THE END
Beside the Rock of Anubis, Ur-tasen parted from us. He had not
spoken one word since we started, but here he asked if Hugh was
satisfied.
“Quite satisfied,” he replied.
“Then farewell, oh, son of Ra!” said the high priest, solemnly. He
knelt down and kissed the sand of the desert, then quietly he rose and
started to walk back towards the gates of Kamt. We watched his gaunt
figure across the desert until a boulder hid it from our view; it
looked bent with age and disappointment. I think he felt that the
youthful ruler of Kamt would not place much power in his hands, and
that the stranger, though absent, had conquered after all.
The journey across the desert was terribly wearisome at first, but
gradually Hugh’s taciturnity fled and we spent many happy hours in
remembering our golden visions and looking over the many treasures
which lay at the bottom of our carts. The oxen, however, stood the
journey very badly; one by one they dropped upon the road, and the
last six days of our voyage we did on foot, carrying as little water
as we dared, and we were very close on starvation point when, late one
evening, we reached the grave of the Greek priest, which faced the
setting sun. We rested here that night, and weak, tired out as we
were, we spent half the night in watching… watching an imaginary point
on the horizon, which is more fair, more gorgeous and grand than aught
which Western civilisation has ever dreamed of.
And now we are back at The Chestnuts, and Hugh and I are not as young
as we were. Dear old Janet welcomed us, much shocked at our terrible
appearance; but the day after our arrival there was no trace outwardly
on either of us of the strange adventures we had just gone through. We
resumed our quiet, English, bachelor life, as if the last few months
had been all a dream; and at times now, when I sit beside the great
log fire and watch the dying embers on the hearth, I wonder whether
the vision of the ancient hordes of Egypt, the glories of Men-ne-fer
and Tanis, are not all a product of my excited fancy, and, above all,
I wonder whether the vision of a tall, girlish figure, whose hair is
like the rays of Osiris when he sinks to rest, and whose very name
breathes romance and mystery, is not one of those dreams with which
the remembrance of dear old Mr. Tankerville was always wont to lull me
to sleep.
Then I look up lazily from the fire in which my aching eyes had seen
vast temples and mammoth carvings, and I see close to me Sawnie Girlie
sitting at his desk.
He is writing one of those learned books which have spread his fame
from one corner of Europe to the other, and before him there is a tiny
gold casket with a glass lid, within which lies a faded and dried
sprig of rosemary.
“White rosemary for remembrance!”
[The End]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Originally published in the U.S. in 1907 as “The Gates of Kamt,” this
book was retitled “By the Gods Beloved” (the same as the U.K. edition)
in 1921 with no other changes to the text.
Illustrations by Margaret West Kinney and Troy Kinney.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ ghostlike/ghost-like, high
priest/high-priest, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
[Chapter II]
Change “this labour of Sisyphus, the _framents_ of brown dust” to
_fragments_.
[Chapter III]
“at its very base _Rholf_ found traces of an ancient way” to _Rholfs_.
[Chapter XXII]
“who would worship at her _shine_--the shrine of love” to _shrine_.
[Chapter XXV]
“so that she might _ecsape_ the just and awful punishment” to
_escape_.
[End of text]