"Ta, Sitt," he said, "will it please you to wait for another hour? The camels are not yet rested, the day is still young."
Millicent looked at Michael. Time really did not matter to him one scrap, yet she dared not hint so. He could just as well look for this phantom treasure a year from now. It was all a mystic's mirage to her, a delightful excuse for a sojourn in the outer desert.
"I'm ready if you are," she said, addressing Mike. Her woman's tact told her the wisdom of putting no hindrance in his way.
"If the Effendi will graciously consent, it would be wiser to remain here for one hour more," Hassan said. "The men are tired, also."
Michael assented. If the beasts and the men were tired, they would wait.The excuse was not unwelcome. The good meal had relaxed his energies.Hassan thanked him and silently disappeared.
Michael sipped his coffee; it was perfect. He lit a cigarette, after they had turned their chairs to the open front of the shelter. Presently Millicent slipped down from her chair and sat on the sand in front of the tent; there was more air. Soon Michael did the same.
They had lunched well and were friends. A certain delicious apathy stole over Michael, which kept him from referring to any unpleasant topics. He left alone the subject as to why Millicent had trapped him and forced her company upon him. For the time being she was good and gentle, the reason being that she also was relaxed and inert—the result of a good meal after a strenuous morning on camel-back.
Michael had been riding since dawn. The temptation to let things alone was an unconscious one; he submitted to it.
A great expanse of the desert was before them. Millicent lay curled up, like a golden tortoise-shell cat, in the sun; Michael, with his legs doubled up to his chin, rested his head on his knees. He would have been asleep in a few minutes if Millicent had not spoken; suddenly she said:
"Look! Surely that's my holy man, whose reasoning powers are in heaven?There, look—far away, over there!"
Michael raised himself and looked to where she pointed. There was nothing to indicate any particular spot in the stretch of sand before them.
"I can just see the tattered rags of his staff. I'm sure it's the same man. Can't you see him?"
Michael looked again. "I can only distinguish something moving in the distance. I can't say what it is, or if it is coming this way."
"Can't you see a thing like a flag fluttering in the air? I can—there, can't you see him now?"
"Yes, now I can," Michael said. He got up from his low seat, his energies fully alert, his drowsiness gone. He held himself in check. It was absurd to appear so interested in a desert-fanatic—or an idiot—coming across their path. They were both common enough occurrences in the East.
Millicent watched his face. Why was he so thrilled, why so interested? Michael's first impulse was to go and meet the man. He was afraid that he would not notice their encampment. He was afraid that he would not come their way. At the same time, he was conscious that if there was any truth in the old man's words, their meeting would come about naturally and not by his seeking. The "child of God" would find him out.
They waited for some time and nothing happened. Michael's hopes abated. The figure with the fluttering rags disappeared. It seemed as if it had vanished into the sands. Michael felt disappointed.
The shelter was taken down and packed up, the lunch-basket refilled and the camels harnessed. Hassan appeared.
"Ya, Sitt, all is ready."
Nothing had been said about Millicent's plans; nothing had been said about how she had contrived to meet Michael; no lecture had been delivered. The subject had been forgotten, forgotten by Michael at least, whose interest had been absorbed in the talk about the tomb and in the glimpse he had of the distant figure. Millicent had not forgotten the promised lecture, but it had been her object to make Michael forget it. She had gladly let the matter rest. Why wake sleeping dogs? She let them lie so undisturbed that not one bark had been heard. They slept so soundly that her heart was full of triumph and amusement when, seated on her camel, she took her place in Michael's cavalcade.
She had managed to get through the starting without his feeling any annoyance at her presence. He had simply forgotten his objection to her accompanying him.
[1] Weigall'sAkhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.
[2] Weigall'sAkhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.
It was not until their rest at sundown that anything of unusual interest happened to the travellers. Their short halt while they drank their tea had passed without incident—in fact, Millicent had drunk hers alone on camel-back, for it had been carried in thermos flasks, their Amon-Ra, as Hassan called the magic bottles whose contents retained the heat with no obvious aid.
Michael had spent the time, while he drank his refreshing cup, in consulting Abdul about their route. The camels were not unsaddled. About this Millicent made no demur. She saw no earthly reason why they should not have rested for as long as they felt inclined, but she did not say so. If this treasure which Michael sought had lain in its safe hiding-place, out of sight of man, for more than two thousand years, why should it not wait there in safety for another couple or so of hours? This she kept to herself; it was her wise policy to remaindouce comme un lapin blanc, which she did. The night might still see her an accepted part of Michael's cavalcade. The adventure thrilled her with excitement.
They had finished their evening meal, which Millicent had supplied—a very satisfying and delicate dinner. They had eaten it in the open desert during the cool hours which precede sundown. Michael had thoroughly enjoyed it. The evening light transformed the desert; a heavenly Jerusalem seemed very near. Even Millicent was obedient to the unseen.
As the sun sank lower and lower in the heavens, their conversation drifted towards the subject of Akhnaton's Aton worship. The kneeling figures of the Arabs, praying in the desert before sundown, had introduced the topic.
They sat on until the globe of gold dropped behind the horizon—a wonderful sight in the desert. For a minute or two its sudden and complete disappearance leaves the world chill and desolate; a cold hand clutches at the human heart; a loneliness enters the soul. God has abandoned the world; the warmth of His love becomes a memory.
* * * * * *
The afterglow was at its most flamboyant; its orange and yellow, streaked with black, suddenly became vermilion. Lights from the underworld struck across the desert like swords of fire; arms of flame broke the vermilion, soaring to heaven like the fires from hell's furnace let loose. The anger and beauty and recklessness was appalling. Then with magic swiftness, during the flickering of an eye, the horizon became one vast lake of sacrificial blood.
The transition was so unexpected, so devastating to the human mind, that fear filled Millicent's heart. Instinctively she had drawn a little closer to Michael. She craved for arms to guard her, to protect her from the terror of the heavens.
* * * * * *
Like a black silhouette against the lake of blood, a human figure rose up out of the desert, a John the Baptist, "a burning and shining light," a voice calling in the wilderness.
As the sonorous words of the Koran were borne to them, Millicent said, "Oh, Mike, it's my holy man! How mysterious he looks against that wonderful sky!"
Subconsciously Michael had been so grateful to Millicent for her silence during the stupendous glory of the sunset that his heart was full of gentleness towards her.
"Yes," he said. "I see him." Something had told him that the figure which she had described to him during luncheon would appear again; he was not surprised when he distinguished the staff, with its tattered rags waving against the crimson light.
"Isn't it all wonderful, Mike!" Her voice was reverent; the awfulness of the heavens had humbled her. "I was almost afraid—it seemed like the end of the world, the sky seemed all on fire. The destruction of the world had begun."
"'Thy setting is beautiful, O living Aton, who guidest all countries that they may make laudation at thy dawning and at thy setting.'"
"Are those Akhnaton's words?"
"Yes, and his constant song was, 'O Lord, how manifold are Thy works.'Most surely he would have said so to-night." Michael's thoughts flewto the morning at whose dawn he had first recited to MargaretAkhnaton's hymn to the rising sun.
Millicent did not guess that Margaret was present while they stood together in silence, watching the blood tones grow fainter and fainter.
As they stood looking towards the horizon until all violence had left the heavens, the desert figure drew nearer. Millicent knew him by his long, unkempt hair. Even at a distance his fine white teeth gleamed against his tanned skin.
"He's a mere skeleton," Millicent said. "Look at him! He's all eyes and hair and teeth!"
"Poor creature!" Michael said. "Hehas certainly no flesh left to subdue."
As they spoke, the fanatic suddenly tottered, strode forward and fell, face downwards, on the sand of the desert. Instinctively Michael hurried forward to his assistance. There was little doubt but that he was famished and exhausted for want of food; the distances between desert villages are immense.
"Don't go!" Millicent cried. "Don't, Mike! He's probably filthy and crawling with vermin; he looked awful this morning. I'll send two of my men to him and I'll tell Hassan to prepare some food for him. Hassan! Hassan!" Her voice was clear and far-reaching.
Abdul instantly appeared. Hassan was busy giving orders to the men for pitching the tents. So quickly did Abdul come that he might have sprung up out of the desert at her very feet. This immediate response to her call always made Millicent suspicious of eavesdropping.
"Abdul," she said, "the holy man we met this morning is ill. Tell the bearers to go to him—don't let the Effendi touch him, Hassan."
"Aiwah, Sitt, I will attend." With the same breath Abdul screamed for two of the men to come and help the saint. They came with flying leaps towards him.
"Mike, oh Mike!" Millicent cried. "Please, please come back! You are so rash. Abdul, don't let the Effendi touch that man. He's filthy. I saw him this morning—he's a dreadful creature."
Abdul looked at the Effendi Amory's mistress, the Christian harlot. Such a woman dared to speak in this manner of one who was favoured of God, a blessed saint, of one to whom the devout women of his country would willingly give themselves as an act of grace! This child of God, beloved of Islam, was filthy in her vile eyes!
It was in this manner that Millicent unconsciously earned the vengeance of Abdul. Nothing of his hatred or scorn was noticeable. Millicent was under the impression that all Easterns are sensualists and slaves to beauty; she was ignorant of their profound contempt for all women; that their vilest thoughts are for Christians. With an outward approval of her anxiety that Michael should run no risks by touching the sick man, Abdul left her and hurried after the Effendi.
But Michael had already reached him; the fleshless figure lay bathed in the dying light of the afterglow. Hanging round his neck, a neck which looked like the neck of the dried mummy in Freddy's wonderful tomb, there were many strings of cheap beads, and suspended from a bright green cord—the Prophet's green—was one white cowrie shell. Half covered by his garment of many colours, and jealously enclosed in a small black cloth bag, was the most precious article of his scanty possessions. Michael knew that this pouch contained nothing less valuable than a few grains of sand from the Prophet's tomb at Mecca.
At Michael's approach the fanatic raised himself and recited in half-delirious tones theFat'hah, or the opening chapter of the Koran:
"In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Gracious. Praise be unto God, the Lord of the worlds, the Merciful, the Gracious, the Ruler of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, upon whom there is no wrath, and who have not erred."
When thesurawas finished the man fell back; his strength failed him. Michael knelt down beside him in the desert. He raised his head; his wild eyes and emaciated face touched his heart. He knew something of the zeal of these religious Moslems, these desert sons of Allah. This man had obviously wasted himself to a skeleton. Truly, his reasoning powers were in heaven; his religious ecstasies had well-nigh bereft him of his senses.
Michael asked him if he was ill or if he was only faint from want of food. The saint did not know; physical exhaustion overpowered him. At intervals he called loudly upon the name of Allah, in almost the same phraseology as the ancient Egyptians called upon Amon-Ra, the Lord of all worlds, whose seat was in the heavens. In the unchanging East, expressions never die. Akhnaton taught his disciples to pray to "Our Father, which art in Heaven."
As Michael listened to his appeals to Allah, he felt totally at a loss to know what to do for the material benefit of the zealot. He was afraid that he would die from exhaustion. He was relieved when Abdul and the bearers came to his assistance. Abdul soon persuaded the man to drink some of the water which he had brought in a cup. As he did so, he noticed with satisfaction that the saint's head was resting on Michael's arm, that his master was totally self-forgetful in his act of charity. Christian though he was, he was sincerely obeying the teaching of the Prophet Jesus, the one sinless Prophet of Islam, the Prophet Who, next to Mohammed, is best beloved of the faithful. Mohammed considered Jesus sinless; to his own unrighteousness he often alluded. In this act of grace, at least, the Effendi had not failed Him.
When Michael offered the man another cooling drink, he swallowed it eagerly. It was like the waters of paradise to his parched throat. His flaming eyes tried to express his gratitude to his deliverer. Who was this heretic whose fingers had the gift of healing, from whose heart flowed the divine waters of charity?
Michael understood. Inspired by the love in his heart for all suffering humanity, with something akin to the graceful imagery of words which comes naturally to the humblest native's lips, he spoke to the man in a suitable manner. Rendered into English it would sound absurd.
The servants appeared with some food which was sustaining and appetizing, but the effort necessary for swallowing anything solid proved too much for the exhausted pilgrim.
"Bring him to the camp, Abdul," Michael said. "I will give him some brandy. As a medicine it is not forbidden?"
"No, Effendi, it is not forbidden."
The total absence of the sun had made the desert seem inhospitable and dreary. The saint was too weak to protest and so he was carried to the camp. Millicent watched the slow procession with anger and amazement. She knew that Michael was rash and impetuous, but she had not given him credit for being such a fool.
While he was being put to bed in a tent, and carefully attended to, Michael tried to discover if the saint was really ill, if he was suffering from some specific malady, or if he was merely worn out with fatigue. He administered a drug to him which he hoped would soothe his nerves and allow him to sleep.
In a dog-like manner the man's tragic eyes eloquently expressed both his astonishment and gratitude. It was long since he had slept in a comfortable bed, under sheets and blankets. He rarely spoke, except to mutter or loudly chant in a half-delirious mannersurasfrom the Koran.
When Michael had attended to his simple wants and seen to it that his servants were not only willing but eager to nurse him, he left him to their care and immediately hurried off to his own tent to change his clothes and disinfect himself as thoroughly as possible—a necessary precaution, although the man had not been as dirty as Millicent had depicted. Hisdilk, or Joseph's coat, was indeed tattered and his turban in the last stages of decay, but they were clean. His person was not offensive. A pathetic figure, fleshless and worn and neurotic; yet in the sands of the desert he had performed his ablutions before prayer, as prescribed by the Prophet in the Holy Book. The untrodden sands of the desert are as cleansing and purifying as the waters of Jordan.
When Michael at last returned to Millicent, she said quite gently, although her inward woman burned with anger, "Mike, are you mad or a saint? How could you touch him?"
"I'm far from being a saint!" he said.
"You are as much one as that wretched creature, who has pretended he is one for so long that he now believes he is."
"Or his Moslem brethren do, perhaps you mean!"
"Well, he acts up to their superstitious ideas."
"I can't tell. He is too ill to speak. He is probably as sincere aMoslem as St. Jerome was a Christian—why not?"
"What's the matter with him?" A little fear clutched at Millicent's heart.
"I don't know—Abdul couldn't discover. The man is too exhausted to talk. I'll speak to him in the morning and find out."
"I hope it's nothing infectious—you were very rash, Mike!"
"It's probably only physical exhaustion. He couldn't eat anything, but he drank the water I gave him. I poured a little brandy in it—he wouldn't have touched it if he had known."
"Oh, wouldn't he?" Millicent's voice expressed her disbelief.
"The Koran forbids the drinking of spirits."
Millicent laughed. "You wouldn't think so when you pass the native cafés in Cairo! I thought you said they lived up to the letter of their religion, and missed the spiritual essence of it?"
"There are Moslems and Moslems. Do we all live up to the spirit ofChrist's teachings? Have you always seen Christ-like Christians?"
Millicent shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I don't pretend to live up to the spirit of my religion. There's the comforting reflection of a death-bed repentance for all Christians—it's never to late to mend, Mike!"
"What about battle and murder and sudden death?"
"I take that risk. But, honestly, dear, are you going to adopt that fanatic, take him on with you?"
"I'm going to look after him until he's better," Michael said, "if that's what you mean."
"You've got oneprotégéin el-Azhar. I wonder where this one will find his home?"
"He will be all right in the morning. Some food and sleep will set him on his way again." Michael's eyes expressed the fact that his thoughts had travelled to Millicent's own position in his camp. She had wished to avoid this; she had tried to obliterate her own personality. Her desire was to let Mike get pleasantly accustomed to her companionship, to her place in his camp, to her harmless presence. She felt certain that if she could manage it for a day or two, he would let things slide. It was his nature to drift.
The evening was almost at its close; night was drawing near. The evening star, with its one clear call, had appeared in the pale sky, guarded by the soft pure crescent of a new moon. The single star in the vast heavens made a tender appeal to the hearts of both Millicent and Michael. It intensified their solitude. It touched their senses with longing. If Margaret had been with Michael, his arms would have encircled her.
Millicent owed her self-restraint to her calculating common sense. To have had a lover on such a night as this would have been a splendid reward for all her trouble. In her heart she called the man at her side a fool, a pitiful fool, and herself an idiot for loving him.
"It was a beautiful idea for Mohammed's banner," Michael said at length. He had driven the thought even of Margaret from his mind. Suggestion is too potent a drug.
"Was that what he took it from?" Millicent said. "I never thought of it before—of course, it must have been."
"He must often have watched the evening star as we are watching it now, when he was a boy living in the desert. Later on, when he became the warrior prophet, he must have visualized the heavens as the background of his banner, and taken the evening star and the crescent moon as his symbols—the star and the crescent of Islam." Michael paused. "In the same way, the full rays of the sun became the symbol of Aton, Akhnaton's god and loving father."
"Your friend?" Millicent said eagerly; it pleased her that Michael should speak of the things nearest his heart. He was allowing her to approach him.
Michael laughed. "And yours, too, I hope?"
"Why?" Millicent's heart quickened.
"Because Akhnaton was the first man to preach simplicity, honesty, frankness and sincerity, and he preached it from a throne. He was the first Pharaoh to be a humanitarian, the first man in whose heart there was no trace of barbarism." [1]
"Really?" Millicent said. Michael's earnestness forbade levity. "How interesting! Do tell me more about him."
"He was the first human being to understand rightly the meaning of divinity."
"But what he taught didn't last. We owe nothing to his doctrines, do we? Did it ever spread beyond his own kingdom?"
"Like other great teachers, he sacrificed all to his principles. Yet there can be no question that his ideals will hold good 'till the swan turns black and the crow turns white, till the hills rise up and travel and the deeps rush into the rivers.' That's how Weigall ends up the life he has written of the great reformer. How can you say that we owe nothing to him? You might as well say that we owe nothing to any of the great men of whom we have never heard, and yet you know that thought affects the whole world. Akhnaton made himself immortal by his prophecies—they were the eternal truths revealed to him by God."
"By a prophet, do you mean that he was a prophet like Moses, Jeremiah,Isaiah and so on?"
"I mean that prophets were the seers to whom God communicated knowledge. Prophets were the people to whom He made revelations; he enlightened their minds; He certainly revealed Himself to Akhnaton, or how else could he, in that age of darkness, have evolved for himself an almost perfect conception of divinity? Weigall says 'he evolved a monotheist's religion second only to Christianity itself in its purity of tone.' If God had not revealed Himself to Akhnaton as He did later on to Moses and Abraham, and as I believe He still does to our true reformers, how could he, as Weigall says, have evolved his beautiful religion 'in an age of superstition, and in a land where the grossest polytheism reigned absolutely supreme'?"
"And are you now on your way to visit his tomb, Mike? How thrilling!"
"Yes," Michael said. He answered her simply, forgetful of the fact that she could only have obtained her information on this point in an underhand manner.
"You know where it is?"
"He was buried in the hills which lie beyond his city."
"Tel-el-Amarna?"
"Yes, the City of the Horizon, the capital he built when he found it necessary for the progress of his new religion to get away from Thebes, from the priests of Amon-Ra."
Michael's thoughts became absorbed. They travelled to the mid-African in el-Azhar and then became mixed up with this meeting with the desert-saint. Could this poor, emaciated figure, so shrunken and worn with tropical fevers and famished for want of food, have any knowledge of the hidden treasure which the seer had visualized?
Millicent allowed his thoughts to wander. She knew the force of silent companionship. She knew that, although he was apparently far from her, he was conscious of her presence. She would have liked to ask him a thousand questions, to have talked rather than held her peace; but her instinct as a woman forbade it. Something told her that during their talk Michael was one half saint, one half man, and the man-power was stronger than he knew.
Many stars had appeared in the sky, which had deepened. It was now the violet-blue of a desert night. The passion of the heavens was beginning. Could man and woman remain outside it?
In the distance an occasional roar from one of the camels interrupted the silence. Surely it was a night for love, the love that needs no telling?
Millicent and Michael were seated on the sand, gazing into the deepening heavens. Michael was sorely disturbed.
"Could anything be more Eastern?" Millicent said dreamily. In speech she had to walk very carefully. Her mystic baffled her.
"Nothing," Michael said. "Isn't it sad to think what city-dwellers miss?"
"I love even the roar of the camels, don't you?" Her eyes were looking at the animals, as they knelt at rest in the distance, their long day's journey done. What stored-up revenge their roars suggest! They always seem to say, "My day will come, if it is yours to-day."
"Let's think of the most English thing we can, Mike," she said suddenly, "just by way of contrast."
They thought for a moment or two in silence. The arid desert was softened by the absence of the sun, its desolation was made more manifest. At night even more than by day, you could feel the immensity of its distance, its silent rolling from ocean to ocean. Nothing speaks to man's heart more eloquently than the voice of perfect silence.
For the sake of prudence Michael was consenting to Millicent's suggestion to think of the most English scene he could. Was it a village public-house, full of hearty English yokels, drinking their evening tankards of beer? This was about the time they would assemble. He had not yet formed his picture into words, Millicent had not spoken, when suddenly Abdul appeared and begged permission to speak to his master.
The sick man was better; he had eaten some food and was conscious. Abdul had evidently some information which was for his master's ear alone. He politely inferred that he could not say it before the honourable lady.
Michael rose from his seat beside Millicent, who, being wise in her generation, said: "Then I will say good-night and go to bed. I am very tired."
"Good-night," Michael said brightly, while a sudden sense of relief came to his heart. "I think you are very wise. You must be quite tired out."
"So far, so good," Millicent said when she was alone. "What a weird mystic I've attached myself to!" She alluded to Michael, not to the Moslem saint.
Her camp-outfit was so complete that in her desert bedroom there was scarcely an item missing which could ensure her comfort. She contemplated going to bed with enjoyment. Where money is, there also are the fleshpots of Egypt, even if it is in the waterless tracts of the Arabian desert.
Material comforts meant very much to Millicent. She enjoyed using all the little accessories belonging to a fastidious woman's toilet; she enjoyed, too, the occupation of expending care on her person. Her rising up and lying down were ceremonies which she performed with unremitting attention. In her tent in the desert her perfumes and cosmetics and bath-salts afforded her a curious satisfaction. They told her that her management had been perfect; they appealed to her barbaric love of contrasts. It fed her pride very pleasantly to know that she could command these luxuries; to know that by her own wealth she could bring the trivialities of civilization into the elemental life of the desert excited her senses.
Her natural beauty could have triumphed over the ravages made by the sun and the dry desert air. She was one of those fortunate women who needed few, if any, of the absurdities which she carried about with her wheresoever she went. To have done without them would have been to deprive herself of a very genuine pleasure, to have starved one of her eager appetites. Margaret's rapid tub, the swift brushing and combing and plaiting of her dark hair, generally while she read some passage from a book which interested her, and her total disregard for cosmetics, would have horrified Millicent if she had known of her habits. The height of civilization to Millicent was expressed in a luxuriously-appointed dressing-table and in an excessive care of her body. Progress touched its high-water mark in the perfection of her creature comforts. Taken from this standpoint, progress could scarcely go any further, or so Michael would have thought if he had watched her ritual of going to bed.
She dawdled pleasantly through it, enjoying every moment of the time, appreciating the handling of artistically-designed silver objects, performing with care the washing of her face with oatmeal and the dusting of her fair skin with the latest luxury in powder. She liked to take the same care of her person as a young mother takes of her first baby, and—as she expressed it—to smell like one when the ceremony was finished.
Her love of contrasts appealed to her, when she stood, all ready for bed in her foolish nightgown—a mere veil of chiffon—becomingly guarded by a Japanese kimono of the softest silk. She visualized the timeless desert outside her tent, the trackless ocean of silence, the uninhabited primitive world. She felt like a queen, travelling in state through a waterless, foodless world.
She held up her empty arms. Some other night! Some other night! Her heart assured her. With a sigh of content she lay down to sleep, well satisfied with her own diplomacy and cunning. Her last conscious thoughts were of Margaret Lampton. What was she doing to-night? What were her thoughts?
* * * * * *
Late that night, as Abdul passed the Englishwoman's tent, he spat at her door.
[1] Weigall'sAkhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.
What was Margaret doing that night?
Many days had passed since she had heard from Michael, but there was nothing in that to cause her anxiety. She did not expect to hear from him after his desert journey had begun, except by happy chance. If he passed a desert mail-carrier, he would give him a letter to be posted when he arrived at the nearest town.
A desert mail-carrier is a weird object to Western eyes or to the eyes of a city-dweller. Almost naked, he travels across the desert on swift camels, carrying a long sword for the protection of the royal mails.
So far Margaret had received no desert letter. Her days had passed smoothly and swiftly, for Freddy had kept her hard at work. Each day her interest in his work intensified; the more she learned of Egyptology and of archaeology generally, the more wholly absorbing it became. She had developed into a very essential member of the camp.
With splendid common sense and determination, she had succeeded in throwing herself body and soul into the work which filled her days. She had made up her mind when she parted with Michael that not even by thought would she retard his work and mission. When she allowed her mind to travel to him, it was to convey currents of stimulating love and encouragement. If thoughts are things, as he always told her, then the things her thoughts were to give him must be happiness and confidence. Keeping this steadily before her, she had spent healthy, happy days with her brother. In their sympathies and interests they had drawn even closer together. Strangers might well have taken them for lovers, so eagerly did they look forward each morning to their long evening to be spent together. There was very little time for play; their days were made up of hard, exacting work.
Experts were busy forming their opinions and writing their official reports upon the contested subjects connected with the tomb. The mythological and archaeological finds in it were of exceptional interest.
On this night, when Millicent in the eastern desert had held up her arms to the heavens and questioned the unseen, Margaret had gone early to bed. For some reason—perhaps owing to the great heat of the day and to the airlessness of the chamber of the tomb where she had been painting, she had felt a bit "nervy," as she had expressed her state of being to Freddy. She had tried to read, but had failed. Her thoughts had wandered; her memory had retained nothing of what she had read; at the end of a paragraph she knew as little of what it had been about as though she had never read it. Concentration was beyond her power.
"I'm only wasting time, Freddy," she said after a last desperate effort to concentrate her thoughts on her book. "I'm going to bed. If I talked, I'd probably grouse—that's how I feel."
"Right you are, old girl. I'll soon be off, too. How'd you like to go to Luxor for a few days?"
"Oh, no, Freddy!" Meg's whole being rejected the idea.
"All right—only don't get the jumps."
"A good sleep will put me right," she bent her head as she passed her brother and lightly kissed his glittering hair. He was busy with a plan, of extraordinarily minute details. "You're such a dear, Freddy."
"Rot!"
"You are, a thumping old dear."
"Don't you worry, old girl. Mike's all right. Bad news travels on bat's wings, so they say. You'd have heard long before this if anything was wrong."
It was just like Freddy to understand. Meg felt cheered. She sat herself down beside him, quite close to his elbow, and watched him for some moments. They were perfectly silent. Freddy's practical, healthy, buoyant personality soothed her. Her big love for him brought a sudden lump to her throat. Happy tears dimmed her sight. Hungrily she pressed his arm close to hers and rubbed her cheek against his coat. The next moment she had left the room.
Freddy's eyes followed her. "Not the life for a girl, somehow," he said, a line of worry puckering his forehead, and for a few moments his thoughts deserted his work. It became faulty; he had to use his india-rubber over and over again. It was Meg's vision of Akhnaton that had intruded itself upon his work; he must drag his thoughts back again.
Meg had told him about her vision. Before the tomb had been opened, Freddy would have completely pooh-poohed the whole thing. He gave no real credence to it now; still, there was a subtle difference in his attitude towards the whole subject of the supernatural. His mind did not so completely reject it as he thought. The extraordinary exactness of the seer's vision of the inside of the tomb had not been without its effect. He also knew how constantly and ardently Akhnaton had prayed that his spirit might "go forth to see the sun's rays," that his "two eyes might be opened to see the sun," that he might "obtain a sight of the beauty of each recurring sunrise."
* * * * * *
When Meg went to bed, she slept soundly, very soundly. She must have been asleep for some hours when suddenly she awoke with unusual alertness. The intensity of her dream had wakened her. She had heard Michael's voice crying, as though it were vainly trying to reach her. It was as clear as the overseer's whistle each morning; it had wakened her just as suddenly. The anguish of his soul came to her out of the silence. Three times he had called her distinctly.
She started up, with the words "Yes, Mike, I'm coming." They were said before she realized that she was separated from him by the Valley and the river and the eastern desert.
Sitting up in bed she listened. Everything was still. She jumped out of bed and looked out of the window. The stars in the sky shone down on the hills which covered the sleeping Pharaohs as they had shone when Michael had told her that he loved her, as they had shone before the Valley became a city of the dead.
Margaret slipped on her dressing-gown and opened the door. She went quietly out and stood in front of the hut, with eyes raised to the heavens. She felt as if her heart was bursting with the prayers that filled it. What could she do? Nothing—nothing but give herself up to God, open her heart and reveal its burden to the Lord of all worlds, trust her inarticulate prayers to His everlasting mercy. Very softly she whispered, almost ashamed of her own impotence, "I want to go to Michael. Allow my spirit to console him."
Her hands were clenched. An imploring agony held her unconscious of all else but her desire to get outside herself and appear to her lover. She had no more words; speech was needless. Her wants were as infinitely beyond the limits of speech, as infinity is beyond our conception of space or time.
For a few minutes she stood lost in the one thought. And who shall say in what name her prayer was answered by the divine mercy?
Gradually a subtle untightening of her muscles relaxed her hands even while they remained folded. Something had gone out of her. Was it virtue? Unconscious of her material self, for her thoughts had not yet returned from their mission of healing, she remained standing in the same attitude of appeal.
Suddenly her imagination folded her in her lover's arms. She heard him say, "My beautiful Meg, the stars adore you!"
And she answered, "I am with you, Mike, just as I was on that night when your love made a new world for me. You called to me and so I came. Your arms are round me. . . . I can hear your voice."
Margaret sighed. Consciousness of her material surroundings was returning. She heard a step behind her; someone was present. It was Freddy.
"What are you doing, Meg?" he said anxiously.
She turned swiftly to him. "Oh, Freddy, Michael wanted me. My dream was too real not to have some meaning. I couldn't bear it—I had to try to help him!"
"You were dreaming? You were in bed?"
"Yes, and sound asleep. Suddenly he called me. It was extraordinarily real." Meg put her hands up to her head as though it was tired.
"But you can't help him by standing out here. It's too chilly."
Meg shivered. "It is cold," she said wearily. "And I'm awfully tired."
Freddy linked his arm through his sister's. "Let's sit and talk together indoors, for a bit. Have a cigarette?"
Meg thanked him with tired eyes. Freddy put his hands on her shoulders as she sank into a deck-chair, and looked into her eyes. "No more visions, old girl?"
"No, Freddy, oh no, no vision." Meg spoke dreamily, absently, and with an exhaustion which worried her brother.
"Then why so tired?"
"I don't know. I suppose it was my dream. I feel as if I'd travelled for days and days!"
"Look here, you're going to have some of this." Freddy poured out a small portion of brandy into a glass and made her swallow it. "The desert plays the dickens with the strongest nerves. Don't be so rash again, Meg."
"I promise." Meg swallowed the brandy and Freddy lit her cigarette. With a tact she little dreamed of he contrived to divert her thoughts into a channel far removed from the eastern desert and personal matters.
The news from home for the last few weeks had been far from satisfactory. English politics seemed to revolve round the atrocious acts of the suffragettes who believed in the militant policy and the disturbances in Ireland. Freddy's sympathies, of course, were with Ulster; the Nationalists and Sinn Feiners belonged to the unemployable unemployed class of agitators who "walk on their heads."
When at last the brother and sister parted, Meg was restored both in mind and body to her normal healthy condition.
When Michael entered the sick man's tent, he was surprised to find how much better he seemed. He had regained a little strength and partial consciousness. But he was still weak and suffering from the effects of malarial fever, or so Michael imagined, though he was articulate and his mind seemed to be clearing.
The more Michael saw of him the more sure he was that he was neither an idiot nor a lunatic, nor one of the class in the East whose flagrant acts of immorality do not affect their fame for sanctity. Certainly his thoughts and reasoning powers appeared still to be in heaven, but that was because he was a religious zealot. Of the genuineness of his piety there could be no doubt. The impostors and charlatans who bring discredit upon the term "holy man," who trade upon the credulity of the natives, do not seek the wastes of the arid eastern desert. The neighbourhood of hospitable villages and cities suits their profession and tastes better.
The saint had requested of Abdul that he might thank the Effendi for his charity. Before sunrise he wished to leave the tent.
As Michael approached him, he called out in a weak but sonorous voice asurafrom the Koran:
"'Verily those who do deeds of real kindness shall drink of a cup tempered with camphor.'"
The word camphor (kafier), which is derived from the wordkafr, means to "suppress or cover." Michael understood. The quaffing of camphor, as spoken of in the Koran, is supposed to subdue unlawful passions; it cleanses the heart; it rids man's mind of all material desires.
"I thank you, O my father." Michael used the ordinary form of a Moslem in addressing one of a higher spiritual station than himself. In Egypt even the native Christians reverence Moslem saints or holy men. They pay frequent visits to them to ask for counsel and to hear their prophecies, to beg a hair of them in memory, "and dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue." Any relic of a venerated saint is worn as a protection from evil.
Quite apart from Michael's feeling on the subject as to whether this desert fanatic would prove of any real assistance to him on his journey, he had no inclination to scoff at his religious zeal. Were there not St. Jeromes, who lived in the desert and trusted to the ravens of the air to feed them? Were passions in the desert not known before the days of Mohammed? Why should saints no longer exist?
It seemed to him very wonderful that this semi-conscious Arab should have chosen a text from the Koran so singularly appropriate to his condition. There were hundreds ofsurasfamiliar to Michael, relating to the benefits to be received by the faithful who performed disinterested acts of charity. "Do good to the creatures of God, for God loves those who do good." These words came to his mind as more suitable, as referring only to his hospitality to the fainting wayfarer. Or again, "The truly righteous are those who, in order to please God, assist their kindred out of their wealth, and support the orphans and take care of the needy, and give alms to the wayfarer."
In the moral conditions of the Koran, there are manysurasrelating to charity, the love which covers a multitude of sins. Yet he had told Michael that because of his love for one of God's creatures he would "drink of a cup tempered with camphor." Had the sick man a seer's vision? Had he read the secrets of his, Michael's, heart?
Or might it have been that already Abdul had confided to him the gossip of the camp? Had his seer's eyes told him who lay in the white tent, the white tent whose open door so persistently invited him to turn in?
He rejected the idea that the saint's apt choice of a text could have been mere accident. To Michael there was no such thing as chance. Nothing is unessential, nothing unforeseen by the All-seeing.
He spoke to the saint seriously and sympathetically of his condition and tried to persuade him that he was too weak to travel. He must rest for one whole day, and after that he must allow Michael to see him on his journey. To Michael's offer of hospitality and help on his pilgrimage, he again answered by quoting the Koran:
"'Verily to the "favoured of God" no fear shall come, nor shall they grieve.'"
His eyes, lit with spiritual fire, expressed his complete confidence in divine protection.
Michael expressed his belief that God did look after those who were specially favoured of Him, but he asked if it might not be that it was by God's guidance that he, Michael, had been permitted to offer one specially beloved of Allah the rest he so greatly needed? If it was not also decreed by Allah that the saint should remain in his tent until he was stronger?
"Whither are you going, O my son? If Allah wills it we shall not part."
Michael described his geographical destination; he did not mention the real mission of his journey.
"What seek you there, O my son?"
"The tomb of a holy man."
"An infidel or a child of Allah?"
"Of a prophet, O my father, a prophet to whom God revealed himself even before the days of Moses, a prophet born in Egypt, who lost his distant kingdoms to gain his own soul."
"Your heart is full of charity, O my son. In the name of the Lord, theCompassionate, the Merciful, may the divine light surround you."
"If I acknowledge but one God, O my father, and truly love Him, I must love all things that He has created, for without Him was not anything made that is in heaven or on earth."
"Truly said, O my son. And praise be to Allah! you are no infidel. You worship but the one God Who is the Lord of the worlds. The ignorant infidels—Allah have mercy on their souls!—give the Prophet Jesus equal glory with the God Almighty, they divide the honours which belong to God alone."
"There are many seekers after the truth, O my father. Are there not many roads to heaven?"
"To all who do truly seek the light, God will be revealed to them. He will cover them with His mercy, He will join them to the companionship on high. God's mercy extends to every sinner, He provides for even those who deny Him."
The fanatic fell back on his pillow exhausted. Michael waited for a moment, until his religious excitement had abated. Feebly words came from his parched lips.
"Great is Thy Name, great is Thy Greatness. There is no God but Thee."
Michael poured a little moisture down his throat. He swallowed it eagerly; his thirst was pathetic. After waiting for a few minutes beside the silent figure, Michael rose to go. One of the servants must come and look after him and watch by him during the night; he was too ill to be left alone.
Suddenly the saint called to him. "Henâ(here)." He wished Michael to bend his head nearer to his lips; his voice was weak. His splendid eyes glowed with the fire of spiritual triumph. Michael watched him raise his hand up to his head. It was for some reason, for it was not without effort that he guided his first finger to his fine, delicately-shaped ear, the concha of which was very large. There seemed to be something hidden in it which he was endeavouring to take out.
Michael tried to help him. Had he stowed away some relic of exceptional value in the opening of his ear, or was it giving him pain? The saint did not answer. Michael stood in silence until the thing was extracted. It was a little pellet of tissue-paper.
The saint put his finger to his lips, to caution Michael to be silent. With trembling fingers he unwrapped the tiny packet. It was so small that probably it contained an atom of hair reputed to have been cut from the Prophet's beard.
When the object was unrolled, the saint said, "Henâ," and tried to reach Michael's hand. Michael placed his right hand in the two emaciated ones of the fanatic. Something hard was pressed into his palm, and his fingers were jealously folded over a tiny object. When it was safely in his keeping, the saint fell back on his pillow, muttering asurafrom the Koran.
"'Give your kindred what they require in time of need and also to the poor and the traveller, but waste not your substance wastefully.'"
Michael opened his hand and looked at what the zealot had placed in it.He was thrilled with curiosity to see what the precious relic could be.He recognized the greatness of the honour which had been bestowed uponhim.
When he saw what it was, he was too astonished to speak. Wonder robbed him of words. A crimson amethyst, uncut and of ancient smoothness, lay like a large drop of blood in his hand. With half-believing eyes he gazed at it. Still in silence and with doubting senses, he turned it over with the fingers of his left hand. Had the holy man performed a miracle? How could he have become possessed of an ancient gem of such rare beauty and size? Michael had often seen conjurers raise up palm-trees and flowers on the deck of a steamer, out of a pot full of sand; a wave of their magic wand had transformed the deck of the steamer into a flowery garden. But this poor sick wanderer was no trickster.
Michael held up the amethyst to a lamp. It seemed to him a stone of great value. As it was uncut, he could only judge by its colour. There might be some flaw which he could not see. He tried to put it back into the sick man's hands.
"Keep it, my son, it is safer with you. I could not use it for the benefit of mankind, for the wayfarer and the needy, and for myself I have no wants which Allah in His mercy does not supply. His children suffer no greater privations than they can bear."
Michael still pressed the jewel back into his hand. He could not and would not accept it. At his refusal the fanatic became excited and distressed.
"It is easy for me, my son, to find many more such jewels, and also much fine gold, the pure gold of Ethiopia. Allah has had hidden treasures laid up in the desert for such of His favoured children as require them."
The words came curiously to Michael's ears, for he had in his subconscious mind anticipated them. Yet his material mind regarded them as fantastic imagination due to the man's abnormal condition. The unpolished jewel had probably been given to him by a devout Moslem, who imagined that he had derived some benefit from a visit which he had paid to the saint. His subconscious mind pressed the question:
Had this poor creature, dressed in rags, whose famished body had fallen in the sands, exhausted by his perpetual mortification of the flesh, found Akhnaton's buried treasure? Had he resisted the gold and precious jewels which he had found there? Had he only carried away this one crimson amethyst to prove to Michael that his theory was correct? Was it a beautiful link in the long chain of ordained events, an act of the divine law?
The idea seemed incredible. Yet the saint had spoken simply and sincerely, as if he never doubted but that Allah, in His all-seeing mercy, had provided this mine of wealth for the use of His favoured.
Was this gem which the saint had carried in his ear an actual and tangible proof of the treasure he was seeking? Had the saint actually seen and touched the wealth of gold and the jewels which Akhnaton's hands had hidden in the hills near his tomb? Others besides Michael, students of Egyptology, had treasured the idea that the heretic King, knowing that his days were numbered, and that when he was dead everything in his fair city would be stolen and desecrated, taken to Thebes and there turned into wealth for the gods of Amon, had hid from his enemies his private hoard of jewels and gold.
A glorious excitement overwhelmed Michael. His thoughts travelled on the wings of light. But he must be practical; he must determine how it was best to question the saint, to gather from him the most helpful information on the subject. It would be no easy matter, for it would be unwise to express any marked curiosity about the hidden treasure or to show his personal desire to find it.
With great self-control he concealed his intense interest and excitement. For the present it was best to let the saint's words about the treasure pass unquestioned. Very tactfully and with gentleness he persuaded him to keep the amethyst until they parted. In the morning, if he was really strong enough to go on his way and if he still wished him to accept the gem, he would do so.
With this the fanatic was contented. He wrapped up the gem which had once belonged to the heretic Pharaoh, whose one and only God was Aton, and replaced it in its strange jewel-case.
* * * * * *
When Michael left the tent where the saint lay, he turned his back on the encampment. He wished to be alone. His thoughts were bewildering. He turned his back upon the encampment because the crouching man in him knew that in the camp was the white tent of the woman. If he passed it, would the primitive man in him spring up and force him to turn in?
"Turn in, turn in, my lord, and he did turn in." How the words had kept ringing in his ears.
Alone in the desert he must drink of the cup tempered with camphor. Henceforth his one thought and object must be the finding of the treasure he had journeyed thus far to discover. The saint's news had so excited him that he wished that he could waken all the sleeping servants and order Abdul to begin their journey. Action would drive the white tent and its persistent call out of his mind. The sky was so light that they could easily see to travel.
His nerves chafed at the unnecessary delay. And yet he must not hurry, for his mind foresaw great difficulty, even in the matter of persuading the holy man to travel with them.
The seer at el-Azhar had promised him that a "child of God" would lead him. If he waited and trusted and just let things take their course, all things would come right. Haste comes of the devil—a true Eastern proverb, a warning far too little regarded by the Western children of speed. But his conscience rebuked him. Had he verily been one of those who do deeds of real kindness? Was he worthy to drink of the cup tempered with camphor? Had his deed been sincerely inspired by disinterested love towards his fellow-beings? Had it not been so mingled and mixed up with his anxiety to find the hidden treasure that he had gladly seized the opportunity of offering help to the wayfarer, hoping that he might prove to be the very child of God who was to guide him to the secret spot?
Yet surely, in doing this deed of kindness, even though it was affected by self-interest, he had already drunk of the cup tempered with camphor? The desires of his frail human flesh, desires which had had their renaissance since Millicent's appearance, were they quite banished? Had the woman in her white tent meant nothing to him? As if in contradiction to his words, he flung himself on the sand. A voice cried within him.
What was he to do with the woman? Oh, God, what was he to do with her? Spiritually he emptied his arms of her and flung her far from him on the sands. All day her presence had been too near him—oh, God, far too near! She was there in her tent, a beautiful vision. Her eyes, as violet as the night sky, invited him. Her voice, soft with love, wooed him. It cried again and again: "Turn in, my lord, turn in!"
His knowledge of the East told him that the whole camp expected him to visit the white tent that night. He was no St. Anthony in their eyes, resisting his temptation.
For one moment his mind enjoyed the satisfaction of her beauty. The cup tempered with camphor was rudely dashed from his lips. Some unseen hand had offered him instead the deep red wine of passion. With the sudden violence of a southern wind gathering swiftly over the desert, his emotions were tossed and driven. As the sands lift and rise from the flatness of the desert into one obliterating column before the traveller's eyes, so had his vision of the woman obliterated every other thought from his mind. In the limitless desert there was nothing but the one white tent of the woman.
In his vision he saw the crimson amethyst hanging from a chain round her neck. On her white breast it lay like a full drop of pigeon's blood. Where had this idea come from? Unsought, undesired, what had forced it with merciless vividness before his eyes? What part of him responded to her caresses of thanks? What had Akhnaton's jewel to do with his profane vision?
St. Anthony had never deserved his temptation less. With the distant glimpse of the white tent which he had caught on his way from the sick man, desire had stormed the citadel of his soul. Its hidden forces had surprised and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Michael. It held him in its grip.
In his agony of spirit he cried aloud. "Margaret! Margaret!Margaret, if you love me, come to me!"
He pressed his body more closely to the desert sand. Let the greatMother Earth enfold him.
With all the stars in the heavens shining down upon him, and the clear sky purifying a world of desolation, Michael lay purging his mind, cleansing his heart. The white tent became very distant, a mere speck on his mental horizon.
Suddenly his senses became alert; he felt a presence very close to him. No footfall on the sand had warned him that he was no longer alone; he was simply conscious that some one was standing by his side. He jumped up, anxious to see who it was; he had been lying face downwards on the sand. No one was there. He listened. Surely he had not been mistaken? Someone had touched him gently with their hands, some presence had come quite close to him. He was conscious that a feeling of peace had come to him, as if virtue had passed into him from those unseen hands. Then suddenly he knew that Margaret was beside him; they were standing together as they had stood together on the night when they plighted their troth. He could hear her saying, "I have come to you, Mike. You called me and so I came." He could feel the divine beauty of her passion, the exquisite wonder of her love. Her presence was as real and helpful to him as though his arms encircled her material body.
In the midst of his happiness a sense of shame overwhelmed him.Margaret had come to him because she understood; his sense of shameevoked her sympathy. He heard her say, "But Mike, I shall understand.I think something outside myself will help me to understand."
He could see her starlit face. He remembered how he had turned it up to the heavens and said, "You beautiful Meg, the stars adore you!" His own words rang in his ears.
She had come to help him to make his love for her still more complete. She was with him still. He enfolded her in his arms and wept out his passion on her breast.