XXIII. Mother and Daughter 251
CHAPTER XXIV. The Sheik Demurs 256
CHAPTER XXV. The Bronze Bolts 266
CHAPTER XXVI. The Dragoman Wins 283
ILLUSTRATIONS
OPPOSITE
PAGE
“Allahu akbar!” he said; “the stranger is welcome
to all that I possess” 3
They went at a moderate pace, and bore the blistering
rays of the sun as none but natives of
Egypt can 50
He thrust his hand into the jar of rubies again,
and took all that his fingers could clutch 62
In the evening he crossed the great bridge of
Isma’il Pasha to the island of Gizireh 84
She smiled at herself, then laughed--shyly at first,
now with genuine delight 136
Following a moment’s horrified silence, the viscount
sprang up with an oath 154
“You shall not keep that promise!” declared
the woman 192
Consinor fell with a moan at her feet, drenching
the hard earth with a stream of blood 282
The Last Egyptian
CHAPTER I.
WHERE THE DESERT MEETS THE NILE.
The sun fell hot upon the bosom of the Nile and clung there, vibrant,
hesitating, yet aggressive, as if baffled in its desire to penetrate
beneath the river’s lurid surface. For the Nile defies the sun, and
relegates him to his own broad domain, wherein his power is undisputed.
On either side the broad stream humanity shrank from Ra’s seething disc.
The shaduf workers had abandoned their skin-covered buckets and bamboo
poles to seek shelter from the heat beneath a straggling tree or a straw
mat elevated on stalks of ripe sugar-cane. The boats of the fishermen
lay in little coves, where the sails were spread as awnings to shade
their crews. The fellaheen laborers had all retired to their clay huts
to sleep through this fiercest period of the afternoon heat.
On the Nile, however, a small steam dahabeah puffed lazily along,
stemming with its slow motion the sweep of the mighty river toward the
sea. The Arab stoker, naked and sweating, stood as far as possible from
the little boiler and watched it with a look of absolute repulsion upon
his swarthy face. The engineer, also an Arab, lay stretched upon the
deck half asleep, but with both ears alert to catch any sound that might
denote the fact that the straining, rickety engine was failing to
perform its full duty. Back of the tiny cabin sat the dusky steersman,
as naked and inert as his fellows, while under the deck awning reclined
the one white man of the party, a young Englishman clothed in khaki
knickerbockers and a white silk shirt well open at the throat.
There were no tourists in Egypt at this season. If you find a white man
on the Nile in April, he is either attached to some exploration party
engaged in excavations or a government employee from Cairo, Assyut or
Luxor, bent upon an urgent mission.
The dahabeah was not a government boat, though, so that our Englishman
was more likely to be an explorer than an official. It was evident he
was no stranger to tropical climes, if we judged by his sun-browned skin
and the quiet resignation to existing conditions with which he puffed
his black briar and relaxed his muscular frame. He did not sleep, but
lay with his head upon a low wicker rest that enabled him to sweep the
banks of the Nile with his keen blue eyes.
The three Arabs regarded their master from time to time with stealthy
glances, in which wonder was mingled with a certain respect. The
foreigner was a fool to travel during the heat of the day; no doubt of
that at all. The native knows when to work and when to sleep--a lesson
the European never learns. Yet this was no casual adventurer exploiting
his folly, but a man who had lived among them for years, who spoke
Arabic fluently and could even cipher those hieroglyphics of the dead
ages which abound throughout modern Egypt. Hassan, Abdallah and Ali knew
this well, for they had accompanied Winston Bey on former expeditions,
and heard him translate the ugly signs graven upon the ugly stones into
excellent Arabic. It was all very wonderful in its way, but quite
useless and impractical, if their opinion were allowed. And the master
himself was impractical. He did foolish things at all times, and
sacrificed his own comfort and that of his servants in order to
accomplish unnecessary objects. Had he not paid well for his whims,
Winston Bey might have sought followers in vain; but the Arab will even
roast himself upon the Nile on an April afternoon to obtain the
much-coveted gold of the European.
At four o’clock a slight breeze arose; but what matter? The journey was
nearly done now. They had rounded a curve in the river, and ahead of
them, lying close to the east bank, were the low mountains of Gebel Abu
Fedah. At the south, where the rocks ended abruptly, lay a small grove
of palms. Between the palms and the mountains was the beaten path
leading from the Nile to the village of Al-Kusiyeh, a mile or so inland,
which was the particular place the master had come so far and so fast to
visit.
The breeze, although hardly felt, served to refresh the enervated
travelers. Winston sat up and knocked the ashes from his pipe, making a
careful scrutiny at the same time of the lifeless landscape ahead.
The mountains of gray limestone looked very uninviting as they lay
reeking under the terrible heat of the sun. From their base to the river
was no sign of vegetation, but only a hardened clay surface. The desert
sands had drifted in in places. Even under the palms it lay in heavy
drifts, for the land between the Nile and Al-Kusiyeh was abandoned to
nature, and the fellaheen had never cared to redeem it.
The water was deep by the east bank, for the curve of the river swept
the current close to the shore. The little dahabeah puffed noisily up to
the bank and deposited the Englishman upon the hard clay. Then it backed
across into shallow water, and Hassan shut down the engine while
Abdallah dropped the anchor.
Winston now wore his cork helmet and carried a brown umbrella lined with
green. With all his energy, the transition from the deck of the dahabeah
to this oven-like atmosphere of the shore bade fair to overcome his
resolution to proceed to the village.
But it would never do to recall his men so soon. They would consider it
an acknowledgment that he had erred in judgment, and the only way to
manage an Arab is to make him believe you know what you are about. The
palm trees were not far away. He would rest in their shade until the sun
was lower.
A dozen steps and the perspiration started from every pore. But he kept
on, doggedly, until he came to the oblong shadow cast by the first palm,
and there he squatted in the sand and mopped his face with his
handkerchief.
The silence was oppressive. There was no sound of any kind to relieve
it. Even the beetles were hidden far under the sand, and there was no
habitation near enough for a donkey’s bray or a camel’s harsh growl to
be heard. The Nile flows quietly at this point, and the boat had ceased
to puff and rattle its machinery.
Winston brushed aside the top layer of sand with his hands, for that
upon the surface was so hot that contact with it was unbearable. Then he
extended his body to rest, turning slightly this way and that to catch
in his face the faint breath of the breeze that passed between the
mountains and the Nile. At the best he was doomed to an uncomfortable
hour or two, and he cast longing glances at the other bits of shade to
note whether any seemed more inviting than the one he had selected.
During this inspection his eye caught a patch of white some distance
away. It was directly over the shadow of the furthest tree of the group,
and aroused his curiosity. After a minute he arose in a leisurely
fashion and walked over to the spot of white, which on nearer approach
proved to be a soiled cotton tunic or burnous. It lay half buried in the
sand, and at one end were the folds of a dirty turban, with faded red
and yellow stripes running across the coarse cloth.
Winston put his foot on the burnous and the thing stirred and emitted a
muffled growl. At that he kicked the form viciously; but now it neither
stirred nor made a sound. Instead, a narrow slit appeared between the
folds of the turban, and an eye, black and glistening, looked
steadfastly upon the intruder.
“Do you take me for a beast, you imbecile, that you dare to disturb my
slumbers?” asked a calm voice, in Arabic.
The heat had made Winston Bey impatient.
“Yes; you are a dog. Get up!” he commanded, kicking the form again.
The turban was removed, disclosing a face, and the man sat up, crossing
his bare legs beneath him as he stared fixedly at his persecutor.
Aside from the coarse burnous, sadly discolored in many places, the
fellow was unclothed. His skin showed at the breast and below his knees,
and did not convey an impression of immaculate cleanliness. Of slender
build, with broad shoulders, long hands and feet and sinewy arms and
legs, the form disclosed was curiously like those so often presented in
the picture-writing upon the walls of ancient temples. His forehead was
high, his chin square, his eyes large and soft, his cheeks full, his
mouth wide and sensual, his nose short and rounded. His jaws protruded
slightly and his hair was smooth and fine. In color the tint of his
skin was not darker than the tanned cuticle of the Englishman, but the
brown was softer, and resembled coffee that has been plentifully diluted
with cream. A handsome fellow in his way, with an expression rather
unconcerned than dignified, which masked a countenance calculated to
baffle even a shrewder and more experienced observer than Winston Bey.
Said the Englishman, looking at him closely:
“You are a Copt.”
Inadvertently he had spoken in his mother tongue and the man laughed.
“If you follow the common prejudice and consider every Copt a
Christian,” he returned in purest English, “then I am no Copt; but if
you mean that I am an Egyptian, and no dog of an Arab, then, indeed, you
are correct in your estimate.”
Winston uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise. For a native to
speak English is not so unusual; but none that he knew expressed himself
with the same ease and confidence indicated in this man’s reply. He
brushed away some of the superheated sand and sat down facing his new
acquaintance.
“Perhaps,” said he--a touch of sarcasm in his voice--“I am speaking with
a descendant of the Great Rameses himself.”
“Better than that,” rejoined the other, coolly. “My forefather was
Ahtka-Rā, of true royal blood, who ruled the second Rameses as cleverly
as that foolish monarch imagined he ruled the Egyptians.”
Winston seemed amused.
“I regret,” said he, with mock politeness, “that I have never before
heard of your great forefather.”
“But why should you?” asked the Egyptian. “You are, I suppose, one of
those uneasy investigators that prowl through Egypt in a stupid endeavor
to decipher the inscriptions on the old temples and tombs. You can read
a little--yes; but that little puzzles and confuses you. Your most
learned scholars--your Mariettes and Petries and Masperos--discover one
clue and guess at twenty, and so build up a wonderful history of the
ancient kings that is absurd to those who know the true records.”
“Who knows them?” asked Winston, quickly.
The man dropped his eyes.
“No one, perhaps,” he mumbled. “At the best, but one or two. But you
would know more if you first studied the language of the ancient
Egyptians, so that when you deciphered the signs and picture writings
you could tell with some degree of certainty what they meant.”
Winston sniffed. “Answer my question!” said he, sternly. “Who knows the
true records, and where are they?”
“Ah, I am very ignorant,” said the other, shaking his head with an
humble expression. “Who am I, the poor Kāra, to dispute with the
scholars of Europe?”
The Englishman fanned himself with his helmet and sat silent for a
time.
“But this ancestor of yours--the man who ruled the Great Rameses--who
was he?” he asked, presently.
“Men called him Ahtka-Rā, as I said. He was descended from the famous
Queen Hatshepset, and his blood was pure. Indeed, my ancestor should
have ruled Egypt as its king, had not the first Rameses overthrown the
line of Mēnēs and established a dynasty of his own. But Ahtka-Rā, unable
to rule in his own name, nevertheless ruled through the weak Rameses,
under whom he bore the titles of High Priest of Āmen, Lord of the
Harvests and Chief Treasurer. All of the kingdom he controlled and
managed, sending Rameses to wars to keep him occupied, and then, when
the king returned, setting him to build temples and palaces, and to
erect monuments to himself, that he might have no excuse to interfere
with the real business of the government. You, therefore, who read the
inscriptions of the vain king wonder at his power and call him great;
and, in your ignorance, you know not even the name of Ahtka-Rā, the most
wonderful ruler that Egypt has ever known.”
“It is true that we do not know him,” returned Winston, scrutinizing the
man before him with a puzzled expression. “You seem better informed than
the Egyptologists!”
Kāra dipped his hands into the sand beside him and let the grains slip
between his fingers, watching them thoughtfully.
“Rameses the Second,” said he, “reigned sixty-five years, and--”
“Sixty-seven years,” corrected Winston. “It is written.”
“In the inscriptions, which are false,” explained the Egyptian. “My
ancestor concealed the death of Rameses for two years, because
Meremptah, who would succeed him, was a deadly enemy. But Meremptah
discovered the secret at last, and at once killed Ahtka-Rā, who was very
old and unable to oppose him longer. And after that the treasure cities
of Pithom and Raamses, which my ancestor had built, were seized by the
new king, but no treasures were found in them. Even in death my great
ancestor was able to deceive and humble his enemies.”
“Listen, Kāra,” said Winston, his voice trembling with suppressed
eagerness; “to know that which you have told to me means that you have
discovered some sort of record hitherto unknown to scientists. To us who
are striving to unravel the mystery of ancient Egyptian history this
information will be invaluable. Let me share your knowledge, and tell me
what you require in exchange for your secret. You are poor; I will make
you rich. You are unknown; I will make the name of Kāra famous. You are
young; you shall enjoy life. Speak, my brother, and believe that I will
deal justly by you--on the word of an Englishman.”
The Egyptian did not even look up, but continued playing with the sand.
Yet over his grave features a smile slowly spread.
“It is not five minutes,” he murmured softly, “since I was twice kicked
and called a dog. Now I am the Englishman’s brother, and he will make me
rich and famous.”
Winston frowned, as if he would like to kick the fellow again. But he
resisted the temptation.
“What would you?” he asked, indifferently. “The burnous might mean an
Arab. It is good for the Arab to be kicked at times.”
Possibly Kāra neither saw the jest nor understood the apology. His
unreadable countenance was still turned toward the sand, and he answered
nothing.
The Englishman moved uneasily. Then he extracted a cigarette case from
his pocket, opened it, and extended it toward the Egyptian.
Kāra looked at the cigarettes and his face bore the first expression of
interest it had yet shown. Very deliberately he bowed, touched his
forehead and then his heart with his right hand, and afterward leaned
forward and calmly selected a cigarette.
Winston produced a match and lighted it, the Egyptian’s eyes seriously
following his every motion. He applied the light to his own cigarette
first; then to that of Kāra. Another touch of the forehead and breast
and the native was luxuriously inhaling the smoke of the tobacco. His
eyes were brighter and he wore a look of great content.
The Englishman silently watched until the other had taken his third
whiff; then, the ceremonial being completed, he spoke, choosing his
words carefully.
“Seek as we may, my brother, for the records of the dead civilization of
your native land, we know full well that the most important documents
will be discovered in the future, as in the past, by the modern
Egyptians themselves. Your traditions, handed down through many
generations, give to you a secret knowledge of where the important
papyri and tablets are deposited. If there are hidden tombs in Gebel Abu
Fedah, or near the city of Al-Kusiyeh, perhaps you know where to find
them; and if so, we will open them together and profit equally by what
we secure.”
The Egyptian shook his head and flicked the ash from his cigarette with
an annoyed gesture.
“You are wrong in estimating the source of my knowledge,” said he, in a
tone that was slightly acrimonious. “Look at my rags,” spreading his
arms outward; “would I refuse your bribe if I knew how to earn it? I
have not smoked a cigarette before in months--not since Tadros the
dragoman came to Al Fedah in the winter. I am barefoot, because I fear
to wear out my sandals until I know how to replace them. Often I am
hungry, and I live like a jackal, shrinking from all intercourse with my
fellows or with the world. That is Kāra, the son of kings, the royal
one!”
Winston was astonished. It is seldom a native complains of his lot or
resents his condition, however lowly it may be. Yet here was one
absolutely rebellious.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because my high birth isolates me,” was the reply, with an accent of
pride. “It is no comfortable thing to be Kāra, the lineal descendant of
the great Ahtka-Rā, in the days when Egypt’s power is gone, and her
children are scorned by the Arab Muslims and buffeted by the English
Christians.”
“Do you live in the village?” asked Winston.
“No; my burrow is in a huddle of huts behind the mountain, in a place
that is called Fedah.”
“With whom do you live?”
“My grandmother, Hatatcha.”
“Ah!”
“You have heard of her?”
“No; I was thinking only of an Egyptian Princess Hatatcha who set
fashionable London crazy in my father’s time.”
Kāra leaned forward eagerly, and then cast a half fearful glance around,
at the mountains, the desert, and the Nile.
“Tell me about her!” he said, sinking his voice to a whisper.
“About the Princess?” asked Winston, surprised. “Really, I know little
of her history. She came in a flash of wonderful oriental magnificence,
I have heard, and soon had the nobility of England suing for her favors.
Lord Roane especially divorced his wife that he might marry the
beautiful Egyptian; and then she refused to wed with him. There were
scandals in plenty before Hatatcha disappeared from London, which she
did as mysteriously as she had come, and without a day’s warning. I
remember that certain infatuated admirers spent fortunes in search of
her, overrunning all Egypt, but without avail. No one has ever heard of
her since.”
Kāra drew a deep breath, sighing softly.
“It was like my grandmother,” he murmured. “She was always a daughter of
Set.”
Winston stared at him.
“Do you mean to say--” he began.
“Yes,” whispered Kāra, casting another frightened look around; “it was
my grandmother, Hatatcha, who did that. You must not tell, my brother,
for she is still in league with the devils and would destroy us both if
she came to hate us. Her daughter, who was my mother, was the child of
that same Lord Roane you have mentioned; but she never knew her father
nor England. I myself have never been a day’s journey from the Nile, for
Hatatcha makes me her slave.”
“She must be very old, if she still lives,” said Winston, musingly.
“She was seventeen when she went to London,” replied Kāra, “and she
returned here in three years, with my mother in her arms. Her daughter
was thirty-five when I was born, and that is twenty-three years ago.
Fifty-eight is not an advanced age, yet Hatatcha was a withered hag
when first I remember her, and she is the same to-day. By the head of
Osiris, my brother, she is likely to live until I am stiff in my tomb.”
“It was she who taught you to speak English?”
“Yes. I knew it when I was a baby, for in our private converse she has
always used the English tongue. Also I speak the ancient Egyptian
language, which you call the Coptic, and I read correctly the
hieroglyphics and picture-writings of my ancestors. The Arabic, of
course, I know. Hatatcha has been a careful teacher.”
“What of your mother?” asked Winston.
“Why, she ran away when I was a child, to enter the harem of an Arab in
Cairo, so that she passed out of our lives, and I have lived with my
grandmother always.”
“I am impressed by the fact,” said the Englishman, with a sneer, “that
your royal blood is not so pure after all.”
“And why not?” returned Kāra, composedly. “Is it not from the mother we
descend? Who my grandfather may have been matters little, provided
Hatatcha, the royal one, is my granddame. Perhaps my mother never
considered who my father might be; it was unimportant. From her I drew
the blood of the great Ahtka-Rā, who lives again in me. Robbed of your
hollow ceremonial of marriage, you people of Europe can boast no true
descent save through your mothers--no purer blood than I, ignoring my
fathers, am sure now courses in my veins; for the father, giving so
little to his progeny, can scarcely contaminate it, whatever he may
chance to be.”
The other, paying little heed to this discourse, the platitudes of which
were all too familiar to his ears, reflected deeply on the strange
discovery he had made through this unconventional Egyptian.
“Then,” said he, pursuing his train of thought, “your knowledge of your
ancestry and the life and works of Ahtka-Rā was obtained through your
grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“And she has not disclosed to you how it is that she knows all this?”
“No. She says it is true, and I believe it. Hatatcha is a wonderful
woman.”
“I agree with you. Where did she get the money that enabled her to amaze
all England with her magnificence and splendor?”
“I do not know.”
“Is she wealthy now?”
Kāra laughed.
“Did I not say we were half starved, and live like foxes in a hole? For
raiment we have each one ragged garment. But the outside of man matters
little, save to those who have nothing within. Treasures may be kept in
a rotten chest.”
“But personally you would prefer a handsome casket?”
“Of course. It is Hatatcha who teaches me philosophy to make me forget
my rags.”
The Englishman reflected.
“Do you labor in the fields?” he asked.
“She will not let me,” said Kāra. “If my wrongs were righted, she holds,
I would even now be king of Egypt. The certainty that they will never be
righted does not alter the morale of the case.”
“Does Hatatcha earn money herself?”
“She sits in her hut morning and night, muttering curses upon her
enemies.”
“Then how do you live at all?”
Kāra seemed surprised by the question, and considered carefully his
reply.
“At times,” said he, “when our needs are greatest, my grandmother will
produce an ancient coin of the reign of Hystaspes, which the sheik at
Al-Kusiyeh readily changes into piasters, because they will give him a
good premium on it at the museum in Cairo. Once, years ago, the sheik
threatened Hatatcha unless she confessed where she had found these
coins; but my grandmother called Set to her aid, and cast a spell upon
the sheik, so that his camels died of rot and his children became blind.
After that he let Hatatcha alone, but he was still glad to get her
coins.”
“Where does she keep them?”
“It is her secret. When she was ill, a month ago, and lay like one dead,
I searched everywhere for treasure and found it not. Perhaps she has
exhausted her store.”
“Had she anything besides the coins?”
“Once a jewel, which she sent by Tadros, the dragoman, to exchange for
English books in Cairo.”
“What became of the books?”
“After we had both read them they disappeared. I do not know what became
of them.”
They had shifted their seats twice, because the shadow cast by the palms
moved as the sun drew nearer to the horizon. Now the patches were long
and narrow, and there was a cooler breath in the air.
The Englishman sat long silent, thinking intently. Kāra was placidly
smoking his third cigarette.
The rivalry among excavators and Egyptologists generally is intense. All
are eager to be recognized as discoverers. Since the lucky find of the
plucky American, Davis, the explorers among the ancient ruins of Egypt
had been on the qui vive to unearth some farther record of antiquity to
startle and interest the scholars of the world. Much of value has been
found along the Nile banks, it is true; but it is generally believed
that much more remains to be discovered.
Gerald Winston, with a fortune at his command and a passion for
Egyptology, was an indefatigable prospector in this fascinating field,
and it was because of a rumor that ancient coins and jewels had come
from the Sheik of Al-Kusiyeh that he had resolved to visit that village
in person and endeavor to learn the secret source of this wealth before
someone else forestalled him.
The story that he had just heard from the lips of the voluble Kāra
rendered his visit to Al-Kusiyeh unnecessary; but that he was now on the
trail of an important discovery was quite clear to him. How best to
master the delicate conditions confronting him must be a subject of
careful consideration, for any mistake on his part would ruin all his
hopes.
“If my brother obtains any further valuable knowledge,” said he,
finally, “he will wish to sell it to good advantage. And it is evident
to both of us that old Hatatcha has visited some secret tomb, from
whence she has taken the treasure that enabled her to astound London for
a brief period. When her wealth was exhausted she was forced to return
to her squalid surroundings, and by dint of strict economy has lived
upon the few coins that remained to her until now. Knowing part of your
grandmother’s story, it is easy to guess the remainder. The coins of
Darius Hystaspes date about five hundred years before Christ, so that
they would not account for Hatatcha’s ample knowledge of a period two
thousand years earlier. But mark me, Kāra, the tomb from which your
grandmother extracted such treasure must of necessity contain much
else--not such things as the old woman could dispose of without
suspicion, but records and relics which in my hands would be invaluable,
and for which I would gladly pay you thousands of piasters. See what you
can do to aid me to bring about this desirable result. If you can manage
to win the secret from your grandmother, you need be her slave no
longer. You may go to Cairo and see the dancing girls and spend your
money freely; or you can buy donkeys and a camel, and set up for a
sheik. Meantime I will keep my dahabeah in this vicinity, and every day
I will pass this spot at sundown and await for you to signal me. Is it
all clear to you, my brother?”
“It is as crystal,” answered the Egyptian gravely.
He took another cigarette, lighted it with graceful composure, and rose
to his feet. Winston also stood up.
The sun had dropped behind the far corner of Gebel Abu Fedah, and with
the grateful shade the breeze had freshened and slightly cooled the
tepid atmosphere.
Wrapping his burnous around his tall figure, Kāra made dignified
obeisance.
“Osiris guard thee, my brother,” said he.
“May Horus grant thee peace,” answered Winston, humoring this disciple
of the most ancient religion. Then he watched the Egyptian stalk proudly
away over the hot sands, his figure erect, his step slow and methodical,
his bearing absurdly dignified when contrasted with his dirty tunic and
unwashed skin.
“I am in luck,” he thought, turning toward the bank to summon Hassan and
Abdallah; “for I have aroused the rascal’s cupidity, and he will soon
turn up something or other, I’ll be bound. Ugh! the dirty beast.”
At the foot of the mountains Kāra paused abruptly and stood motionless,
staring moodily at the sands before him.
“It was worth the bother to get the cigarettes,” he muttered. Then he
added, with sudden fierceness: “Twice he spurned me with his foot, and
called me ‘dog’!”
And he spat in the sand and continued on his way.