Indeed, he was a perfect jewel of a servant, and he stood in such
abject terror of my every movement, nod or smile or frown, that I could
have wished to retain his services for ever. But that was not to be. On the twenty-first morning he accidentally dropped a cup and broke
it. I heard the smash and looked up. It was to see Yazouk flying like
a panic-stricken deer into the desert. I shouted to recall him, but he
only sped the faster. Chapter VII

The One Goddess


I spent the rest of the day covering up the stele I had unearthed with
sand. There was no use thinking of attempting to transport it to Cairo
under existing circumstances. But I had no mind to be deprived of
the credit attached to its discovery. So I hid it well. Afterwards I
gathered up my portable possessions, including my tent, and packed them
in a load for my ass's back ready for the morrow. For I had resolved to
set out on the morrow for the Hill of Rakh. Surely, I thought, Ottley
will be quite recovered by this. I wondered why he had not sent for
me before--in accordance with his pledge. Had he forgotten it? The
desert was exceptionally still that evening. There was a new moon,
and although it gave but little light, it seemed to have chained the
denizens of the wilderness to cover. I lay upon the sand gazing up at
the stars and listening in vain for sounds, for hours, then, at length,
I fell into a quiet doze. The howling of a jackal awakened me. It was
very far off, therefore I must have slept lightly. A long sleep, for
the moon had disappeared. The darkness that lay upon the land was
like the impenetrable gloom of a rayless cave. But the heavens were
spangled with twinkling eyes, that beamed upon me very friendly wise. I had lost all desire to repose, but I had found a craving for a pipe. I took out my old briar-wood, therefore, charged it to the brim and
struck a match. "My God!" I gasped and scrambled afoot. The tall Arab
who had terrified Miss Ottley in the cave temple at Rakh stood about
three paces off intently regarding me. I struck a second match before
the first had burned out, then felt for my revolver. "Tell me what it is you want," I cried in Arabic, "and quickly, or I
fire." He did not speak, but very slowly he moved towards me. I raised the
pistol. "Stop," I said. He did not stop. "Then have it!" I cried, and
pulled the trigger. He did not flinch from the blistering flash of the discharge. It
seemed to me that it should have seared his face and that the bullet
should have split his skull. I had a momentary glimpse of a ghastly,
brownish-yellow visage and of two dull widely separated eyes peering
into mine. Then all was dark again and I was struggling as never I had
struggled in my life before. Long, stiff fingers clutched my throat. A rigid wood-like form was pressed against my own and my nostrils
were filled with a sickly penetrating odour which I all too sharply
recognised. It was the perfume that had issued from the sarcophagus of
Ptahmes when I drove my chisel through the lead. At first I grasped
nothing but air. But clutching wildly at the things that gripped my
throat, I caught hands at last composed of bone. There was no flesh
on them, or so it seemed to me. Yet it was good to grip something. It gave me heart. I had a horrible feeling for some awful seconds of
contending with the supernatural. But those hands were hard and firm. They compressed my windpipe. Back and fro we writhed. I heard nothing
but my own hard breathing. I was being slowly strangled. It was very
hard to drag those hands apart. But I am strong, stronger than many men
who earn their living by exhibiting to the vulgar feats of strength. Impelled by fear of death, I exerted my reserve of force, and driving
will and muscle into one supreme united effort I tore the death grip
from my neck and flung the Arab off. Uttering a sobbing howl of relief
and rage, I followed him and caught him by the middle. Then stooping
low, I heaved him high and dashed him to the ground. There came a sound
of snapping wood or bones, but neither sigh nor cry of any sort. "We'll
see," I growled, and struck a match. The sand before me was dinted,
but deserted. The Arab had vanished. My senses rocked in horrified
astonishment. My flesh crept. A cold chill of vague unreasoning terror
caught me. I listened, all my nerves taut strained, peering wildly
round into the dark. But the silence was unbroken. Nothing was to be
heard, nothing was to be seen. Were it not for the dinted sand and the
marks of feet other than my own where we had stepped and struggled, I
could have come to the conclusion I had dreamed. After a while spent
in soothing panic fears, I sneaked off to my baggage and extracted
from the pile a candle lamp. This I lighted and, returning, searched
the sands on hands and knees. The stranger's footprints were longer
than my own and they were toe-marked. Plainly, then, he had stolen on
me naked-footed. Looking wide around the dint made by his falling body
I came presently upon some more of them. They were each a yard apart,
and led towards the Hill of Rakh. Yet only for a little while. Soon
they grew fainter and fainter. Finally they disappeared. Tortured by
the mystery of it all, I halted where the footprints vanished and,
putting out the lamp, squatted on the ground to wait for dawn. It came
an hour later, but it told me nothing fresh. Indeed, it only rendered
the riddle more intolerably maddening. Where had my Arab gone? And how
had he come? For there was not a single footprint leading to the camp. Of course he might have thrown a cloak before him on which to walk;
and thus he might have progressed and left no trace. But wherefore
such extraordinary caution? And why should he be so anxious to conceal
himself? It was hard to give up the riddle, but easier to abandon
than to solve it. Calling philosophy to my aid and imagination, I
determined that my Arab was some mad hermit upon whose solitude Ottley
had intruded in the first instance, and I in the second. And that he
had conceived a particular animosity for some unknown reason against
my humble self and wished to kill me. Without a doubt, he had some
secret hiding-place and feared lest I should seek to discover it. Perhaps he had found some treasure of which he had constituted himself
the jealous guardian. I felt sure, at any rate, that he was mad. His
actions had always been so peculiar and his speechlessness so baffling
and astonishing and crassly unreasonable. But he or someone had killed
my donkey. I found the poor beast lying in a hollow, dead as Cæsar. A
knife had been employed, a long, sharp-pointed knife--perhaps a sword. It had searched out the creature's heart and pierced it. I made a hasty
autopsy in order to be sure. The circumstance was most exasperating. It
condemned me to the task of being my own beast of burthen. And the load
was not a light one.