KĀRA BATHES IN THE NILE.
Tadros followed him into the street again.
“Those other papyri,” he said--“do you wish me to sell them for you?”
“They are already sold,” replied Kāra, regardless of truth.
“Indeed! To whom?”
“Winston Bey, the Englishman.”
Tadros uttered an exclamation of annoyance.
“Where have you met him?” he asked.
“Here, at the Nile landing. His boat will come to-night for the papyrus
rolls.”
Many thoughts passed rapidly through the dragoman’s mind. Here was bad
news, indeed. He had planned on getting all those wonderful rolls into
his own hands, and his disappointment was keen to find that this
isolated Egyptian of an out-of-the-way rock village had already been
approached and bought up by one of those rascally scientists, before he,
the clever dragoman, had even known of the existence of the treasures.
“He will rob you,” he ventured to suggest.
“Very well,” replied Kāra, indifferently.
Tadros was in despair. Yet one thing was plainly evident--if Winston Bey
was about to unload fourteen newly found rolls of papyrus upon the
directors of the museum in Cairo, it would be well for him, the
dragoman, to get his one roll in first, at the highest possible price.
That could easily be accomplished. Winston’s dahabeah would consume four
or five days on the downward voyage. Tadros could cross the Nile in a
small boat and catch the railway on the other bank, which would land him
in Cairo the next day. He promptly decided to take the railway.
“I expect,” said Kāra, “to be in Cairo myself shortly. If you are there,
I would like to hire your services as dragoman.”
Tadros, aroused from his meditations, gave a start, and wonderingly
examined the speaker from his dirty bare feet all the way up his soiled
burnous to his strong, calm face and faded turban. He had been a native
of Fedah himself, and had known “the royal one,” as he scornfully called
Kāra, from boyhood. Until now he had regarded him as a permanent fixture
of the little village; a listless, lazy do-nothing, supported in some
mysterious way by his grandmother and destined to grow old amid his
solitary surroundings.
Some slight importance Kāra had doubtless acquired through his
inheritance of the papyri; but that he should think of visiting Cairo
and employing the brilliantly appareled dragoman was a marvel that
fairly astounded Tadros. Yet, why not? He would have money. Tadros could
assuredly teach him how to spend it. Kāra might become an incident in
his career--an element in his future prosperity.
“Call upon me at any time,” he said, condescendingly. “You shall have
the advantage of my experience and knowledge of the world.”
“That is what I want,” returned the Egyptian, “and I will pay you
liberally for it.”
He passed into his dwelling, and the dragoman, watching him go, decided
to make speedy preparation for his own departure.
He felt much easier in his mind than at first. What if Winston Bey
purchased the papyrus rolls? Would not Tadros be the young man’s guide?
Very good. Very good, indeed!
Kāra lay down again and slept until after noon. Then he went to the hut
of Nefert, who baked the bread for the village, and bargained with her
for a loaf and a bowl of milk. Also he acquired from her a large, coarse
sack. In exchange he gave her Hatatcha’s water jar, which had come from
Keneh, and an old scarf his grandmother had worn over her head.
He ate the loaf and drank the milk, feeling much refreshed. Then he
carried the sack to his dwelling and placed the papyrus rolls in it.
From the secret cavity beside the arch he took the bronze vase with the
metal stopper, a scarab ring that his grandmother had sometimes worn,
and a slender dagger with a steel blade. The bronze dagger that served
as a key to the rock door he left in the cavity, as well as the lamp.
Having replaced the stone, he glanced around to see whether there was
anything that might be disturbed or stolen during his absence; but the
room was bare of anything to tempt a thief or a despoiler. So he swung
the sack over his shoulder and walked out and around the end of the
mountain on his way to the Nile.
Winston Bey had kept his word. On the chance that the strange Egyptian
he had encountered would manage to secure either valuable information or
some ancient relics from his mysterious grandmother, he had kept his
dahabeah in the neighborhood, ignoring the protests of his unhappy Arab
crew. The afternoon following his interview with Kāra, he landed near
the group of palms an hour before sunset, and waited until darkness fell
without obtaining a sight of the Egyptian. Then he dropped down the
stream to Tel El Armana, where the dahabeah remained until the next
noon.
To-day he figured on another disappointment; but when Gerald Winston had
an object in view he pursued it with dogged determination, and he had
resolved to keep his appointment each day for a week at least before
considering his future actions. There was no question but he was on the
track of an important discovery, and he did not intend to abandon the
quest lightly.
On this second day, therefore, when he approached the grove and saw a
white-robed figure sitting in the shade, his heart gave a joyful bound.
He hurried forward and recognized Kāra, who remained motionless until
the Englishman had saluted him. Then he bowed his head gravely.
Winston’s eyes were on the sack that rested beside the Egyptian, and his
voice sounded eager in spite of his effort to restrain it.
“Well, my brother?” he exclaimed.
“My grandmother, Hatatcha, is dead,” said Kāra.
The Englishman shrank back in horror.
“You have killed her?”
“Oh, no; not at all,” answered the other composedly. “She was dying when
I returned home after my conversation with you. It would not pay me to
kill Hatatcha, you know.”
“What did you learn from her?”
“Nothing. She was beyond questioning. But she whispered that I should
seek under the rushes of her bed for my inheritance, and then Anubis
took her to his kingdom. Her secret, if she had one, she carried with
her.”
Winston was deeply chagrined. He reproached himself for not having
interviewed the old woman in person and endeavored to wrest her secret
from her. Now, alas, it was too late!
“What have you in the sack?” he inquired, almost indifferently.
“My inheritance,” said Kāra.
“Of what does it consist?”
“I have fourteen rolls of ancient papyrus manuscript.”
“Fourteen rolls?” cried Winston, trembling with sudden excitement. “Let
me see them, man--let me see them!”
Kāra did not move.
“I am going to Cairo,” said he. “Will you take me with you in your
boat?”
“Yes; to be sure. Come to the boat at once.”
“That is better,” declared the Egyptian. “You can then examine the
papyri at your leisure and determine whether they are of interest to
you.”
He slowly arose to his feet and swung the sack across his shoulder.
Winston eagerly preceded him. The stifling heat was all forgotten.
Hatatcha’s unfortunate death was forgotten. A treasure had been
unearthed at last, and surely from fourteen manuscripts much important
information might be gleaned.
On the deck of his dahabeah he glanced at the papyri with amazement.
Each one was perfectly preserved and unrolled without danger of
breaking.
“Their condition is extraordinary!” he observed. “Where, did you say,
you found them?”
“In a hollow of earth, covered by the rushes of Hatatcha’s couch.”
Winston raised his head to look at the speaker closely.
“Then they have not been there long, I am sure.”
“That,” said Kāra, with a shrug, “is a matter of which I have no
knowledge.”
The scientist carefully unrolled a manuscript.
“This,” he said, musingly, “is a poem by the poet Pen-ta-urt. And it is
a composition I have never seen before.”
He began reading it, and soon Kāra corrected him in a passage and
explained how he should properly translate it. Winston’s eyes sparkled.
This Egyptian really knew the hieroglyphics better than he did. His
assistance might be invaluable in some ways. Perhaps the man would prove
as remarkable a find as the manuscripts.
The next writing was an address to his soldiers by Amenhotep III, on the
eve of his invasion of Syria. It was beautifully executed, and would
prove a valuable addition to the literature of the fifteenth century
before Christ.
Far into the night Winston pored over the writings, finding in some
veritable treasures and in others little of worth save for their age and
beauty of execution. Still, as a collection, the fourteen rolls
constituted a remarkable library of ancient literature, and its
fortunate discoverer slept but little on that eventful night.
Before daybreak the dahabeah was wheezing and puffing down stream on its
way to Cairo, and Kāra, who had slept well extended upon the deck, was
given a breakfast such as he had never before tasted. The fragrant
coffee was a revelation to him, and the chops and fruit made his eyes
sparkle; yet so sedate was the Egyptian’s demeanor that Winston was
unaware that his guest had never before eaten a properly prepared meal.
The Englishman’s satisfaction this morning was so great that he also
bestowed upon Kāra one of his choicest cigars, and again the Egyptian
tasted a luxury hitherto unknown to him.
While they were quietly enjoying their smoke Winston said:
“Will you sell me the rolls?”
“Yes,” replied Kāra.
“I will give you a thousand Egyptian pounds for them. That, you know, is
about a hundred thousand piastres.”
Kāra made a mental calculation and frowned darkly.
“Perhaps it is not enough,” added Winston, quickly; “but on the other
hand it may be too much altogether. Until I have examined the writings
with more care I cannot value them accurately.”
“I will accept your offer,” said the Egyptian, still frowning. “I am
sure it is fair, and even liberal. What annoys me is that I have made a
fool of myself.”
“In what way?”
“I purchased a girl yesterday, and paid three times what she is worth.”
Winston smiled.
“Do not let it bother you,” he said, in an amused tone. “Few women are
worth what they cost, believe me, and where their sex is concerned men
are often fools.”
“My brother’s speech is wise,” returned the grave Kāra. “I will conceal
my annoyance, for some day I may be indemnified.”
“Had Hatatcha any of the coins of Darius Hystaspes left?” inquired
Winston, after a moment’s thought.
“Here are seven,” said the other, producing them.
The Englishman was delighted.
“I will pay you five pounds each for these,” said he.
“Then they are yours,” declared Kāra.
Afterward he showed the Englishman the bronze vase, which also changed
hands at a liberal purchase price.
“And is this all?” asked Winston.
“It is all,” said Kāra.
“You will be rich, my brother. Here are ten pounds in English gold to
seal our bargain. After we arrive in Cairo I will take you to my banker
and transfer to your account the entire amount due you. You may draw
then upon the bank as you require your money, in any sums that suit your
convenience--so long as it lasts.”
“I thank you,” replied the Egyptian.
As they proceeded down the river, Kāra noted the spotless tunics and
trousers of the Arabs, who one and all regarded “the dirty Copt” with
open contempt. He also examined intently the Englishman’s dress. When
the boat tied up at Assyut to allow Winston to visit a friend who was
convalescent at the excellent hospital maintained there, Kāra walked
through the bazaars, and returned to the dahabeah bearing several bulky
packages.
That night he bathed in the river while the others all lay asleep.
Afterward he stealthily transferred the contents of his turban to a
chamois bag, which he fastened around his neck. Then he flung the old
burnous and the turban overboard.
In the morning they found the Egyptian transformed. He wore an English
shirt, with collar and necktie all of white, loose linen trousers that
were gathered at the ankles in Arab style, and over these a flowing
white burnous of spotless purity. Upon his head was a red fez; upon his
feet red slippers from Algiers; about his neck hung the massive chain of
the kings; upon his finger was his grandmother’s ring set with the
scarab of Ahtka-Rā.
Winston was astonished, and gazed upon the Egyptian with approval. Then
his eye caught the chain, and he uttered an exclamation of wonder.
“Where did you get it?” he asked, clutching at the chain to examine one
of its exquisitely engraved links.
“It is also a part of my inheritance, but an heirloom that I dare not
part with,” returned Kāra. “It is the record of the kings, my ancestors,
from Mēnēs to Ahtka-Rā,” and he explained the meaning of the chain to
Winston, and assisted him to decipher some of the inscriptions upon the
heavy links.
“But this is a priceless treasure!” exclaimed the savant, filled with
unbounded amazement at what he beheld.
“It is proof of my contention that I am of royal blood,” answered the
other, proudly. “While I live I will not be separated from it.”
“You are right,” agreed Winston, promptly; and from that moment he
entertained a new respect for this humble descendant of the ancient
rulers of Egypt.
Not one of the manuscripts mentioned Ahtka-Rā; but the chain had at its
end the link of that astute leader of men, and his identity was thus
established beyond a doubt. The scarab, of unquestionable antiquity, was
likewise a proof that Kāra’s ancestor was a descendant of kings.
Immediately the young Egyptian became a person of consequence.
Kāra now smoked cigarettes, having purchased several boxes at Assyut.
This was the most satisfactory luxury that attended his new condition,
and conspired, more than anything else, to render him pleased with his
lot.
The dahabeah arrived in Cairo on the morning of the fourth day.
Winston at once took a carriage and drove Kāra to the bank, where he
placed the sum agreed upon to the young Egyptian’s credit. Kāra, who
wrote English in a clear and delicate hand, was given a cheque book and
registered his signature as follows: “Prince Kāra.”
“Residence?” inquired the banker.
“I have just arrived, and am not yet located,” was the answer.
“To-morrow I will send you my address.”
“Let me also know where you are to be found,” said Winston, “for I must
introduce you to the Egyptologists here.”
Then he left his new acquaintance to drive post haste to the museum,
there to show his new-found treasures to his many friends.