The camp had moved on. Two days had passed since the saint had been laid to rest. They were now making for a rock-village, which would take them slightly out of their direct route, but from Abdul's account of the place Michael thought that the delay would be well worth while. A short extension of their journey could make but little difference to the finding of the treasure.
The village was a subterranean one; its streets and dwelling-houses were cut out of the desert-rock. It had been inhabited by desert people since immemorial times. Obviously its origin had been for secrecy and security. Fugitives had probably made it and lived in it just as the early Christians, during their period of persecution, lived in the catacombs in Rome.
Michael had been far from well for some days past. Abdul was anxious about his health. There had been no fresh cases of smallpox in the camp and Michael's present condition indicated a touch of fever rather than any contagious malady. He often felt sick; he was easily tired and his excellent powers of sleeping had deserted him.
He was troubled about Margaret. He had neither heard from her nor was he certain that she had received any of his letters. During the saint's illness he had written her two letters, which his friends at the Bedouin camp had promised to deliver to the next desert mail-carrier who passed their hamlet. He had sent a runner to the village to which he had told Margaret that she was to write. The runner returned, bearing no letter.
It was consistent with native etiquette that he should pay a visit to theomdehof the subterranean village, which he wished to pass through. Abdul had a slight acquaintance with him and, being more than a little anxious about his master's health, he thought that Michael's visit to him might prove of value should any serious illness overtake him.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived at the entrance of the village, an uninviting underground labyrinth, where the sun never penetrated and where men, women and children lived in homes cut out of the virgin rock. It was, of course, necessary to leave their camels and go through the village on foot. Abdul told the servants that he alone would go with his master; they were to meet them in the desert at the other entrance to the village.
As Michael followed the tall figure of Abdul through the narrow streets, which were as dark as railway tunnels, he felt horribly sick. He was well accustomed to the torment of Egyptian flies, but these particular flies belonged to the order of things whose deeds, being evil, loved darkness. They covered his face and hands the very moment after he had shaken them off. Do what he would, he could not keep them away from the corners of his mouth or from going up his nostrils.
"Abdul," he said, "this gives one a new vision of hell. Look at those disgusting children!" He pointed to the groups of pale mites, with yellow skins and frail bodies, who were paying like puppies in the garbage of the narrow pathway; their faces were covered with large black house-flies—they hung in clusters from their eyes and ears and from the corners of their mouths.
"Aiwah, Effendi, but these people will live in no other surroundings. They prefer this darkness, this unwholesome atmosphere."
"And these awful flies?"
"Aiwah, Effendi. They seldom go up to see the sky; perhaps they have never sung to the moon."
"To every bird his nest is home, Abdul."
"Aiwah, Effendi. But I will take you to theOmdeh'shouse—we shall soon be out of this."
"Is his house amongst these hovels?" Michael pointed to one particularly dark cavern. Unlike the ordinary desert peoples, the women were veiled; only their dark eyes were visible to the stranger whom they flocked to see. They showed great surprise when Michael spoke to one of the men in fluent Arabic.
At Michael's suggestion that theOmdeh'shouse would be like one of the cave-houses, Abdul had flung back his head. His smile was scornful; a little annoyance was perceptible in his voice.
"La, Effendi. TheOmdeh'shouse is like a bower in paradise. The Effendi will enjoy a cup of caravan-tea and a long rest in the cool orchard, where water flows and caged birds sing."
"He has an orchard in a cavern like this!" Michael steadied himself by catching hold of Abdul's staff; he had almost fallen over a baby.
"Aiwah, Effendi. TheOmdehdoes not live in the rocks, like the bats. His house is just outside the village. He is very rich—he owns many camels and much cotton and he has a date-farm. He is entitled to three wives."
"Very well, Abdul. I put myself in your hands." Michael sighed. "This village makes me feel rather sick—the whole thing is too horrible, too sad—God's blue sky just up above, and His sweet, clean desert sand, and down here this living death, these idle, dirty women, these sickly, fly-covered babies."
"Aiwah, Effendi, it is custom." Abdul shrugged his shoulders. "Did the Effendi not say that to every bird his nest is home? These women were born here, their children will grow up here, they will have their children here. It is their home."
"We must get out of it, Abdul. I can't stand it any longer!" Michael tried to walk faster. "If I had only a fly-switch! I can't keep the beasts out of my mouth—it's disgusting!"
"Aiwah, Effendi, I told you it was not a wholesome village. I assured the Effendi it would be wiser for him only to pay his respects to theOmdehand not to pass through his village." Abdul darted into one of the houses, whose open front was flush with the rock-wall of the street, which was simply a tunnel in a vast rock; he returned with a palm-leaf fan; a half-piastre had purchased it. He fanned his master with it until he saw the colour return to his cheeks. "The Effendi is better?"
"Thank you, Abdul, I am all right. It was only this stifling atmosphere, and I've been feeling a bit off colour for the last few days—my usual powers of sleep have deserted me."
"The Effendi has some trouble on his mind?"
"That is true, Abdul, but the trouble would not be there if I was feeling quite my usual self—I could banish it."
"The Effendi's heart must not be distracted."
"I have received no letters from the Valley, Abdul. What do you think has happened?"
"The Effendi must not ask for things impossible."
"I suppose not, Abdul. When I left the Valley I agreed that I should not expect to receive letters—they were not to write unless there were things taking place which I ought to know, yet my heart is troubled—I have written so often."
"May the Effendi's servant know the cause of his master's unrest? Will he permit two hearts to bear the burden?"
"I should feel at rest if I was certain that the Effendi Lampton had received my letter, if I knew that scandal had not been carried to the hut." Michael paused. "I wished to be the first to tell him that Madam was a member of our camp, that I met her unexpectedly, that fear sent her away. My happiness depended upon his answer, upon his absolute belief in my explanation."
"Aiwah, Effendi, Abdul understands. The situation has complications—ill news travels apace."
"I should not like theSittto hear from other sources that Madam was with us."
"But your letter should have reached the hut by this time, Effendi."
"Has there been time to get an answer? Do you believe my letter reached Effendi Lampton, Abdul?" Michael asked the question interestedly. Had this seer any second knowledge on the subject? Had he the conviction that in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings there was no misgiving, no fear, that Margaret's heart was undisturbed?
Abdul knew what his master meant, but with his native dislike of giving an unpleasant answer when a pleasant one would serve, he parried the question.
"The honourableSitthas a noble nature, a clean heart. She is not like Madam. The Effendi's thoughts make his own unhappiness, they are not the thoughts of the gracious lady. The thoughts that come from her travel on angel's wings; they gave the Effendi dreams last night."
"You are right, Abdul. Ah, thank goodness!" Michael gave an exclamation of pleasure; he had caught a glint of sunshine, had felt a breath of desert air. The Living Aton was penetrating the rat-pit.
"Aiwah, Effendi, that is the exit of the village. TheOmdeh'shouse is not far off—in less than five minutes the Effendi will be reposing in his coolselamlik, his throat refreshed with caravan tea."
In a native house theselamlikis a spacious room or summerhouse, set apart for the receiving of guests. To Michael theOmdeh's selamlikseemed like a foretaste of paradise. TheOmdehwas a courteous old gentleman, who played the part of host and government official with a simple dignity and friendly hospitality.
The open front of theselamlikfaced a beautiful orange orchard; low seats, comfortably cushioned, ran round its three walls. TheOmdehsat on his feet on hismastaba. His splendid turban and flowing white robes gave him the appearance of aKadidispensing justice from his throne. Abdul and Michael reclined on the seat which faced him. They had both been presented with an elaborate fly-switch, whose handles were decorated with bright beads.
The old man was astonished and delighted to find that Michael could speak Arabic. He was an intelligent, well-read man and something of a politician, an ardent supporter of the British rule in Egypt. He was greatly interested in all that Michael could tell him relating to the news from the outer world.
In his turn, he expressed his regret that more trouble was not taken to suppress the secret, seditious, and anti-English propaganda which was being taught and preached in the desert schools and mosques.
"Where they started, no man knows," he said. "Nevertheless, Effendi, their headquarters is 'somewhere.'" He smiled the peculiar smile of the Eastern, so baffling to the Western mind. "The English are without suspicion, Effendi; they trust everyone."
Michael expressed his ignorance as to what he alluded to. Was he referring to the Nationalist Party in Egypt?
"They do not know their worst enemies, Effendi. They tolerate the presence of mischief-makers, who seduce the ignorant. And these strangers are clever, Effendi, they spare no trouble. In the mosques and the schools they are teaching, or causing to be taught, strange and new ideas. No village is too far off for this propaganda to reach. It is well to believe in others as we would be believed in ourselves, Effendi, but England is like the ostrich which buries its head in the sand. I grieve to tell the Effendi these truths."
To Michael the man's words rang with the truth of conviction. They suggested a new danger to British rule in Egypt. And yet he had heard nothing of the unrest to which he alluded while he was in Luxor or in Cairo; it seemed to flourish in the desert. When he questioned the old man, he became as secret as an oyster; what he definitely knew he did not mean to present to every passing stranger.
While they had been talking, Michael had enjoyed countless small cups of tea. It was so good and fragrant that he realized that for the first time he had drunk tea as it was meant to be drunk. He understood how greatly it deteriorates by crossing the ocean; this tea had journeyed all the way to theOmdeh'shouse by caravan; it had been brought overland by the old trade-route.
When Michael had rested he began the lengthy preliminaries of saying good-bye. TheOmdehwould not hear of his going; he invited him to visit his orchard, a beautiful Eden of fruits and exotic flowers, abundantly irrigated by rivulets of clear water. The contrast between this emerald patch, where golden globes of fruit were still hanging from some of the orange-trees, struck Michael as flagrantly cruel. TheOmdeh, because of his wealth and social position, was living in a cool, well-built house, surrounded by all that was fresh and fair, an ideal home; yet, not a stone's throw from his secluded orchard and coolselamlik, were the narrow streets, littered over with filthy children, encrusted with scabs and black with flies! An overwhelming pity for the ignorant, subterranean people, who were content to live like rats in their holes, filled his soul. How could theOmdehpermit it? He seemed kind and he knew that he was intelligent. Probably when the poor were in trouble they instinctively came to him; he administered the affairs of the village, no doubt, with scrupulous impartiality. In this ancient and conservative land it was simply a part of his inherited belief and tradition that such extremes would always exist, that the condition of these people was the condition of which they were worthy, that it was no man's business but their own. They were in Allah's hands. If He willed it, He would help them to rise above it. Our wants make us poor—these men and women had no wants; they were not poor.
It was with much difficulty that Michael at last bade his host adieu, an adieu of abounding phraseology and grace of speech. TheOmdeh, with native hospitality, had tried to persuade his guest to remain with him for some days, or if he could not do that, to at least do honour to his humble house by spending one night in it. If the honourable Effendi would only remain, he would tell his servant to kill a sheep and have it roasted; he would send for a noted dancer, to beguile the later hours of the evening; he would have his four gazelles brought to theselamlikand Michael should see how beautifully they ran and jumped—they were of a very rare species, much admired by all who could appreciate their points.
To all these inducements Michael turned a deaf ear, even to the last, a blind musician, whose'oodplaying was greatly celebrated. It was not easy to refuse these pressing inducements, which were all put before Michael with the elaborate charm of Arabic speech. It was he who was to confer the pleasure by remaining; it was he who was to be unselfish and bestow so unexpected and great a pleasure on his humble host.
Determined to get on his way that same afternoon, Michael hardened his heart. He told theOmdehthat Abdul had arranged that they were to travel to within one day's journey of their destination that same day; their camp would be in readiness. On the following day Abdul and he were to leave the servants in charge of the camp and start out on the last portion of their journey. They were now but one day and a half from the Promised Land.
Michael had agreed with Abdul that their secret must not be divulged, that the servants must remain in ignorance of the real purpose of their tour. They imagined that it was to visit the ancient Pharaoh's tomb.
Just as they were leaving the orchard theOmdehsaid: "There have been strange rumours afloat, Effendi. Men say that a wealth of buried treasure has been discovered in the hills to which you are travelling. Is it known to you?"
"Indeed?" Michael said evasively. "What sort of treasure? Do the authorities know of it? Who has discovered it?" He managed to speak calmly and without emotion.
TheOmdehthrew back his head. "It is not worth a wise man's breath inquiring. It is but one of the many foolish fables which travel with the winds." He shrugged his shoulders.
"What started the rumour? Where did it originate? There is generally some fire where there's smoke."
"Where do such things have their birth? It is no easier to discover than the birthchamber of the anti-British propaganda in Egypt, Effendi."
"You do not attach any belief to the rumour?"
"La, Effendi. Who would believe that men are standing knee-deep in jewels and precious stones, and that there is enough gold to build three mosques in these hills, so near the village?"
Michael laughed. He remembered the reports which had been spread abroad about the wealth of Freddy's find. One Englishman had heard that Freddy had been wading ankle-deep in priceless scarabs and jewels and gold collars and necklaces.
"You may well laugh, Effendi. The poor and ignorant will believe anything. I must see the jewels first."
Michael wondered what he would say if he showed him the crimson amethyst which had had its second hiding-place in the saint's ear.
"But who is reported to have found this King Solomon's mine?"
"Some poor man, whom no one has seen or spoken to—every man who tells you the fairy-tale has heard it from his trusted friend, from a reliable source. I never believe in these trusted friends, or any reliable source but my own eyes. And even then, with the wise, seeing isn't always believing."
Michael stole an unseen glance at Abdul. His face was as expressionless as a death-mask. The report appeared to him to be beneath contempt. He politely warned his master that the sun was not so high in the heavens; they had many hours to travel.
When they were out of hearing and all the polite good-byes had been spoken—a proceeding which is always a trying one to the impatient traveller—Michael and Abdul talked together in low accents and in English. What had theOmdeh'snews really meant?
In Abdul's heart there was little doubt as to who had found it, if there was any truth in the rumour. Even if they divided the wealth of the treasure by a hundred, and made all due allowances for native exaggeration, it still seemed as though the treasure was one of unusual importance.
"Then you believe there is truth in the report that the treasure has been found, Abdul?"
"Who but the spy of Madam could have known of it, Effendi? and certainly this rumour is disturbing."
"Some natives might have hit upon it by accident. Such things have happened before."
"Aiwah, Effendi." Abdul smiled his unbelieving, unpleasant smile. "Just at this particular time, after all these thousands of years, the coincidence would indeed be strange."
"Then you believe, Abdul, that Madam has anticipated us? that she has secured the treasure?"
"Aiwah, Effendi, I do, if there is any truth in the story. And if there is not, it is very strange that such a rumour should have been started at this moment."
"I agree," Michael said. "And yet something in my heart tells me thatMadam has not done the deed."
"The little voice, Effendi, it is always true, it knows. If the little voice counsels, always obey it."
"It tells me, Abdul, that in this one instance Madam is innocent. I agree with you that if the treasure has been found, it is passing strange and points only to one thing. And yet, if I was to lay my hand on the Holy Book and swear my belief, it would not be that she was guilty of this piece of treachery."
"If Madam has not anticipated the Effendi, then the treasure is intact! The rumour is false. It is strange what wonderful treasures have melted into thin air before this, Effendi. I have known of dealers inantikastravelling for days without end, only to find . . .!" Abdul threw back his head.
"A mare's nest," Michael said. "That is what we call it, Abdul."
"A good expression, Effendi." In Abdul's heart there was anger and chagrin. Had the harlot outwitted them? Was she even now in possession of the jewels and gold which the saint had discovered, which he himself had clearly visualized?
A beatific smile lit up his face. If the woman had lain in the sheets which had made the sick man's bed, not all the jewels of the Orient or the gold of Ophir would now make her hideous face pleasing in the sight of men! What would her emeralds and topazes and cornelians be worth? They would only mock her pox-pitted face!
In Abdul's Moslem heart there was no pity. His eyes visualized and rejoiced in the sight of the treacherous woman's spoilt beauty. She had earned his hatred, and she had had it ever since the moment when she had spoken scornfully of the saint, a hatred which had grown and flourished like the Biblical bay-tree. To despise a Christian—and more especially a Christian woman—was in keeping with his Oriental mind and Moslem training; he despised Millicent not only as a woman and a Christian, but as a harlot. No evil which he could do to her would inflict the least shame upon his own soul. The contemplation of what her misery would be when she discovered that she was sickening for the smallpox afforded him a gratifying pleasure. He had drunk deeply of the cup of hate; it was not tempered with camphor.
* * * * * *
When they pitched their camp that night, Michael felt weary and depressed. A physical lassitude, which he had found it increasingly difficult to fight against for the last two days, overwhelmed him. He was glad to go to bed and try to sleep. His efforts met with little success; he felt horribly wide awake and acutely conscious of the smallest sound.
When at last sleep came to him, it did little to give him the rest he required, or to restore peace to his nerves, for his dreams were a vivid repetition, horribly exaggerated, of his journey through the subterranean village. He had lost his way; he was wandering through the airless arteries of the village. His body was covered with house-flies; his nose and ears tickled with them; they crawled into the corners of his mouth; scabs had broken out on his face and body. No little child in the street was a more hideous and loathsome object than he felt himself to be.
* * * * * *
No child was ever more pleased to see its mother than Michael was to see Abdul, when he came to wake him and remind him that that same evening they ought to reach the hills, and prove that theOmdeh'srumour about the treasure was either false or true. Never for one instant had Abdul doubted the vision; he had never considered the fact that there might never have been any treasure at all. His second sight—his truer sight—had seen it. That was sufficient.
Michael felt strangely disinclined to exert himself to get up and ride from sunrise until sundown. It seemed to him a task which he could never fulfil. But Abdul was obviously full of suppressed excitement. He was eager for his master to bestir himself and show something of his usual enthusiasm and vitality. TheOmdeh'sstory had sorely disturbed him.
"I will be ready, Abdul," Michael said. "Make me some strong coffee."
"Aiwah, Effendi."
"Very strong, Abdul!"
"Aiwah, Effendi, very strong."
In the Valley where the Pharaohs sleep, below the smiling hills, the heat and the power of the sun were becoming an actual danger. The best working hours were those which began at dawn and terminated at eleven o'clock.
In the early summer, for Egypt knows no spring, as it knows no twilight, the heat compels even the natives to abandon work during the hottest hours of the day. The sun is at its most dangerous point in the sky at three o'clock in the afternoon; at that hour, as the season advances, little exposed work can be done.
One particularly hot afternoon Margaret was waiting for her brother to come to tea. She had always contrived to keep their sitting-room fresh and cool by closing its windows and drawing down wet blinds before the sun got a chance of entering it. The windows were kept open all night. She had tried almost every possible device—and had been very successful—for excluding "the brightness of Aton" from their home.
If the windows were left open after sunrise, an army of flies too great to combat would invade the room, and ten minutes of sunshine would warm the room for the whole day. If the sun never penetrated it and the windows were kept open during the chilly hours of the night, it was always an agreeable and refreshing place to enter after a long spell in the blinding sunlight. It was so essential for Freddy's health that he should have a cool, dark room to rest in, that Margaret gave the subject her best care and unremitting attention.
The dryness of the air in Upper Egypt can hardly be imagined by those who have not experienced it.
Margaret had heard the overseer's whistle; she knew that work was suspended for some hours. A beautiful sense of order and neatness had been developed out of the mess of debris and broken rocks which had disfigured the site of the tomb, and some new chambers had been cleared and examined.
When Freddy appeared, Margaret asked him a few questions about his work. Had he heard from the experts who were examining the skull and bones of the mummy? Freddy answered her absently and half-heartedly.
"No, not yet—no report has come. Let's have some tea, first, before we talk—my throat's bone dry."
Meg was conscious of some constraint, some anxiety in his manner. Freddy's silence could be very eloquent. She gave him his tea and administered to his wants. For some days he had had a little touch of diarrhoea, the result of a slight cold caught during one of the quick falls of temperature which take place in Upper Egypt. Margaret knew that in Egypt diarrhoea must never be neglected, for it too often leads to dysentery. She had made her brother take the proper remedies, a gentle aperient followed by concentrated tincture of camphor, and she had been very careful not to allow him to eat any fatty food or fruit or meat.
Freddy did not take kindly to a diet of arrowroot or rice boiled in milk, adulterated with water. This afternoon he looked tired and out of spirits. Meg wondered if the tiresome complaint had been troubling him again.
As she handed him the bread and butter she said, "Should you eat butter, Freddy! Tell me the truth—are you not feeling so well to-day? Has there been any return of the trouble?"
Freddy looked at her in astonishment. His thoughts were so far removed from his own health. If abstaining from the flesh of animals and the eating of fruit would ease his anxiety, he felt that for the rest of his life, he would never ask for any other food than watery arrowroot.
"I'm perfectly all right. That trouble's quite gone—your care has done the trick. Thanks awfully."
"Then what is it, Freddy?" Meg laid her hand on his arm, her eyes held his. If he attempted to deny the fact that there was something on his mind, she knew that he knew that his eyes could not hide it from her.
"I am bothered about something, Meg. There's an ugly report going about—I've made up my mind to tell you."
"Report about whom? You?" Meg's eyes showed battle. The Lampton fighting instinct was roused.
"No, I wish it was about me—I'd soon settle it!" Freddy's eyes were still searched by his sister's.
"It's about Michael," she said. She rose from her seat. "I have expected it. I knew it was coming."
"What?" Freddy looked at her in amazement. "You expected it?"
"I felt there was some trouble. I don't know what—I can't even guess—but I felt it was coming." She stood in front of her brother. "Out with it, old boy! Tell me the worst at once. Is he dying? Has he been murdered? I can bear anything except suspense."
"It's something uglier than death, Meg."
"Treachery?"
"Yes, treachery." Freddy thought that Meg meant treachery on her lover's part. She had thought of treachery from enemies. Had some one forestalled Michael with the treasure?
He paused. What could he tell her next?
"Oh, go on!" Meg cried. "For heaven's sake, don't spare me! A woman can stand almost anything, Freddy, anything but uncertainty."
"Can she stand unfaithfulness, Meg, dishonour?" Freddy's eyes dropped. He could not inflict upon himself the pain which Meg's trusting eyes would cause him.
A cry rang through the room. "No, not that, not that! Go on, go on—what more?" As she spoke, she threw up her head. "It's a lie, Freddy, a hideous lie!"
"I'm afraid there must be some truth in the story, Meg." Freddy's voice was terrible. It conveyed his reluctant, yet absolute, belief that her lover was guilty. Before he had finished speaking, another cry rang through the room. It startled Freddy with its intensity, its rage and independence.
"I tell you it's a lie! It's not true! And what's more, until I hear it from his own lips, I will never believe a word of the scandal."
"Poor old chum!" Freddy tried to comfort her with the assurance of his sympathy.
Meg flashed round upon him. "Don't pity me! Don't dare to pity me!It's all the basest treachery. I'll have no pity. I don't need it!"
Freddy was silent. It was like Meg not to cry or collapse, as most girls would have done. She was fighting splendidly for her man, whose honour was dearer to her than his life. He wished that Michael could have been there to see her, unworthy though he apparently was of such unwavering loyalty.
"What is this report?" she asked. Her cheeks were as white as a blanched almond; her eyes splendidly alight. The excitement of battle vitalized her. Margaret was beautiful in her wrath.
"I have heard it from several sources that Millicent Mervill joined Michael in the desert, that she now forms part of his camp, that she is, in fact, your lover's mistress. I can't have it, chum."
"It's a lie! How can you believe it? A hideous, abominable lie! It's contemptible of you to listen to it, to give it a moment's consideration." She shivered. "Oh, these filthy native tongues!"
"I wish I could think so, Meg."
Meg swung round on him and for a moment he thought she was going to strike him.
"Damn you!" She flashed out the words just as he himself would have said them. "How dare you say so? He is your friend, he has been closer to you than a brother! He has no one to defend his name! You know that he would kill any man who attempted to slander you behind your back!"
Freddy did not resent her attack. She had done just what he would have done to any man who had reported any slander against her fair name.
"I know it's awfully hard for you to believe it."
"I don't believe it, Freddy, nor do you!"
"I told you I wished I didn't. The evidence is too clear."
"You haven't told me that you believe it is true. You can't get beyond the fact that there's ugly gossip going round and that I'm in love with him. If you thought this was your dying oath, that heaven depended upon the truth of your statement, can you say that in your soul you believe that Michael has taken this woman with him, that he is utterly treacherous and faithless? Does your unconquerable voice condemn him?"
Freddy thought for a moment. "It looks very black, Meg. The evidence is very convincing."
"Confound the evidence!" she said. "That is not an answer. I asked you, does your inner self, your super-man, believe absolutely in his guilt?" Meg was staring at him with hard, questioning eyes; all trace of her love for him had been driven out.
"Well no, if you put it like that, perhaps not. But I can't have your name connected with these stories."
"My name?" she cried. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that our women have married straight, clean, honourable men."
"The Lamptons again!" she said. "Am I never to be free from tradition? Just because I'm a Lampton, I am to behave in a mean, disloyal manner to the man I swore to trust? Do you suppose I'm going to? If you do, you're much mistaken. In my own heart I've been Michael's wife for weeks and weeks, so you needn't imagine I'm going to divorce him."
"But I do, Meg." Freddy rose from the table. "Now, look here," he said, "try to speak dispassionately. How can I, as your sole male guardian, countenance an engagement between you and Michael while there is only too much ground for belief that this story is true? I've not only heard it from the natives."
"You're wholly without reason. You just said you didn't believe it!"The words flashed from Meg's lips like the fire from a gun.
"I find it hard to believe. One always wants to hear two sides of a story. If Michael can swear that it is not true——"
"There is only one side to this story—that it is a lie."
"Then why has this report been spread about? There is always some fire where there is smoke, even in Egypt."
"I don't know, Freddy." Meg's voice broke; something suddenly choked her.
"The story goes that they met as if by accident in the open desert. Millicent had taken a splendid travelling equipment with her. She has made no secret of her love for Michael in the camp."
Meg was silent. A furious rage was gnawing at her bowels; it was going to her brain.
"Michael made a fine show of surprise," Freddy continued. "But it did not deceive the natives. She doesn't seem to be very popular with them."
Meg was thinking and thinking. Was this the explanation why over and over again she had had presentiments that Michael was in trouble, that he needed her? She had so often tried to reach him. Suddenly a light broke on her darkness, her whirlwind of anger abated.
"Freddy," she said, more gently. "If Millicent was in the camp, their meeting in the desertwasunexpected by Michael. She trapped him, she planned it all. Don't you remember, that night when you found me on the balcony? I told you I had heard Michael calling to me. I can hear his voice now." She paused. "He woke me as surely as Mohammed Ali wakes me every morning. He wouldn't have wanted my help if he had been happy with Millicent, if he had arranged the meeting." Meg laughed, but there were tears in her voice. "That's the explanation, as clear as daylight. It's been sent to me, this light, to lighten my darkness."
"What is as clear as daylight, Meg? You put far too much faith in dreams and visions. I want to get you out of this. I wish you were more like your old practical self. What has this wonderful light made clear?"
"That Millicent tricked and trapped Michael, that she followed him."
"Do you mean that you think that she met Michael against his wish?"Freddy's soul wondered at the faith of women.
"I do. I don't think she ever mentioned her plans to him. I can see it all as clear as a pikestaff." A sudden sob broke Meg's voice. Her thankfulness at the unexpected revelation of the mystery caused it. "Of course, that's it. Millicent tempted Michael, after she had once met him. He thought he was proof against her woman's wiles, but while we're on earth we're only human, Freddy, and he was afraid of his own weakness. He called to me. We arranged to help each other—we were always to try our best to reach each other when we felt troubled. Love is not such a simple thing as it seems. I used to think that when once one was engaged to the man one loved, one would just be at anchor in a divine calm."
"You believe in dreams and all that sort of thing too much. Michael's led you off—he's to blame."
"There are some things one must believe in, Freddy. Our development is in other hands."
"What are they? Mere old wives' tales and charlatans' prophecies."
"Oh, Freddy!"
"Well, Michael's religion's got so mixed, he doesn't know what he is or what he believes in and doesn't believe in. He has a fine scorn for the old order of things. The beliefs of our forefathers have kept the Lampton men pretty straight and made splendid wives and mothers of their women, and I think that's good enough for this everyday, practical world!"
"Has it been their belief that has done it, Freddy, or their family traditions? I think we Lamptons are as true ancestor-worshippers as any Shintoists in Japan. I was never taught anything about my higher self as a child, or made to see that religion was a vital part of our existence. It was the shades of our ancestors, nothing more or less—what would Uncle John have thought, or what would Aunt Anna think? It was never what would your own soul think—was it now? It was pure Shinto. Our god-shelf bore the family-portraits."
"A jolly good worship, too. You can't do anything very far wrong if you never disgrace the honour of your ancestors. I think it's as good a principle, and far more practical and restraining than Michael's mixture of Akhnaton's Aton worship and I don't know what else. I get lost when he expounds his idea of God."
"It annoys you that his God is too big for any church. The Lamptons have always been ardent upholders of the Established Church of England."
"Let him enlarge his church, build his God a bigger one."
"That's just what he has done, that's just what he says the Protestant church has failed to do. Their church has never expanded. People's minds have grown, while the Church of England—and, in fact, all churches—have stood still."
"Michael can't do things in moderation—he's just an enthusiast about his religion, as he has been about all his phases."
"The best of all things! What were your Luthers, your Cromwells, and St. Francis?" Meg paused. Her voice fell. "And Our Lord? Weren't they enthusiasts? Did they take things moderately? Does moderation ever achieve anything? Napoleon said no country was ever conquered by half methods."
"Mike's enthusiasm is only theoretical. If he has done this thing, his new religion allows him too much latitude. He'd much better have stuck to our plain ancestor-worship."
"But he hasn't done it! You know he hasn't. Don't go over it again.That detestable woman met him and trapped him."
"And tempted him? The old, old story—the world's first romance—'the woman tempted me and I fell.'"
Meg's tears had dried very quickly. She was strong again. "I don't see how you can speak like that. You told me that Michael was straight as a die—you know you did."
"But I said he was weak—I told you that, too, didn't I?"
"If being human is weak, then I suppose he is. I never met a man who was a saint. And if believing that we are all more good than bad is weak, then I admit his lack of strength. It is his humility that makes it impossible for him to think evil of anyone. I have often proved it. Almost any man is a better man than himself in his own eyes."
"Bosh!" Freddy said. "I do wish he was more ordinary, less of a crank about these things! How can he think he isn't as good a man as that fair-tongued, lying Mohammed Ali, for instance, or any of these lying sensualists? It's the ugliest of all prides, the one that apes humility, Meg. Lots of religious enthusiasts have it."
"No, not with Michael. He thinks he is less good than they are because he is perfectly conscious of God, as he expresses it. He enjoys all the privileges of a close connection with God; he doesn't only pray to Him, as we do. He lives with him; Mike is never alone. And yet, with all that sense of God, he is full of faults and failings. These men and women, who to us appear so bad, are simply further back in their evolution. They can't be bad, if it is not their fault. They have not had the same privileges, they are only gradually evolving. Spiritually they are like the dwellers in the slums as compared with the inmates of the beautifully-appointed hygienic house in the country. Michael is in the light; these poor souls are in darkness. It is all a part of the Great Law."
Freddy had finished his tea. It had afforded him little pleasure. He must come to some definite understanding with Meg. His thoughts had been all centred on the plan of sending her home, getting her away from the atmosphere which had so strong a hold over her imagination. Perhaps if she was back in England, she might be able to put Michael and his ideas out of her thoughts. He had no wish to be disloyal to his friend, or to give him no chance to defend himself; but he had to admit that he was very thankful that it was Michael himself who had insisted that there was to be no recognized engagement between them. Had he at the time had any motive for insisting on the fact? That was an idea; it had not occurred to him before.
He turned to Meg and said abruptly. "What about going home, Meg? It's getting too hot for this sort of thing—the Valley is stifling."
"What do you mean?"
"It's too hot—the year's advancing."
Meg tried to speak calmly.
"Don't treat me like a naughty child, Freddy. If it gets hotter than the Inferno I won't leave the place until I hear from Michael." She was not going to be a Lampton in one respect and not in another. A horse with the staggers was not in it with a mulish Lampton.
"If you hear from him, or find undeniable proofs that the story is true, will you go then?"
"Yes, when Michael tells me with his own lips, or I see it in his own handwriting, or I myself am convinced that Millicent was with him, I will meekly obey you. You can rely upon the Lampton pride. It won't fail me."
"Right you are, old girl! That's all I'll ask." Freddy bent down and pressed her head to his breast. "I hope to God that will never be, old lady, you know that."
Freddy's little touch of tenderness was the last straw. It was too much for Meg. She turned round and hid her face against his shoulder. A very fountain of weeping welled up.
"You dear, blessed old thing! I've been a brute, a perfect brute, but I love him awfully! Oh, Freddy, you don't know how much I can love, and you hurt me dreadfully!" She had sobbed out the words. The fiery Lampton was now a sorrowing, heartsick girl, hungering for her lover's caresses. Freddy's gentleness had called up a thousand wants.
Freddy knew that affection was what she needed, but he was a bad hand at any show of brotherly emotion. The Lampton men were fine lovers; no woman had ever found them wanting in the art. But it was part of their tradition to suppress all outward signs of family affection. Instinct told him that some caresses and a petting were what his sister longed for. For weeks she had been robbed of a lover's devotion, a very fine lover, who had filled her days with romance and her heart with song.
"You weren't a bit a brute, Meg. You were just as usual, a bit more like a man than a girl. I'd have done and said just as you did if anyone had said things about the woman I loved—or, I hope I should."
Meg only hugged her brother. Words were beyond her. She knew by the way he was speaking that he was quite glad to help her, now that he had got over the disagreeable business of telling her and warning her, that his efforts would be turned now towards the finding of Michael's whereabouts and dotting to the bottom of the gossip. She looked up with cheerful eyes.
"Do you remember that day, Freddy, when Millicent Mervill lunched here?"
"Rather!"
"And you said she came for some object which she took care not to reveal?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, I never told you, because I thought you had good reason for thinking that I was too hard on her, that I was jealous of her, to the exclusion of all reason. . . ."
"You are pretty good at hating, Meg."
"Well, Mohammed Ali has since told me where he found her eye of Horus.Guess where it was."
Freddy laughed. "I'm sure I couldn't."
"She read my diary all the time she was here alone. He says she asked if she might rest and tidy up in my room. He found the eye of Horus just beside the table where she had been reading it. He thinks that it must have caught in the key of the drawer in the table. Probably she thought we were coming and moved quickly away—the ring was easily wrenched open."
"The little cad!" Freddy said slowly. "The venomous little toad!"
"In my diary, Freddy, I referred to Michael's strange journey, his journey to King Solomon's Mines, as we always called it."
Freddy freed himself from his sister's arms and lit a cigarette.
"What a mean little brute! Mohammed Ali was probably in her pay; he told her he had found the eye at the spot where she dismounted."
"He said he told that lie because Madam made a face at him. He confesses to that."
Freddy thought for a moment while he smoked, then he said slowly and deliberately: "If she got that information from your diary, she could easily get more.Baksheeshwill make the dead give up their secrets. That is why Bismarck said to his generals, never tell your own shirt what you want kept a secret. Diaries are dangerous things, Meg."
"I wrote it in French," Meg said. "I thought only the servants would stoop to reading it and they can't read French."
"Next time, try invisible ink. In Egypt, once a thing is written or told, it is public property."
"I scarcely write anything now," she said. "I feel as if some spy will see it, and the dry bones of a diary never interest me."
As Freddy was leaving the sitting-room—he was going to bed for a couple of hours before he began work again—Margaret said to him:
"Just tell me before you go, where you first heard the report aboutMichael, and from whom you heard it."
"One or two days ago," he said. "I heard a smouldering gossip about it going on amongst the workmen. They'd got wind of it somehow. No one ever knows how these things begin. Then I met young King from Professor L——'s camp, and he told me the whole story. He knew Millicent very well. He said she's not what you could call an immoral woman so much as a woman without morals. He confesses he never met anyone in the least like her before, and he rather prides himself on his knowledge of the world—he would have us believe that he has seen a devil of a lot. He wondered at a man of Michael's refined temperament taking her into the desert in the way he has done."
"He never took her," Meg said. "Isn't it hateful, Freddy, hearing people make these assertions about our Mike?"
"That's what I meant," Freddy said, "when I told you that I hated your name being mixed up with his."
"Oh, that's not what troubles me. No one knows me out here, or my affairs. I meant that it's such a wicked libel on Michael, who's not here to defend himself."
"But if she's there with him, what can you expect the world to say, to believe?"
"If she followed him and joined him, it wouldn't be very easy to shake her off, would it?"
Freddy smiled. "You're right there—the fair Millicent wouldn't go because she wasn't wanted!"
"I often ask myself why and how we tolerated her."
"Did we?" Freddy laughed.
"Well, yes, we did. Even I found myself liking her that day after lunch. I began to wonder if I had always been too hard on her, if I had had my judgment perverted by my jealousy."
"Surely you're not really jealous of Millicent?" Freddy paused. "That is, if you are confident that Michael is not with her at the present moment?"
"I am confident, Freddy. All the same, I have lots to be jealous of. Her beauty amazes me every time I look at her and, after all, beauty is a rare and wonderful thing. Lots of women are good to look at and attractive, but Millicent is beautiful. You have often said how rare real beauty is and how carelessly we use the expression. Millicent deserves it."
"You needn't be jealous of mere beauty, Meg. Even when she's on her best behaviour, she never could impress a stranger as being anything but what she is, a soulless little minx."
"Yet you thoroughly enjoyed her company, Freddy."
"I know I did. She's amusing, her personality is stimulating. But I shouldn't like to have too much of it."
"Yet you'd have kissed her if you'd been alone with her—you said you'd try!"
Freddy did not deny the accusation.
"Men are queer things," Meg said; "but you must get off to bed, you look awfully tired."
She hated to have to send him away, for it was only on very rare occasions, and quite unexpectedly, that Freddy expressed his opinions. He belonged to the silent order of mankind; to strangers he never revealed himself; he rarely said anything in their presence which suggested that he had opinions at all, or that he was really an exceedingly thoughtful person. Meg knew that he had ideas and thoughts—very sound, clear ideas, too. She knew that Freddy thought while other men talked. All the same, his opinions and thoughts, apart from his profession, were apt to be strangled and suffocated by tradition. Tradition was a mighty force in the Lampton family. It almost, as Meg said, amounted to ancestor-worship. Freddy's choice of a profession had been his one act of emancipation. He had, according to family tradition, been destined for either the navy or the army, and it had taken no little strength of character to cut the first link in the chain.
When Freddy had gone to lie down and the little hut was left to its midday silence—the tropical breathless silence of Upper Egypt, when the sun is so hot that even a lizard would not venture from its shelter—Meg sat down on a chair close to the table, and laid her head on her arms.
She was tired, tired, tired. She must forget things for a little time, before she even tried to review the situation, or think out what was best to be done. If only she could will herself into absolute unconsciousness for a little time, how sweet it would be! If she let herself sleep—even though sleep seemed very far from her—she might dream of Millicent, and that would be worse than wakefulness and remembrance. To trust herself to the lordship of dreams was to seek refuge in the unknown, and that was dangerous. It was total unconsciousness which she desired, the restful unconsciousness of a blank mind. She remained perfectly still for a little time, asking for rest, asking for the power not to think. She concentrated her thoughts on this one desire; she opened her being for the reception of peace.
Suddenly the voice which heals spoke. It suggested a respite for her troubles. "No mind can remain a blank," it said. "Try instead to think of your vision, fill your whole being with its beauty, repeat to yourself all that happened during that wonderful revelation."
Unconsciously and swiftly Meg's painful thoughts drifted away. The picture of Millicent amusing and tempting her lover, which had danced before her eyes, was no longer there—or, at all events, it was not dominating her mind, and Freddy's words no longer rang in her ears. Her misery, made by her own thoughts, left her, as a headache leaves a sufferer when a sedative has been administered. The gentle voice, the divine attendant, achieved its work. Meg had asked for rest and for forgetfulness. Her prayer was being answered. It repeated to her the tender words of Akhnaton; it told her in Michael's own dear way the true explanation of her vision. With tightly-closed eyes and her head bowed, she saw again the whole scene. It was unnaturally vivid—the luminous figure, with the pitying, sorrowful eyes. As she gazed at it, to her spirit came the same quiet comfort as had come to her on that night when the vision had visited her. So clearly could she see the rays of Aton behind the high crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, that she lifted up her head. Perhaps He was there, in the sitting-room, standing just in front of her? Had the luminous body penetrated the darkness of her tightly-closed eyes?
Meg blinked her eyes to rid them of their confusion; her fingers had been tightly pressed against them. She looked fixedly into the space in front of her. Nothing was there; the room was just as it had been when she closed her eyes. The disordered table, the cigarette-ash in the two saucers, the crumbs from a Huntley and Palmer's cake on the table-cloth—these homely things struck her as incongruous. She had expected a vision of Akhnaton; she had hoped for it.
She put her head down on her arms again; her thoughts had been very sweet; with closed eyes they might come back again. How absurd it was to think of such material things as the silver paper round the imported cake, and to remember that Freddy had said he was sick of tinned apricot jam!
These domestic thoughts had taken but a second. She was going back to her vision and to the happiness it had given her.
And so it came to pass that just as Michael had found solace for heart and mind in the dancing of the daffodils which he had visualized in the eastern desert, so Meg's bruised heart lost its sense of fear in her visualizing of the world's first reformer.
* * * * * *
When Freddy returned to the sitting-room, refreshed and invigorated, he woke his sister by his noisy entrance. He was extremely angry with himself, and showed his sorrow very tenderly.
Meg looked at him with half-awakened senses. Where was she? What was she doing? What hour of the day was it?
"Never mind, Freddy, I've slept long enough." She smiled, and looked as though the thoughts from which she drew her happiness were far away.
Freddy put his two hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Were your dreams very nice, old girl? You look as if you'd been playing on the Elysian plain, or had been re-born!"
Meg pulled-her brother's face down to the level of her own and whispered, "Heavenly, Freddy, heavenly!"
"Does my master feel refreshed?"
It was Abdul who spoke, as he wakened Michael after his midday siesta on the day which had brought them within sight of the Promised Land.
It had been a morning of intense heat; the desert held not one breath of air. The spell of Egypt, which is its light, had vanished; the vast emptiness was as colourless as Scotland in an east wind. Piled up on his camel, Michael had ridden under a raised shelter, such as is used by caravan travellers on long journeys. It was made of bamboos, bent into half-hoops and covered with a light canvas. Abdul had been afraid of exposing his master, in his uncertain state of health, to the full force of the desert sun. Michael had been very grateful, for during the last two days it had made him feel sick and his head had ached perpetually.
"A touch of the sun," was Abdul's expressive description of his condition. He knew the symptoms only too well, and fortunately he also knew how to treat them.
In answer to Abdul's question, Michael yawned and stretched out his arms. "Yes, greatly refreshed, Abdul. How long have I slept? What time is it? I feel very much better."
"The Effendi's words give happiness to his servant," Abdul said. "With care my master will enjoy good health in a day or two."
"I'm all right now, Abdul. That last compress has done me a world of good. My headache has lifted." It was characteristic of Michael's temperament that when he was down, he was very, very down, and when he was up, he bounded and became scornful of all care and precautions.
"Everything is in readiness when my master is ready," Abdul said."There are still three hours before sunset."
Michael rose from the impromptu couch which Abdul had made for him under the shadow of a mighty rock. The desert was no longer a shoreless sea of golden sand; they were reaching the reef of hills which was their objective.
When Michael found himself on his feet and ready to mount his camel—that undignified proceeding, which always made him realize his own helplessness and evoked from the camel ugly roars of justifiable resentment—he found himself scarcely as fit as he had thought; he was giddy and still distressingly tired. It was very annoying, not feeling up to his best form, now that they were drawing so close to the exciting spot. He had imagined that he would feel like a gold-miner hurrying to peg out his claim, instead of which he was conscious of but one feeling, physical and nervous exhaustion.
He braced himself up. The air was cooler; a little breeze was lifting the sand and carrying its invisible atoms across the surface of the desert. How many times on his journey he had seen this noiseless drifting of the sand! Now, as he watched it from his high seat, it made him think of the saint's grave. Even in this short time much sand would have collected on the mound which covered his bones.
This ceaseless drifting of the sand was an object-lesson which illustrated very practically the complete obliteration of Egypt's ancient cities and lost civilizations. Michael knew that on such a day as this he had only to lay some small object down in the desert, and very soon an accumulation of sand would gather round it. After a little time the object would be completely lost to sight, and in its place there would be a little mound, which would grow and grow as the years rolled on, until it became a feature in the landscape. In such a way were the neglected temples of the gods saved from the ravages of fanatics.
To Michael this provision of Nature, this preserving of the world's earliest treasures and story, was very beautiful. It meant a great deal more than the mere accumulation of wind-blown sands; it meant that the Creating Hand is never still, that the making of the world is eternal. In Michael's opinion there was no doubt but that Egypt's priceless treasures had been designedly hidden, that the Author of Nature had preserved them until such a time as mankind was capable of appreciating them and guarding them. The drifting sands—ever at the caprice of the four winds to those who have eyes to see and see not—have saved Egypt's history, which is written in stone.
Reflecting, as was his wont, on these side-issues of the world's evolution, he journeyed on. The breeze was stiffening, a cool, invigorating breeze, which had cleared the sky and brought some white clouds into it. In the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings the heavens rarely held a cloud; in the eastern desert his travels had carried him northwards, where the dews are heavier and the sudden changes in the temperature less noticeable.
With the cooler atmosphere his spirits rose, his vitality quickened. Wonderful pictures danced before his eyes, pictures which he had seen over and over again, his first visualizing of the treasure. The vision had never been far from his mind. He could see himself inspecting the bars of gold which Akhnaton had hidden in the hills, and fingering the ancient jewels while he thought once more of the story he had been told by a member of an excavating camp in Egypt. The story reassured him: Some native workmen, belonging to the camp, had come across a number of terra-cotta crocks hidden under a flight of steps. They were full to the brim of bars of pure gold. The gold had obviously been thrust into the jars very hurriedly. The theory they suggested to experts was that the citizens, suddenly becoming alarmed by the approach of a besieging army, had thrust the wealth of the public treasury into the jars and hidden them in the hollow behind the steps of a staircase in some public building. If the Romans ever besieged the city, they had overlooked the jars and so the gold had remained in its simple hiding-place until the enthusiasm of modern Egyptologists discovered it. In the jars there was sufficient gold to pay for a year's excavation on the historical site.
Michael knew that such things were possible in Egypt, where tales as wonderful as any inA Thousand and One Nightsare still being enacted. Egypt's buried treasures are infinite. In that land of amazing discoveries there has been nothing more amazing than the means of their discovery.
High up in the blue, on his swaying seat on the camel's back, he felt like a man in a cinematograph-theatre, gazing upon film after film as it came into view and dissolved away.
The desert was the stage, his thoughts were the films. At one moment the picture presented was his old friend in el-Azhar, rejoicing in the knowledge that Michael's journey was accomplished, the treasure realized. He could see the African's eyes glowing like living fire; he could hear his sonorous chanting. His next vision was of Margaret and her triumphant happiness; the next his own troubles and embarrassments, the troubles of too great wealth. What was he to do with the treasure now that he had discovered it? There were new laws and stringent regulations and restrictions which must be adhered to; the Government had become more grasping.
But these troubles he put aside. "Sufficient for the day was the finding thereof," the proving to scoffers that visionaries had legs to stand upon as well as heads. He could hear Freddy's boyish laugh, a laugh of sheer incredulity and amazement, and while Freddy laughed he could see and feel Margaret's eyes shining with victory. It made him very nervous and excited to think that soon he would be able to actually touch and examine the treasure and sacred writings of the world's first divinely-inspired prophet. The doubts of his material mind would be forever silenced when his fingers had held the jewels and his eyes had seen the gold.
Again he felt convinced that the spirit of Akhnaton had selected him to do this work. Freddy had been chosen to bestow upon mankind the contents of the royal tomb, which held such a mass of confounding matter. We are all the chosen workers in the Perfect Law, units in the Divine State.
As he rode on and on, he wondered what Abdul was thinking about, what his feelings were. Was he anticipating disappointment or success? What had his eyes seen?
They were approaching the spot indicated by the saint. It would, of course, take them some time to discover the chamber which held the hidden treasure, but it was sufficiently thrilling to be drawing nearer and nearer to the hills. The canvas had been removed from his sun-shelter; only the framework remained. It looked like the skeleton-ribs of an animal against the blue of the sky.
Suddenly Abdul came riding forward. He had something to say; he never disturbed Michael's meditations unnecessarily.
"Does the Effendi see anything in the distance?"
"No, Abdul, nothing. What do you see?"
Abdul's calm voice had betrayed a little emotion.
"Look once more, Effendi—over there, to the left, close to the hills."
Michael looked, and while he looked he was conscious of an ominous atmosphere in the silence.
"Can the Effendi see nothing?"
"No, Abdul, absolutely nothing. Yet I thought my eyes had improved, my seeing-powers developed. I was vain enough to think they were pretty good."
"For Western eyes they do see far, Effendi. You must allow some few privileges for those who are deprived of the benefits of civilization."
They rode on in silence.
"You can see something now, Effendi?" Abdul's voice trembled as it broke the stillness. "It is very clear now, O my master."
"Is it a mirage, or what, Abdul? What am I to see?"
"No mirage, Effendi—I wish it were one."
"Then out with it!" Michael said impatiently. He had not the vaguest idea what Abdul was hinting at; his mind had no room for side issues. "What desert monster lies in waiting for us? Don't make such a mystery out of nothing!"
"It is the Khedivial flag, O Effendi. I see it fluttering in the breeze."
"The Khedivial flag?" The words conveyed no meaning to Michael; the reason for its being there did not penetrate his brain. "What is there to trouble us about the Khedivial flag, Abdul?'"
"Aiwah, Effendi, do not feel anger in your heart for your servant when he tells you what it means."
"We ate the salt of our covenant together, Abdul, on the night when you brought the saint in your arms to my camp. I can never forget that you are more than my servant. You are my friend and companion."
"Our faith is a gift of God, Effendi, and all the good works we perform are the effects of a principle implanted and kept alive within us by the Spirit of God."
"Granting that is so, Abdul, which I do, nevertheless, the covenant of our friendship is sacred. Tell me, why does the flag trouble you?"
"Can my master see it now? Can he not distinguish any other objects?"
Michael looked again. They had travelled quickly. As he looked his heart stopped beating; his brain became confused; he felt like a drunken man. Clearly his eye had seen!
"My God!" he said inaudibly. "It can't be that, it can't be that!"
To his naked eye the crescent and the star on the waving flag were still invisible, but he could see its vivid red, and he could see other objects—white patches, like a collection of saints' tombs.
"Abdul," he said—his voice was miserably broken and spent—"what are those white things?"
"Tents, Effendi."
"Government tents?"
"Aiwah, Effendi."
"What are they doing near the hills?"
"Must Abdul speak the words which will cause his master pain? Will the Effendi not wait until we draw nearer? It is not wise to anticipate evil."