"But you are still angry with us?" "Does it matter? I am serving you." "Be generous," said Miss Ottley. "We have been sufficiently punished. Not only have we lost the treasure, but there was no mummy in the
sarcophagus." "Be a lady and apologise," I retorted. "No," said she, with a most spirited inflection. "It is not a woman's
place." "Then be silent or change the topic," I growled. She was silent. We arrived an hour later at the mountain. I was bathed
in perspiration and as tired as a dog. But Miss Ottley had no time
to notice my condition. She slipped off the donkey and hurried away
through the smaller of the three pylons that fronted a small temple
hollowed out of the rock face of the hill. There was no sign of tent,
so I concluded that Sir Robert had made his camp within the temple. I
hitched the ass to a stake and cooled off, thanking Providence for a
cool breeze that swept up from the placid surface of the Nile. Day was
already showing signs of breaking, and a broad flight of long-legged
flamingoes hurried its coming with a flash of scarlet just above the
eastern horizon. The distant howling of a hyena was borne to me in
fitful snatches on the wind. The earth was wrapped in mystery and
melancholy. Oh, Egypt! Egypt, land of sun-lit spaces and illimitable
shadows; of grandeur and of squalor without peer; of happy dreams and
sad awakenings; of centuries ingloriously oblivious of glory; of sleep
and sphinx-browed, age-bound silences; of darkly smiling and impotent
despair. What a mistress for a man of curiosity and of imagination! Little wonder that since I had been caught in her magic and most
jealous spell the face of no human being had possessed the power to
threaten her supremacy or cancel my allegiance to the mystic desert
queen. "Dr. Pinsent!" I awoke from my reverie with a start. "This way," said Miss Ottley. I
bowed and followed her into the temple, through a broad but low stone
doorway, past a row of broken granite columns. A light within showed
us the path. The chamber was about eighteen feet square; there was
another of equal size beyond it, in the heart of the hill. An immense
sarcophagus composed entirely of lead almost blocked the door. The lid,
carved to represent the figure and face of a tall grave-featured man,
was propped up on end against a pillar. The sarcophagus was empty. Beyond stood a trestle cot, a table and a lamp. Sir Robert Ottley
lay upon the cot. He was awake, but evidently unconscious, and in a
high fever. I examined his wound and prepared for action. There was
an oil stove in the room. I lighted it and set water to boil. Miss
Ottley watched me with an expression I shall not forget easily. Her
face was as wan as that of a ghost; and her big red-brown eyes glowed
like coals, and were ringed with purple hollows. She was manifestly
worn out and on the verge of a breakdown. But although I begged her
to retire, she curtly refused. Judging by her eyes, she was my enemy,
and a critical enemy at that. When everything was ready I walked over
to her, picked her up in my arms and carried her struggling like a
wildcat to the door. Then I put her out and blocked the entrance with
the lid of the sarcophagus. She panted--"I hate you," from behind it. Then she began to cry. I said nothing. It seemed one of those occasions
wherein silence was golden. I tied Sir Robert to the cot and set to
work. Half an hour later I found the bullet under his clavicle, and
then dressed the wound and bound him up. He came out of the influence
of the anæsthetic in his sober senses; but he was so eager to tell me
all his disappointment that I gave him a hypodermic dose of morphia,
and he dropped asleep in the middle of a rabid diatribe against Arabs
in general and our Arabs in particular. I found Miss Ottley reclining against a ruined pillar in an angle of
the pylon. She had cried herself to sleep and was breathing like a
child. I slipped out and found the Arab's store-house and kitchen. Luckily the gold had exhausted their cupidity. The stores were
untouched. I lighted a fire and prepared a meal--coffee and curry
for Miss Ottley and myself; beef tea and arrowroot for the invalid. By that time the sun was riding high in the heavens, but Miss Ottley
still slept. Willing to assist her rest I secured a cushion from the
chamber and pushed it gently beneath her head. She sighed and turned
over, allowing me to see her face. I examined it and found it good. The features were well-nigh perfect, from the little Grecian nose to
the round chin. But it was a face instinct with pride, the pride of a
female Lucifer. And her form was in keeping. "God save her husband,"
was my conclusion. And I ate a hearty breakfast, watching her and
pitying him, whoever he should be. Sir Robert woke about noon, and although a little feverish, I was quite
satisfied with his progress. After eating a dish of what he feelingly
described as "muck" he went to sleep again. I prepared a second meal
and brought it on a box to where Miss Ottley still lay sleeping. Then
I sat down and coughed. Her eyes opened at once and she looked at me. It is marvellous what a woman's glance can do. I became instantly
conscious of a dirty face, unkempt hair, and a nine-weeks' growth of
beard. In order to conceal my appreciation of my ugliness I grinned. "Ugh!" murmured Miss Ottley, and she got up. "Sir Robert is asleep," I observed. "I found the bullet. He has had
lunch and is going on nicely. You had better eat something." She gave me a glance of scorn and glided into the temple. I helped her
to a plate of curry, poured out a cup of coffee and made myself scarce. Returning a quarter of an hour later, I found the plate bare, the cup
empty and not a crumb left on the box. I took the things away and
washed them, and my own face. Then I shaved with a pocket amputation
knife, using for mirror a pot of soapy water; and I brushed my too
abundant locks into something like order with a bunch of stubble which
I converted into a hair brush with a tomahawk and a piece of twine. Feeling prodigiously civilised and almost respectable, I strolled back
to the pylon, sat down on Miss Ottley's cushion, and lighted my pipe. About two minutes later Miss Ottley appeared. "Patient awake?" I asked. "No," said Miss Ottley. "What an objectionable smell of tobacco!" War to the knife evidently. I stood up. "When you need me shout," I
remarked, and strolled off, puffing stolidly. But I saw her face as I
turned, and it was crimson, perhaps with surprise that I could be as
rude as she, perhaps with mortification that I had dared. If ever a
girl needed a dressing down it was she who stood in the pylon staring
after me. I squatted in the shadow of a rock and spent the afternoon
stupefying over-friendly flies with the fumes of prime Turkish. She
shouted just before sundown. Her father was delirious, she said. I
found him raving and tearing at his bandages. He was haunted with an
hallucination of phantom cats.