Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, Chuck Greif, MFR, The
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[Illustration: “Allahu akbar!” he said; “the stranger is welcome to all
                    that I possess” (See page 233)]




                               THE LAST
                               EGYPTIAN

                               A ROMANCE
                              OF THE NILE

                           ILLUSTRATIONS BY

                          FRANCIS P. WIGHTMAN

                             PHILADELPHIA

                       EDWARD STERN & CO., INC.

                                 1908

                          COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
                       EDWARD STERN & CO., INC.

                         PUBLISHED MAY 1, 1908


                       THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED TO

                           Mr. Edward Stern

                       A FELLOW TRAVELER IN THE
                          WILDS OF EGYPT, BY

                              The Author




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

CHAPTER I. Where the Desert Meets the Nile                             9

CHAPTER II. Hatatcha                                                  30

CHAPTER III. The Dragoman                                             39

CHAPTER IV. The Treasure of Ahtka-Rā                                  52

CHAPTER V. A Roll of Papyrus                                          63

CHAPTER VI. Kāra Bathes in the Nile                                   71

CHAPTER VII. A Step Toward the Goal                                   83

CHAPTER VIII. His Grandmother’s Mummy                                 95

CHAPTER IX. Aneth                                                    104

CHAPTER X. Lord Cromer’s Reception                                   112

CHAPTER XI. Setting the Snares                                       122

CHAPTER XII. Nephthys                                                132

CHAPTER XIII. The Talisman of Ahtka-Rā                               142

CHAPTER XIV. Rogues Ancient and Modern                               150

CHAPTER XV. Winston Bey is Indignant                                 156

CHAPTER XVI. Kāra Threatens                                          177

CHAPTER XVII. Aneth Surrenders                                       187

CHAPTER XVIII. Finding a Way                                         194

CHAPTER XIX. The Abduction                                           217

CHAPTER XX. The Sheik Agrees                                         226

CHAPTER XXI. Lotus Eaters and Crocodiles                             237

CHAPTER XXII. The Dragoman’s Inspiration                             247

CHAPTER XXIII. Mother and Daughter                                   251

CHAPTER XXIV. The Sheik Demurs                                       256

CHAPTER XXV. The Bronze Bolts                                        266

CHAPTER XXVI. The Dragoman Wins                                      283




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                OPPOSITE
                                                                    PAGE

“Allahu akbar!” he said; “the stranger is welcome
to all that I possess”                                                 3

They went at a moderate pace, and bore the blistering
rays of the sun as none but natives of
Egypt can                                                             50

He thrust his hand into the jar of rubies again,
and took all that his fingers could clutch                            62

In the evening he crossed the great bridge of
Isma’il Pasha to the island of Gizireh                                84

She smiled at herself, then laughed--shyly at first,
now with genuine delight                                             136

Following a moment’s horrified silence, the viscount
sprang up with an oath                                               154

“You shall not keep that promise!” declared
the woman                                                            192

Consinor fell with a moan at her feet, drenching
the hard earth with a stream of blood                                282




The Last Egyptian




CHAPTER I.

WHERE THE DESERT MEETS THE NILE.


The sun fell hot upon the bosom of the Nile and clung there, vibrant,
hesitating, yet aggressive, as if baffled in its desire to penetrate
beneath the river’s lurid surface. For the Nile defies the sun, and
relegates him to his own broad domain, wherein his power is undisputed.

On either side the broad stream humanity shrank from Ra’s seething disc.
The shaduf workers had abandoned their skin-covered buckets and bamboo
poles to seek shelter from the heat beneath a straggling tree or a straw
mat elevated on stalks of ripe sugar-cane. The boats of the fishermen
lay in little coves, where the sails were spread as awnings to shade
their crews. The fellaheen laborers had all retired to their clay huts
to sleep through this fiercest period of the afternoon heat.

On the Nile, however, a small steam dahabeah puffed lazily along,
stemming with its slow motion the sweep of the mighty river toward the
sea. The Arab stoker, naked and sweating, stood as far as possible from
the little boiler and watched it with a look of absolute repulsion upon
his swarthy face. The engineer, also an Arab, lay stretched upon the
deck half asleep, but with both ears alert to catch any sound that might
denote the fact that the straining, rickety engine was failing to
perform its full duty. Back of the tiny cabin sat the dusky steersman,
as naked and inert as his fellows, while under the deck awning reclined
the one white man of the party, a young Englishman clothed in khaki
knickerbockers and a white silk shirt well open at the throat.

There were no tourists in Egypt at this season. If you find a white man
on the Nile in April, he is either attached to some exploration party
engaged in excavations or a government employee from Cairo, Assyut or
Luxor, bent upon an urgent mission.

The dahabeah was not a government boat, though, so that our Englishman
was more likely to be an explorer than an official. It was evident he
was no stranger to tropical climes, if we judged by his sun-browned skin
and the quiet resignation to existing conditions with which he puffed
his black briar and relaxed his muscular frame. He did not sleep, but
lay with his head upon a low wicker rest that enabled him to sweep the
banks of the Nile with his keen blue eyes.

The three Arabs regarded their master from time to time with stealthy
glances, in which wonder was mingled with a certain respect. The
foreigner was a fool to travel during the heat of the day; no doubt of
that at all. The native knows when to work and when to sleep--a lesson
the European never learns. Yet this was no casual adventurer exploiting
his folly, but a man who had lived among them for years, who spoke
Arabic fluently and could even cipher those hieroglyphics of the dead
ages which abound throughout modern Egypt. Hassan, Abdallah and Ali knew
this well, for they had accompanied Winston Bey on former expeditions,
and heard him translate the ugly signs graven upon the ugly stones into
excellent Arabic. It was all very wonderful in its way, but quite
useless and impractical, if their opinion were allowed. And the master
himself was impractical. He did foolish things at all times, and
sacrificed his own comfort and that of his servants in order to
accomplish unnecessary objects. Had he not paid well for his whims,
Winston Bey might have sought followers in vain; but the Arab will even
roast himself upon the Nile on an April afternoon to obtain the
much-coveted gold of the European.

At four o’clock a slight breeze arose; but what matter? The journey was
nearly done now. They had rounded a curve in the river, and ahead of
them, lying close to the east bank, were the low mountains of Gebel Abu
Fedah. At the south, where the rocks ended abruptly, lay a small grove
of palms. Between the palms and the mountains was the beaten path
leading from the Nile to the village of Al-Kusiyeh, a mile or so inland,
which was the particular place the master had come so far and so fast to
visit.

The breeze, although hardly felt, served to refresh the enervated
travelers. Winston sat up and knocked the ashes from his pipe, making a
careful scrutiny at the same time of the lifeless landscape ahead.

The mountains of gray limestone looked very uninviting as they lay
reeking under the terrible heat of the sun. From their base to the river
was no sign of vegetation, but only a hardened clay surface. The desert
sands had drifted in in places. Even under the palms it lay in heavy
drifts, for the land between the Nile and Al-Kusiyeh was abandoned to
nature, and the fellaheen had never cared to redeem it.

The water was deep by the east bank, for the curve of the river swept
the current close to the shore. The little dahabeah puffed noisily up to
the bank and deposited the Englishman upon the hard clay. Then it backed
across into shallow water, and Hassan shut down the engine while
Abdallah dropped the anchor.

Winston now wore his cork helmet and carried a brown umbrella lined with
green. With all his energy, the transition from the deck of the dahabeah
to this oven-like atmosphere of the shore bade fair to overcome his
resolution to proceed to the village.

But it would never do to recall his men so soon. They would consider it
an acknowledgment that he had erred in judgment, and the only way to
manage an Arab is to make him believe you know what you are about. The
palm trees were not far away. He would rest in their shade until the sun
was lower.

A dozen steps and the perspiration started from every pore. But he kept
on, doggedly, until he came to the oblong shadow cast by the first palm,
and there he squatted in the sand and mopped his face with his
handkerchief.

The silence was oppressive. There was no sound of any kind to relieve
it. Even the beetles were hidden far under the sand, and there was no
habitation near enough for a donkey’s bray or a camel’s harsh growl to
be heard. The Nile flows quietly at this point, and the boat had ceased
to puff and rattle its machinery.

Winston brushed aside the top layer of sand with his hands, for that
upon the surface was so hot that contact with it was unbearable. Then he
extended his body to rest, turning slightly this way and that to catch
in his face the faint breath of the breeze that passed between the
mountains and the Nile. At the best he was doomed to an uncomfortable
hour or two, and he cast longing glances at the other bits of shade to
note whether any seemed more inviting than the one he had selected.

During this inspection his eye caught a patch of white some distance
away. It was directly over the shadow of the furthest tree of the group,
and aroused his curiosity. After a minute he arose in a leisurely
fashion and walked over to the spot of white, which on nearer approach
proved to be a soiled cotton tunic or burnous. It lay half buried in the
sand, and at one end were the folds of a dirty turban, with faded red
and yellow stripes running across the coarse cloth.

Winston put his foot on the burnous and the thing stirred and emitted a
muffled growl. At that he kicked the form viciously; but now it neither
stirred nor made a sound. Instead, a narrow slit appeared between the
folds of the turban, and an eye, black and glistening, looked
steadfastly upon the intruder.

“Do you take me for a beast, you imbecile, that you dare to disturb my
slumbers?” asked a calm voice, in Arabic.

The heat had made Winston Bey impatient.

“Yes; you are a dog. Get up!” he commanded, kicking the form again.

The turban was removed, disclosing a face, and the man sat up, crossing
his bare legs beneath him as he stared fixedly at his persecutor.

Aside from the coarse burnous, sadly discolored in many places, the
fellow was unclothed. His skin showed at the breast and below his knees,
and did not convey an impression of immaculate cleanliness. Of slender
build, with broad shoulders, long hands and feet and sinewy arms and
legs, the form disclosed was curiously like those so often presented in
the picture-writing upon the walls of ancient temples. His forehead was
high, his chin square, his eyes large and soft, his cheeks full, his
mouth wide and sensual, his nose short and rounded. His jaws protruded
slightly and his hair was smooth and fine. In color the tint of his
skin was not darker than the tanned cuticle of the Englishman, but the
brown was softer, and resembled coffee that has been plentifully diluted
with cream. A handsome fellow in his way, with an expression rather
unconcerned than dignified, which masked a countenance calculated to
baffle even a shrewder and more experienced observer than Winston Bey.

Said the Englishman, looking at him closely:

“You are a Copt.”

Inadvertently he had spoken in his mother tongue and the man laughed.

“If you follow the common prejudice and consider every Copt a
Christian,” he returned in purest English, “then I am no Copt; but if
you mean that I am an Egyptian, and no dog of an Arab, then, indeed, you
are correct in your estimate.”

Winston uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise. For a native to
speak English is not so unusual; but none that he knew expressed himself
with the same ease and confidence indicated in this man’s reply. He
brushed away some of the superheated sand and sat down facing his new
acquaintance.

“Perhaps,” said he--a touch of sarcasm in his voice--“I am speaking with
a descendant of the Great Rameses himself.”

“Better than that,” rejoined the other, coolly. “My forefather was
Ahtka-Rā, of true royal blood, who ruled the second Rameses as cleverly
as that foolish monarch imagined he ruled the Egyptians.”

Winston seemed amused.

“I regret,” said he, with mock politeness, “that I have never before
heard of your great forefather.”

“But why should you?” asked the Egyptian. “You are, I suppose, one of
those uneasy investigators that prowl through Egypt in a stupid endeavor
to decipher the inscriptions on the old temples and tombs. You can read
a little--yes; but that little puzzles and confuses you. Your most
learned scholars--your Mariettes and Petries and Masperos--discover one
clue and guess at twenty, and so build up a wonderful history of the
ancient kings that is absurd to those who know the true records.”

“Who knows them?” asked Winston, quickly.

The man dropped his eyes.

“No one, perhaps,” he mumbled. “At the best, but one or two. But you
would know more if you first studied the language of the ancient
Egyptians, so that when you deciphered the signs and picture writings
you could tell with some degree of certainty what they meant.”

Winston sniffed. “Answer my question!” said he, sternly. “Who knows the
true records, and where are they?”

“Ah, I am very ignorant,” said the other, shaking his head with an
humble expression. “Who am I, the poor Kāra, to dispute with the
scholars of Europe?”

The Englishman fanned himself with his helmet and sat silent for a
time.

“But this ancestor of yours--the man who ruled the Great Rameses--who
was he?” he asked, presently.

“Men called him Ahtka-Rā, as I said. He was descended from the famous
Queen Hatshepset, and his blood was pure. Indeed, my ancestor should
have ruled Egypt as its king, had not the first Rameses overthrown the
line of Mēnēs and established a dynasty of his own. But Ahtka-Rā, unable
to rule in his own name, nevertheless ruled through the weak Rameses,
under whom he bore the titles of High Priest of Āmen, Lord of the
Harvests and Chief Treasurer. All of the kingdom he controlled and
managed, sending Rameses to wars to keep him occupied, and then, when
the king returned, setting him to build temples and palaces, and to
erect monuments to himself, that he might have no excuse to interfere
with the real business of the government. You, therefore, who read the
inscriptions of the vain king wonder at his power and call him great;
and, in your ignorance, you know not even the name of Ahtka-Rā, the most
wonderful ruler that Egypt has ever known.”

“It is true that we do not know him,” returned Winston, scrutinizing the
man before him with a puzzled expression. “You seem better informed than
the Egyptologists!”

Kāra dipped his hands into the sand beside him and let the grains slip
between his fingers, watching them thoughtfully.

“Rameses the Second,” said he, “reigned sixty-five years, and--”

“Sixty-seven years,” corrected Winston. “It is written.”

“In the inscriptions, which are false,” explained the Egyptian. “My
ancestor concealed the death of Rameses for two years, because
Meremptah, who would succeed him, was a deadly enemy. But Meremptah
discovered the secret at last, and at once killed Ahtka-Rā, who was very
old and unable to oppose him longer. And after that the treasure cities
of Pithom and Raamses, which my ancestor had built, were seized by the
new king, but no treasures were found in them. Even in death my great
ancestor was able to deceive and humble his enemies.”

“Listen, Kāra,” said Winston, his voice trembling with suppressed
eagerness; “to know that which you have told to me means that you have
discovered some sort of record hitherto unknown to scientists. To us who
are striving to unravel the mystery of ancient Egyptian history this
information will be invaluable. Let me share your knowledge, and tell me
what you require in exchange for your secret. You are poor; I will make
you rich. You are unknown; I will make the name of Kāra famous. You are
young; you shall enjoy life. Speak, my brother, and believe that I will
deal justly by you--on the word of an Englishman.”

The Egyptian did not even look up, but continued playing with the sand.
Yet over his grave features a smile slowly spread.

“It is not five minutes,” he murmured softly, “since I was twice kicked
and called a dog. Now I am the Englishman’s brother, and he will make me
rich and famous.”

Winston frowned, as if he would like to kick the fellow again. But he
resisted the temptation.

“What would you?” he asked, indifferently. “The burnous might mean an
Arab. It is good for the Arab to be kicked at times.”

Possibly Kāra neither saw the jest nor understood the apology. His
unreadable countenance was still turned toward the sand, and he answered
nothing.

The Englishman moved uneasily. Then he extracted a cigarette case from
his pocket, opened it, and extended it toward the Egyptian.

Kāra looked at the cigarettes and his face bore the first expression of
interest it had yet shown. Very deliberately he bowed, touched his
forehead and then his heart with his right hand, and afterward leaned
forward and calmly selected a cigarette.

Winston produced a match and lighted it, the Egyptian’s eyes seriously
following his every motion. He applied the light to his own cigarette
first; then to that of Kāra. Another touch of the forehead and breast
and the native was luxuriously inhaling the smoke of the tobacco. His
eyes were brighter and he wore a look of great content.

The Englishman silently watched until the other had taken his third
whiff; then, the ceremonial being completed, he spoke, choosing his
words carefully.

“Seek as we may, my brother, for the records of the dead civilization of
your native land, we know full well that the most important documents
will be discovered in the future, as in the past, by the modern
Egyptians themselves. Your traditions, handed down through many
generations, give to you a secret knowledge of where the important
papyri and tablets are deposited. If there are hidden tombs in Gebel Abu
Fedah, or near the city of Al-Kusiyeh, perhaps you know where to find
them; and if so, we will open them together and profit equally by what
we secure.”

The Egyptian shook his head and flicked the ash from his cigarette with
an annoyed gesture.

“You are wrong in estimating the source of my knowledge,” said he, in a
tone that was slightly acrimonious. “Look at my rags,” spreading his
arms outward; “would I refuse your bribe if I knew how to earn it? I
have not smoked a cigarette before in months--not since Tadros the
dragoman came to Al Fedah in the winter. I am barefoot, because I fear
to wear out my sandals until I know how to replace them. Often I am
hungry, and I live like a jackal, shrinking from all intercourse with my
fellows or with the world. That is Kāra, the son of kings, the royal
one!”

Winston was astonished. It is seldom a native complains of his lot or
resents his condition, however lowly it may be. Yet here was one
absolutely rebellious.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because my high birth isolates me,” was the reply, with an accent of
pride. “It is no comfortable thing to be Kāra, the lineal descendant of
the great Ahtka-Rā, in the days when Egypt’s power is gone, and her
children are scorned by the Arab Muslims and buffeted by the English
Christians.”

“Do you live in the village?” asked Winston.

“No; my burrow is in a huddle of huts behind the mountain, in a place
that is called Fedah.”

“With whom do you live?”

“My grandmother, Hatatcha.”

“Ah!”

“You have heard of her?”

“No; I was thinking only of an Egyptian Princess Hatatcha who set
fashionable London crazy in my father’s time.”

Kāra leaned forward eagerly, and then cast a half fearful glance around,
at the mountains, the desert, and the Nile.

“Tell me about her!” he said, sinking his voice to a whisper.

“About the Princess?” asked Winston, surprised. “Really, I know little
of her history. She came in a flash of wonderful oriental magnificence,
I have heard, and soon had the nobility of England suing for her favors.
Lord Roane especially divorced his wife that he might marry the
beautiful Egyptian; and then she refused to wed with him. There were
scandals in plenty before Hatatcha disappeared from London, which she
did as mysteriously as she had come, and without a day’s warning. I
remember that certain infatuated admirers spent fortunes in search of
her, overrunning all Egypt, but without avail. No one has ever heard of
her since.”

Kāra drew a deep breath, sighing softly.

“It was like my grandmother,” he murmured. “She was always a daughter of
Set.”

Winston stared at him.

“Do you mean to say--” he began.

“Yes,” whispered Kāra, casting another frightened look around; “it was
my grandmother, Hatatcha, who did that. You must not tell, my brother,
for she is still in league with the devils and would destroy us both if
she came to hate us. Her daughter, who was my mother, was the child of
that same Lord Roane you have mentioned; but she never knew her father
nor England. I myself have never been a day’s journey from the Nile, for
Hatatcha makes me her slave.”

“She must be very old, if she still lives,” said Winston, musingly.

“She was seventeen when she went to London,” replied Kāra, “and she
returned here in three years, with my mother in her arms. Her daughter
was thirty-five when I was born, and that is twenty-three years ago.
Fifty-eight is not an advanced age, yet Hatatcha was a withered hag
when first I remember her, and she is the same to-day. By the head of
Osiris, my brother, she is likely to live until I am stiff in my tomb.”

“It was she who taught you to speak English?”

“Yes. I knew it when I was a baby, for in our private converse she has
always used the English tongue. Also I speak the ancient Egyptian
language, which you call the Coptic, and I read correctly the
hieroglyphics and picture-writings of my ancestors. The Arabic, of
course, I know. Hatatcha has been a careful teacher.”

“What of your mother?” asked Winston.

“Why, she ran away when I was a child, to enter the harem of an Arab in
Cairo, so that she passed out of our lives, and I have lived with my
grandmother always.”

“I am impressed by the fact,” said the Englishman, with a sneer, “that
your royal blood is not so pure after all.”

“And why not?” returned Kāra, composedly. “Is it not from the mother we
descend? Who my grandfather may have been matters little, provided
Hatatcha, the royal one, is my granddame. Perhaps my mother never
considered who my father might be; it was unimportant. From her I drew
the blood of the great Ahtka-Rā, who lives again in me. Robbed of your
hollow ceremonial of marriage, you people of Europe can boast no true
descent save through your mothers--no purer blood than I, ignoring my
fathers, am sure now courses in my veins; for the father, giving so
little to his progeny, can scarcely contaminate it, whatever he may
chance to be.”

The other, paying little heed to this discourse, the platitudes of which
were all too familiar to his ears, reflected deeply on the strange
discovery he had made through this unconventional Egyptian.

“Then,” said he, pursuing his train of thought, “your knowledge of your
ancestry and the life and works of Ahtka-Rā was obtained through your
grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“And she has not disclosed to you how it is that she knows all this?”

“No. She says it is true, and I believe it. Hatatcha is a wonderful
woman.”

“I agree with you. Where did she get the money that enabled her to amaze
all England with her magnificence and splendor?”

“I do not know.”

“Is she wealthy now?”

Kāra laughed.

“Did I not say we were half starved, and live like foxes in a hole? For
raiment we have each one ragged garment. But the outside of man matters
little, save to those who have nothing within. Treasures may be kept in
a rotten chest.”

“But personally you would prefer a handsome casket?”

“Of course. It is Hatatcha who teaches me philosophy to make me forget
my rags.”

The Englishman reflected.

“Do you labor in the fields?” he asked.

“She will not let me,” said Kāra. “If my wrongs were righted, she holds,
I would even now be king of Egypt. The certainty that they will never be
righted does not alter the morale of the case.”

“Does Hatatcha earn money herself?”

“She sits in her hut morning and night, muttering curses upon her
enemies.”

“Then how do you live at all?”

Kāra seemed surprised by the question, and considered carefully his
reply.

“At times,” said he, “when our needs are greatest, my grandmother will
produce an ancient coin of the reign of Hystaspes, which the sheik at
Al-Kusiyeh readily changes into piasters, because they will give him a
good premium on it at the museum in Cairo. Once, years ago, the sheik
threatened Hatatcha unless she confessed where she had found these
coins; but my grandmother called Set to her aid, and cast a spell upon
the sheik, so that his camels died of rot and his children became blind.
After that he let Hatatcha alone, but he was still glad to get her
coins.”

“Where does she keep them?”

“It is her secret. When she was ill, a month ago, and lay like one dead,
I searched everywhere for treasure and found it not. Perhaps she has
exhausted her store.”

“Had she anything besides the coins?”

“Once a jewel, which she sent by Tadros, the dragoman, to exchange for
English books in Cairo.”

“What became of the books?”

“After we had both read them they disappeared. I do not know what became
of them.”

They had shifted their seats twice, because the shadow cast by the palms
moved as the sun drew nearer to the horizon. Now the patches were long
and narrow, and there was a cooler breath in the air.

The Englishman sat long silent, thinking intently. Kāra was placidly
smoking his third cigarette.

The rivalry among excavators and Egyptologists generally is intense. All
are eager to be recognized as discoverers. Since the lucky find of the
plucky American, Davis, the explorers among the ancient ruins of Egypt
had been on the qui vive to unearth some farther record of antiquity to
startle and interest the scholars of the world. Much of value has been
found along the Nile banks, it is true; but it is generally believed
that much more remains to be discovered.

Gerald Winston, with a fortune at his command and a passion for
Egyptology, was an indefatigable prospector in this fascinating field,
and it was because of a rumor that ancient coins and jewels had come
from the Sheik of Al-Kusiyeh that he had resolved to visit that village
in person and endeavor to learn the secret source of this wealth before
someone else forestalled him.

The story that he had just heard from the lips of the voluble Kāra
rendered his visit to Al-Kusiyeh unnecessary; but that he was now on the
trail of an important discovery was quite clear to him. How best to
master the delicate conditions confronting him must be a subject of
careful consideration, for any mistake on his part would ruin all his
hopes.

“If my brother obtains any further valuable knowledge,” said he,
finally, “he will wish to sell it to good advantage. And it is evident
to both of us that old Hatatcha has visited some secret tomb, from
whence she has taken the treasure that enabled her to astound London for
a brief period. When her wealth was exhausted she was forced to return
to her squalid surroundings, and by dint of strict economy has lived
upon the few coins that remained to her until now. Knowing part of your
grandmother’s story, it is easy to guess the remainder. The coins of
Darius Hystaspes date about five hundred years before Christ, so that
they would not account for Hatatcha’s ample knowledge of a period two
thousand years earlier. But mark me, Kāra, the tomb from which your
grandmother extracted such treasure must of necessity contain much
else--not such things as the old woman could dispose of without
suspicion, but records and relics which in my hands would be invaluable,
and for which I would gladly pay you thousands of piasters. See what you
can do to aid me to bring about this desirable result. If you can manage
to win the secret from your grandmother, you need be her slave no
longer. You may go to Cairo and see the dancing girls and spend your
money freely; or you can buy donkeys and a camel, and set up for a
sheik. Meantime I will keep my dahabeah in this vicinity, and every day
I will pass this spot at sundown and await for you to signal me. Is it
all clear to you, my brother?”

“It is as crystal,” answered the Egyptian gravely.

He took another cigarette, lighted it with graceful composure, and rose
to his feet. Winston also stood up.

The sun had dropped behind the far corner of Gebel Abu Fedah, and with
the grateful shade the breeze had freshened and slightly cooled the
tepid atmosphere.

Wrapping his burnous around his tall figure, Kāra made dignified
obeisance.

“Osiris guard thee, my brother,” said he.

“May Horus grant thee peace,” answered Winston, humoring this disciple
of the most ancient religion. Then he watched the Egyptian stalk proudly
away over the hot sands, his figure erect, his step slow and methodical,
his bearing absurdly dignified when contrasted with his dirty tunic and
unwashed skin.

“I am in luck,” he thought, turning toward the bank to summon Hassan and
Abdallah; “for I have aroused the rascal’s cupidity, and he will soon
turn up something or other, I’ll be bound. Ugh! the dirty beast.”

At the foot of the mountains Kāra paused abruptly and stood motionless,
staring moodily at the sands before him.

“It was worth the bother to get the cigarettes,” he muttered. Then he
added, with sudden fierceness: “Twice he spurned me with his foot, and
called me ‘dog’!”

And he spat in the sand and continued on his way.




CHAPTER II.

HATATCHA.


The mountains of Abu Fedah consist of a low range about twelve miles
long and from two to three hundred feet in height. These hills are
wedge-shaped, and from a narrow, uneven ridge at the summit the sides
slope downward at a sharp angle on either side, affording little
apparent foothold to one who might essay to climb the steeps. At the
south end are pits wherein were found numbers of mummified crocodiles,
proving that these reptiles were formerly worshipped by the natives of
Al-Kusiyeh, which is the ancient city of Qes of the hieroglyphic texts,
and was afterward called Cusae by the Greeks. It was, in its prime, the
capital of the fourteenth nome or province of Upper Egypt, and a
favorite winter abode of the kings of the Middle Empire. The modern
village, as before explained, lies a mile or two from the Nile bank, in
a fertile valley watered by bubbling springs. The inhabitants are mostly
Arabs, or a mixture of the Arab blood with that of the native fellaheen,
which last, in common with the Copts, are direct descendants of the
ancient Egyptians.

The early Egyptologists expected to find important tombs secreted in the
limestone cliffs of Gebel Abu Fedah; but careful search only revealed
the mummy crocodile pits and a few scattering and uninteresting
cavities roughly hewn in the rocks, which might have contained mummies
at one time, but had been rifled of their contents ages ago. The few
inscriptions remaining in these rock tombs indicated that they were the
burial places of ordinary citizens of Qes, and such cavities as were
observed all faced the Nile. The opposite slopes of the mountains,
facing the east, seemed never to have been utilized for tombs, fond as
the Egyptians were of such opportunities to inter their dead in rocky
places, above the reach of jackals or marauders.

Kāra skirted the south end of the mountain and passed around the edge of
a bleak gray cliff. Here, close against the overhanging sandstone, was
clustered a nest of wretched hovels, built partially of loose fragments
of rock and partly of Nile mud baked in the sun. The place was called
Fedah by the natives, and its scant dozen of inhabitants were those of
pure Egyptian lineage, who refused to mingle with the natives of
Al-Kusiyeh.

The most substantial of the dwellings was that occupied by Hatatcha and
her grandson. It had been built against a hollow or cave of the
mountain, so that the cane roof projected only a few feet beyond the
cliff. A rude attempt on the part of the builders to make the front wall
symmetrical was indicated by the fact that the stones bore quarry marks,
and at the entrance arch, which had never been supplied with a door, but
was half concealed by a woven mat, the stones were fully four feet in
thickness.

The other huts, ranged beside and before this one, were far less
imposing in construction; but all had the appearance of great antiquity,
and those at the north and south edges of the huddle were unoccupied and
more or less ruined and neglected. Tradition said that Fedah, in spite
of its modern Arabic name, was as old as ancient Qes, and there was no
reason to doubt the statement. Its location was admirable in summer, for
the mountain shaded it during the long hot afternoons; but around it was
nothing but sand and rock, and the desert stretched in front as far as
the borders of Al-Kusiyeh.

Kāra, entering the short and narrow street between the hovels, pushed a
goat from his path and proceeded calmly toward his dwelling. As he
entered its one room, he paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to
the gloom and then gazed around with an expression of mild surprise.

In one corner, upon a bed of dried rushes, lay the form of an old woman.
Her single black cotton garment was open at the throat, displaying a
wrinkled, shrunken bosom that rose and fell spasmodically, as if the hag
breathed with great effort. Her eyes were closed and the scant, tousled
locks of fine gray hair surrounding her face gave it a weird and
witch-like expression. In spite of her age and the clime in which she ad
lived, Hatatcha’s skin was almost as white as that of Europeans, its
tint being so delicate as to be scarcely noticeable.

Upon a short wooden bench beside the rushes sat a girl with a palm
branch, which she swayed back and forth to keep the flies from settling
upon Hatatcha’s face. She was, perhaps, fifteen years of age, but as
fully matured in form as an English girl of twenty-five. Her face was
remarkably handsome from the standpoint of regularity of contour, but
its absolute lack of expression would render it uninviting to a
connoisseur of beauty. Her dark eyes were magnificent, and seemed to
have depths which were disappointing when you probed them. She wore the
conventional black gown, or tunic, but because of the heat had allowed
it to slip down to her waist, leaving her shoulders and breasts bare.

After a long and thoughtful look at his grandmother, Kāra sat down
beside the girl and put his arm around her, drawing her close to his
body. She neither resented the caress nor responded to it, but yielded
herself inertly to the embrace while she continued to sway the palm
branch with her free right arm.

“Ah, my Nephthys,” said the man, lightly, in the Coptic tongue, “is our
Hatatcha in the grip of the devils again?”

The girl made no reply, but at the sound of Kāra’s voice the old woman
opened her great eyes and gazed for an instant steadfastly upon her
grandson. Her hands, which had been nervously clutching her robe, were
raised in supplication, and she said in English, in a weak, hoarse
voice:

“The draught, Kāra! Be quick!”

The man hesitated, but released the girl and stood up.

“It is the last, my Hatatcha. You know that no more can be procured,” he
said, in protest.

“I shall need no more,” she answered, with much difficulty. “It is the
last time. Be quick, Kāra!” Her voice died away in an odd gurgle, and
her chest fluttered as if the breath was about to leave it.

Kāra, watching her curiously, as a dog might, was impressed by the
symptoms. He turned to Nephthys.

“Go out,” he commanded, in Coptic, and the girl arose and passed under
the arch.

Then he went to a part of the wall and removed a loose stone, displaying
a secret cavity. From this he took a small vase, smooth and black, which
had a stopper of dull metal. Carrying it to Hatatcha, he knelt down,
removed the stopper and placed the neck of the vase to her lips. The
delicate, talon-like fingers clutched the vessel eagerly and the woman
drank, while Kāra followed the course of the liquid down her gullet by
watching her skinny throat.

When it was done, he carried the empty vase back to the crypt and
replaced the loose stone. Then he returned to the bedside and sat down
upon the bench. A bowl containing some bits of bread stood near. He
stooped and caught a piece in his fingers, munching it between his
strong teeth while he stared down upon Hatatcha’s motionless form.

It was quite dark in the room by this time, for twilights are short in
Egypt. But the pupils of the man’s eyes expanded like those of a cat,
and he could follow the slow rise and fall of the woman’s chest and
knew she was again breathing easily.

An hour passed, during which Kāra moved but once, to drink from a jar
standing in the opposite corner. Hatatcha’s condition disturbed him. If
she died, he would be at a loss what to do. Unused to work and without
resource of any sort, life would become a burden to him. He was,
moreover, accustomed to be led by the strong old woman in all things,
and she had been the provider during all the twenty-three years of his
life. Kāra had been trained to think deeply upon many subjects, but here
was one which had never occurred to him before because Hatatcha had
never discussed it, and the matter of her death was until lately a thing
that did not need to be considered. But her condition was serious
to-night, and the precious life-giving elixir was gone to the last drop.

All the people around Abu Fedah deferred to Hatatcha, because she
claimed, with some show of reason, to be of royal descent. But they did
not know the story of Ahtka-Rā, and her escapades in London years ago
were all unsuspected by them. Hatatcha only confided such things to
Kāra, and he would never dare breathe them to any except the Englishman,
from whose lips the tales would never be liable to return.

But there was a great deal that Kāra himself did not know, and he
realized this as he gazed uneasily upon his sick grandparent. She ought
to tell him where the coins and jewels had come from, and if there were
any left. He would need some trifles of that sort when she was gone.
And the matter of her funeral--she had expressed strange desires, at
times, regarding the disposition of her body after death. How was he to
find means to carry out such desires?

A voice, low and clear, fell upon his ear and made him start. Hatatcha’s
big eyes were open and he caught their sparkle even in the darkness.

“Come nearer,” she said.

He dropped upon the floor at her side and sat cross-legged near her
head, bending over to catch her slightest whisper. She spoke in English
to him.

“Anubis calls me, my son, and I must join his kingdom. My years are not
great, but they have worn out my body with love and hatreds and plans of
vengeance. You are my successor, and the inheritor of my treasures and
my revenge and hates. The time is come when you must repay my care and
perform a mission for which I have trained you since childhood. Promise
me that you will fulfil my every wish to the letter!”

“Of necessity, Hatatcha,” he responded, calmly. “Are you not my
grandmother?”

She remained silent a moment.

“You are cold, and selfish and cruel,” she resumed, her tone hardening,
“and I have made you so. You are intelligent, and fearless, and strong.
It is due to my training. Listen, then! Once I was young and beautiful
and loving, and when I faced the world it fell at my feet in adoration.
But one who claimed to be a man crushed all the joy and love from my
heart, and left me desolate and broken. Like a spurned hind, I crept
from the glare of palaces back to my mud hut, bearing my child in my
arms, and here I mourned and suffered for years and found no comfort.
Then the love that had destroyed my peace fell away, and in its place
Set planted the seeds of vengeance. These I have cherished, and lo! a
tree has sprouted and grown, of which you, my son, are the stalwart
trunk. The fruit has been long maturing, but it is now ripe. Presently
you, too, will face the world; but as a man--not like the weak woman I
was--and you will accomplish my revenge. Is it not so, my Kāra?”

“If you say it, my Hatatcha, it is so,” he answered. But he wondered.

“Then pay close attention to my words,” she continued, “and store them
carefully in your mind, that nothing shall be forgotten when it is
needed to assist you. I will explain all things while I have the
strength of the elixir, for when it leaves me my breath will go with it,
and then your labors will begin.”

Kāra leaned still lower. For once his heart beat faster than was its
custom, and he felt a thrill of excitement pervading his entire being.
The climax in his life had at last arrived, and he was about to discover
what things he was destined to accomplish in the great unknown world.

Hour after hour Hatatcha’s low voice continued to instruct her grandson.
Occasionally she would question him, to be sure that he understood, and
several names she made him repeat many times, until they were indelibly
impressed upon his memory.

At last she took the forefinger of his right hand and with it made a
mystic sign upon her naked breast, making him repeat after her a
dreadful oath to obey her instructions in every way and keep forever
certain grave secrets.

Then she fell back and lay still.

Daybreak came in time, and a streak of light crept under the arch and
touched the group in the corner.

The aged hag, filthy and unkempt, lay dead upon her couch of rushes, and
beside her sat Kāra, his face immobile, his eyes staring fixedly at the
opposite wall.

He was thinking.




CHAPTER III.

THE DRAGOMAN.


Nephthys came from her mother’s hut in the cool of early morning,
bearing on her head an earthen jar. She was bound for the river, to
carry from thence their daily supply of water.

As she passed Hatatcha’s dwelling she found Kāra standing in the
archway, and he drew the girl toward him and kissed her lips. They were
cold and unresponsive.

“How is your grandmother?” she asked, indifferently.

“She is with Isis,” he answered, holding her arm with one hand and
feeling her brown cheek with the other.

The girl shuddered and glanced askance at the arch.

“Let me go,” she said.

Instead, he folded an arm around her and kissed her again, while she put
up a hand to steady the jar from falling.

Then Kāra experienced a sudden surprise. His body spun around like a top
and was hurled with force against the opposite wall. At the same time
the jar toppled from Nephthys’ head and was shattered on the ground. The
girl staggered back and leaned against the stones of the arch, staring
at the path ahead.

In front of her stood a young man most gorgeously arrayed. A red fez,
such as many wear in Egypt, was perched jauntily upon his head. Covering
his breast was a blue satin jacket elaborately braided with silver, and
where it parted in front a vest of white silk showed, with a line of
bright silver buttons. His knee breeches were of saffron pongee, wide
and flowing, like those of a Turk, and from there down to his yellow
slippers his legs were bare. Add a voluminous sash of crimson silk and a
flowing mantle suspended from his shoulders, and you can guess the
splendor of the man’s attire.

His person was short and inclined to stoutness, and his face, with its
carefully curled black mustache, was remarkably regular and handsome.
His eyes were nearly as large and black as Kāra’s, and at the present
moment they flashed fire, while an angry frown distorted his brow. He
stood with his legs spread apart and his hands pressed upon his hips,
regarding the girl with a glance of sullen fury.

Nephthys returned the look with one of stupor. Her face was quite as
expressionless as before, but her nostrils dilated a little, as if she
were afraid.

“Tadros!” she muttered.

Kāra lifted his tall form from the ground and stood scowling upon his
assailant.

“The cursed dragoman again!” he exclaimed, with bitterness.

Tadros turned his head slightly to direct a look of scorn upon his
enemy. Then he regarded the girl again.

“What of your promise to me, woman?” he demanded, sternly. “Are you the
plaything of every dirty Egyptian when my back is turned?”

Nephthys had no reply. She looked at the pattern of the silver braid
upon his jacket and followed carefully its curves and twists. The blue
satin was the color of lapis lazuli, she thought, and the costume must
have cost a lot of money--perhaps as much as fifty piasters.

“Your mother shall answer for this perfidy,” continued the dragoman, in
Arabic. “If I am to be toyed with and befooled, I will have my betrothal
money back--every piaster of it!”

The girl’s eyes dropped to her feet and examined the fragments of the
jar.

“It is broken!” she said, with a wailing accent.

“Bah! there are more at Keneh,” he returned, kicking away a bit of the
earthenware. “It will cost old Sĕra more than the jar if she does not
rule you better. Come!”

He waved his hand pompously and strutted past her to the door of her
mother’s hut, paying no heed to the evil looks of Kāra, who still stood
motionless in his place.

The girl followed, meek and obedient.

They entered a square room lighted by two holes in the mud walls. The
furniture was rude and scanty, and the beds were rushes from the Nile. A
black goat that had a white spot over its left eye stood ruminating with
its head out of one of the holes.

A little withered woman with an erect form and a pleasant face met
Tadros, the dragoman, just within the doorway.

“Welcome!” she said, crossing her arms upon her breast and bending her
head until she was nearly double.

“Peace to this house,” returned Tadros, carelessly, and threw himself
upon a bench.

Sĕra squatted upon the earthen floor and looked with pride and
satisfaction at the dragoman’s costume.

“You are a great man, my Tadros,” she said, “and you must be getting
rich. We are honored by your splendid presence. Gaze upon your affianced
bride, O Dragoman! Is she not getting fat and soft in flesh, and fit to
grace your most select harem?”

“I must talk to you about Nephthys,” said the dragoman, lighting a
cigarette. “She is too free with these dirty Fedahs, and especially with
that beast Kāra.”

His tone had grown even and composed by this time, and his face had lost
its look of anger.

“What would you have?” asked old Sĕra, deprecatingly. “The girl must
carry water and help me with the work until you take her away with you.
I cannot keep her secluded like a princess. And there are no men in
Fedah except old Nikko, who is blind, and young Kāra, who is not.”

“It is Kāra who annoys me,” said Tadros, puffing his cigarette lazily.

“Kāra! But he is the royal one. You know that well enough. The
descendant of the ancient kings has certain liberties, and therefore
takes others, and he merely indulges in a kiss now and then. I have
watched him, and it does not worry me.”

“The royal one!” repeated the dragoman scornfully. “How do we know old
Hatatcha’s tales are true?”

“They must be true,” returned Sĕra, positively. “My mother served
Hatatcha’s mother, because she was the daughter of kings. For
generations the ancestors of Kāra have been revered by those who were
Egyptians, although their throne is a dream of the past, and they are
condemned to live in poverty. Be reasonable, my Tadros! Your own blood
is as pure as ours, even though it is not royal. What! shall we
Egyptians forget our dignity and rub skins with the English dogs or the
pagan Arabs?”

“The Arabs are not so bad,” said Tadros, thoughtfully. “They have many
sensible customs, which we are bound to accept; for these Muslims
overrun our country and are here to stay. Nor are the simple English to
be sneered at, my Sĕra. I know them well, and also their allies, the
Americans and the Germans and French. They travel far to see Cairo and
our Nile, and drop golden sovereigns into my pockets because I guide
them to the monuments and explain their history, and at the same time
keep the clever Arabs from robbing them until after I am paid. Yes; all
people have their uses, believe me.”

“Ah, you are wonderful!” ejaculated the old woman, with earnest
conviction.

“I am dragoman,” returned the man, proudly, “and my name is known from
Cairo to Khartoum.” He tossed a cigarette at Sĕra, who caught it deftly
and put it between her lips. Then he graciously allowed her to obtain a
light from his own cigarette.

Meantime, Nephthys, on entering the hut behind Tadros, had walked to the
further side of the room and lifted the lid of a rude chest, rough hewn
from eucalyptus wood. From this she drew a bundle, afterward closing the
lid and spreading the contents of the bundle upon the chest. Then she
turned her back to the others, unfastened her dusty black gown, and
allowed it to fall to her hips. Over her head she dropped a white tunic,
and afterward a robe of coarse gauze covered thickly with cheap
spangles. She now stepped out of the black gown and hung it upon a peg.
A broad gilt belt was next clasped around her waist--loosely, so as not
to confine too close the folds of spangled gauze.

Tadros, during his conversation with Sĕra, watched this transformation
of his betrothed with satisfaction. When she had twined a vine of
artificial flowers in her dark hair, the girl came to him and sat upon
his knee. Her feet were still bare, and not very clean; but he did not
notice that.

“I will speak to Hatatcha about Kāra,” remarked the old woman, inhaling
the smoke of her cigarette with evident enjoyment, “and she will tell
him to be more careful.”

“Hatatcha is dead,” said Nephthys.

Sĕra stared a moment and dropped her cigarette. Then she uttered a
shrill wail and threw her skirt over her head, swaying back and forth.

“Shut up!” cried the dragoman, jerking away the cloth. “It is time
enough to wail when the mourners assemble.”

Sĕra picked up her cigarette.

“When did Hatatcha go to Anubis?” she asked her daughter.

“Kāra did not say,” returned the girl. “I was with her at the last
sunset, and she was dying then.”

“It matters nothing,” said the dragoman, carelessly. “Hatatcha is better
off in the nether world, and her rascally grandson must now go to work
or starve his royal stomach.”

“Who knows?” whispered Sĕra, with an accent of awe. “They have never
worked. Perhaps the gods supply their needs.”

“Or they have robbed a tomb,” returned Tadros. “It is much more likely;
but if that is so I would like to find the place. There is money in a
discovery of that sort. It means scarabs, and funeral idols, and
amulets, and vases and utensils of olden days, all of which can be sold
in Cairo for a good price. Sometimes it means jewels and gold ornaments
as well; but that is only in the tombs of kings. Go to Hatatcha, my
Sĕra, and keep your eyes open. Henf! what says the proverb? ‘The
outrunner of good fortune is thoughtfulness.’”

The mother of Nephthys nodded, and drew the last possible whiff from her
cigarette. Then she left the hut and hurried under the heavy arch of
Hatatcha’s dwelling.

Five women, mostly old and all clothed in deep black, squatted in a
circle around the rushes upon which lay the dead. Someone had closed
Hatatcha’s eyes, but otherwise she lay as she had expired. In a corner
Kāra was chewing a piece of sugar-cane.

Sĕra joined the circle. She threw sand upon her head and wailed shrilly,
rocking her body with a rhythmical motion. The others followed her
example, and their cries were nerve-racking. Kāra looked at them a
moment and then carried his sugar-cane out of doors.

For a time he stood still, hesitating. There was work for him to do, and
he had only delayed it until the mourners were in possession of the
house. But the sun was already hot and a journey lay before him. Kāra
sighed. He was not used to work.

He walked to the north end of the huddle and entered the house of the
blind man, Nikko. A Syrian donkey, with a long head and solemn eyes,
stood near the door, and its owner was seated upon the ground rubbing
its feet with an old rag that had been dipped in grease. Kāra caught up
a bridle and threw it over the donkey’s head.

“Who is it?” asked Nikko, turning his sightless eyes upward.

Kāra made no reply, but swung the saddle across the animal’s back and
tried to strap the girth. The old man twined his thin legs around those
of the donkey and reached up a hand to pull the saddle away.

“It is Hatatcha’s brute of a grandson!” cried Nikko, struggling to
resist. “No other would try to rob me of my dear Mammek. Desist, or I
will call the dragoman, who arrived this morning!”

For answer Kāra dealt him a kick in his stomach and he doubled up with a
moan and rolled upon the ground. Then the royal one led Mammek out of
the door and lightly leaped upon the donkey’s back.

“Oo-ah!” he cried, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks; and away
trotted Mammek, meek but energetic.

There was no path in the direction he went and the desert sands seemed
interminable. Kāra sat sidewise upon the donkey and sucked his
sugar-cane, keeping the beast at a trot at the same time. An hour
passed, and another. Finally a heap of rocky boulders arose just ahead
of him, with a group of date palms at its foot. The heap grew bigger as
he approached, and resolved itself into a small mountain, seared by deep
fissures in the rocks. But there was verdure within the fissures, and
several goats lay underneath the trees. Kāra rode past them and up to
the foot of the mountain, where there was an overhanging entrance to a
cave.

Throwing himself from the donkey, he ran into the cave and knelt at a
spring which welled sparkling and cool from the rocks. Mammek followed
and thrust his nozzle into the water beside Kāra’s face. They drank
together.

Then the man stood up and called aloud:

“Hi-yah, Sebbet; hi-yah!”

Someone laughed behind him, and Kāra swung upon his heel. There stood
confronting him a curiously misshapen dwarf, whose snowy hair contrasted
strangely with his dark chocolate skin. He was scarcely as tall as
Kāra’s waist, but his body and limbs were so enormous as to convey the
impression of immense strength. He wore a spotless white burnous, which
fell from his neck to his feet, but his head was bare of covering.

While the young man stared the dwarf spoke.

“I know your mission,” said he, in ancient Egyptian. “Hatatcha is dead.”

“It is true,” returned Kāra, briefly.

“She swore I would live long enough to embalm her,” continued the dwarf,
rubbing his nose reflectively; “and she was right. A wonderful woman was
old Hatatcha, and a royal one. I will keep my compact with her.”

“Can you do it?” asked Kāra, wondering. “Do you know the ancient process
of embalming?”

“Why, I am no paraschites, you understand, for the trade is without
value in these degenerate days. But I successfully embalmed her
mother--your great-grandmother--and Hatatcha was greatly pleased with
the work. Does not your great-grandmother look natural? Have you seen
her?”

Kāra shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said.

“And I have safely hoarded the store of aromatic gums and spices, the
palm wine and myrrh and cassia, and the natron, with which Hatatcha long
since entrusted me. The strips of fine linen for the bandages and the
urns for the entrails are still in my storehouse, where they have
remained since your grandmother gave them into my hands; so there is no
reason why her wishes should not be carried out.”

“You will return with me?” asked Kāra.

“Yes, and bring the dead to this desolate spot,” replied the dwarf. “It
is no longer Hatatcha, but the envelope which she used, and will use
again. Therefore it must be carefully preserved. The process will
require forty days, as you know. At the end of that time I will deliver
Hatatcha’s mummy into your hands. You must then give to me a flat,
oblong emerald that is graven with the cartouch of the mighty Ahtka-Rā.
Is not that the compact, my prince?”

“It is, my Sebbet.”

“And you know where to find it?” asked the dwarf, anxiously.

“I know,” said Kāra.

The dwarf seemed pleased, and retired to make preparations for his
journey. Kāra fell asleep in the cave, for the sun had been terribly hot
and the long ride had exhausted him. The blind man’s donkey also lay
down and slept.

In the middle of the afternoon Sebbet awakened the young Egyptian and
gave him some cakes to eat and a draught of goat’s milk. Then he brought
out a stout donkey of a pure white color and mounted it with unexpected
agility. Kāra noticed a large sack fastened to the saddle-ring.

A moment later they were riding together across the sands.

“We must not reach Fedah before sundown,” remarked the dwarf, and Kāra
nodded assent. So they went at a moderate pace and bore the blistering
rays of the sun as none but natives of Egypt can.

At sundown they sighted Gebel Abu Fedah, and it was dark when they
entered the narrow street of Fedah. Kāra dismounted from Mammek’s back
at its master’s hut, and at a slap on the thigh the donkey bolted
quickly through the doorway. Then the young man followed after the dwarf
to the threshold of his own dwelling.

The mourners had gone home and Hatatcha lay alone; but someone had
placed a coarse cloth over her face to keep the flies away.

The dwarf drew from his pocket a rush-candle and lighted it. Removing
the face-cloth he gazed for several minutes earnestly upon the features
of the dead woman. Then he sighed deeply, untied the sack from his
saddle and blew out the flame of the candle.

Kāra stood in the archway, looking at the slender rim of the moon. In a
short time the dwarf’s white donkey paused beside him. The sack, now
bulky and

[Illustration: They went at a moderate pace, and bore the blistering
rays of the sun as none but natives of Egypt can]

heavy, hung limply across the saddle. Kāra could see it plainly in the
dim light.

He put his hand on the sack.

“Will it ride without tumbling off?” he asked.

“I will hold it fast,” replied the dwarf, springing upon the donkey’s
back behind the burden. “Poor Hatatcha! She will not know we are taking
our last ride together in Khonsu’s company.”

“Good-night,” said Kāra.

“Good-night. In forty days, remember.”

“In forty days.”

“And the emerald?”

“You shall have it then.”

The donkey hobbled out of the archway and passed silently down the
little street. Presently it had faded into the night and was gone.

Kāra yawned and looked attentively at the huts. In only one, that of old
Sĕra, a dim light burned. The man frowned, and then he laughed.

“Let the dragoman have his Nephthys,” he muttered. “For me Cairo, London
and the great world beckon. And women? Bah! There are women everywhere.”

He entered the house and unrolled the mat that hung across the archway,
fastening it securely to prevent intrusion.




CHAPTER IV.

THE TREASURE OF AHTKA-RĀ.


Kāra went to the cavity beside the arch and took from it a small bronze
lamp. It was partly filled with oil, on the surface of which a cotton
wick floated. The lamp itself was of quaint design, and the young man
remembered it since the days of his childhood, but had rarely seen it in
use.

Having lighted the wick and spread it with his fingers until it flamed
up brightly, Kāra turned his back to the arch and carefully examined the
rear wall of the room. The house, as has been explained, was built
against a shallow cave of the mountains; but, owing to the irregularity
of the hollow, part of the rear wall was of solid masonry, while the
other part was formed by the cliff itself. Kāra had never before paid
much attention to that fact, but now it struck him as very evident that
the masonry had been constructed to shut off an orifice too deep or too
irregular to be utilized as part of the dwelling. Otherwise, the
continuation of the cliff would have rendered a wall unnecessary. The
stones were of large size and were built up and cemented as far as the
overhanging rock that formed the greater portion of the roof.

The Egyptian’s eyes rested upon the third layer of these stones, and he
counted from the corner to the seventh stone. In appearance this was
not different from the others; but Hatatcha’s directions had been exact,
and she knew.

He walked to the spot and pressed hard against the right edge of the
stone. It moved, and gradually swung inward, the left edge being
supported by solid pivots of bronze at the top and bottom.

The opening disclosed was about four feet long by three feet in height,
and Kāra at once crept through it, holding his lamp extended before him.
Yes; his surmise had been correct--a low, but deep and irregular cavern
was behind the wall.

His first care was to close up the entrance by pressing the block of
stone back to its former position. There was a bronze handle on the
inner side that would permit him to open it again easily.

The cavern felt damp and cool, and when he raised his lamp he saw some
deep fissures leading far under the mountain. He selected the second
from the left of these rifts and cautiously made his way along the rough
floor. At first it seemed that he had made a mistake, for this way was
less promising than several of the others; but when he stopped and
thought upon Hatatcha’s directions, he knew that he was right.

The rift made a sudden turn and sank downward; but the rocks under his
feet were now more even and the way became easier to traverse. A hundred
paces farther, the passage ended abruptly in a sharp point where the
rock had originally split.

The young Egyptian walked to the extreme end and then carefully measured
three paces back again. Raising his lamp, he examined the right wall of
the tunnel closely. It contained many irregular cracks and hollows, but
one indentation seemed, on observation, to be surrounded by a tiny
circle of black, or a color darker than the other portions of the rock.

Kāra uttered an ejaculation of pleasure. He had feared he might not find
this spot, in spite of his grandmother’s assurances that it was plain to
keen eyes.

Drawing a short, pointed dagger from the folds of his burnous--a weapon
he had found in the crypt beside the arch of the living-room--the
Egyptian thrust it into the orifice of the rock and pushed until it had
sunk in to the very hilt. Then he turned the handle, and a sharp “click”
was audible.

Kāra stepped back a pace, and a part of the rock, circular in shape,
swung slowly out into the passage, revealing another tunnel running at
right angles with the first. Unlike the other, this was no natural
fissure of the rock, but an excavation cleverly made by the hands of
man. The roof was arched and the floor level and smooth.

The man slipped through the opening and proceeded along the arched
passage. He did not close this door behind him, for Hatatcha had warned
him not to do so. The floor had a gradual slope and he knew that he was
going still farther beneath the mountain at every step. The atmosphere
now became hot and stifling and he found it difficult to breathe; but
he continued steadily walking for a matter of five minutes--which seemed
an hour--holding the lamp before him, until finally he noticed the blaze
of the wick flicker, as if a breath of fresher air had reached it.

By this time his breast had seemed ready to burst, and his breathing was
fitful and gasping; but he hurried forward and now found the air cooler
and fresher and drew it into his lungs gratefully.

The path was no longer downward, and before him he presently discovered
a huge pillar of rock, which at first sight seemed to block the tunnel.
Rude hieroglyphics were graven upon it. Passing around this at the left,
he found himself in a high, vaulted chamber, and stopped with a sigh of
satisfaction.

The chamber was circular in shape, and not more than sixteen feet in
diameter. An air-shaft in the dome evidently led to some part of the
summit of the mountain, for Kāra found himself breathing naturally
again.

“This,” said he, “must be the library that Hatatcha mentioned.”

All around the walls of the vault were niches, cut in regular rows and
containing box-like receptacles covered with inscriptions and pictures
in gaudy colors. In the center of the room stood a large round slab of
granite, finely polished upon its upper surface.

Kāra drew a box from its niche and set it upon the granite slab beside
his lamp. Then he took from it a roll of papyrus, which he examined with
interest.

Yes; he had read it before. It was one of those so often mysteriously
produced by his grandmother to assist in his education. He examined
another roll, and a third, leisurely and with care. These also he knew
well. There were two hundred and eighteen rolls of papyrus in this
ancient library, and the knowledge they contained had all been absorbed
by the young Egyptian years before. He read them easily, and knew at
once from their context the different meanings of many signs that are
yet puzzling less-favored students of the hieroglyphics.

The manuscripts dated from the fourth dynasty down to the days of the
Ptolemies, and, in a large cavity below the rolls of papyrus, were
ranged the earlier works of Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, Manetho,
Horapello, Strabo and others, as well as the volumes on modern Egyptian
and European history that old Hatatcha had purchased in Cairo within the
last few years. Several historical stelæ of the earlier kings of Egypt
also leaned against the walls, arranged in chronological order, and this
library, founded by Ahtka-Rā, which had been preserved and added to for
so many centuries, was a veritable storehouse of the records of his
remarkable country.

Kāra smiled queerly as he glanced around the room.

“Others argue concerning ancient Egypt,” he muttered; “but I alone know
the truth.”

A pile of papyrus rolls in another cavity seemed of less importance than
those so carefully arranged in boxes. Kāra brought an armful of them to
the central slab, dusted them with his rope, and selected fifteen of
their number after a cursory glance at their contents. The others he
restored to their place. This being accomplished, he took up his lamp
and returned to the passage, this time circling the pillar of rock to
the right.

It led into an immense oblong chamber, so vast that the light of Kāra’s
bronze lamp seemed to penetrate the blackness but a few feet in advance.
But other lamps were suspended from huge bronze brackets, and several of
these the Egyptian proceeded to light, finding them nearly all supplied
with oil.

Then, stepping backward, he gazed about him with an irrepressible
sensation of awe. The huge chamber was filled with mummy-cases, arranged
upon solid slabs of Aswan granite. Nearest to the entrance were a dozen
or so slabs that were unoccupied. Then appeared a splendid case of solid
ebony, elaborately carved upon every inch of its surfaces. This had been
made for Hatatcha in London, during her residence in that city, and
secretly transported to this place by devices only known to her. The
inscriptions were all in the sign language except the one word,
“Hatatcha,” which appeared in Roman letters upon the cover. It was
empty, of course, and Kāra proceeded to the next slab. Upon it lay the
mummy of his great-grandmother, Thi-Aten, the one so naturally embalmed
by the dwarf Sebbet. Her limbs were bandaged separately and the contour
of her face might be clearly seen through the thin and tightly-drawn
linen that covered it. Kāra sighed and made a profound obeisance to the
mummy before proceeding up the chamber.

As he advanced, the mummies increased in age and also in the
magnificence of their cases and the importance of their inscriptions.
Some of the slabs were covered thickly with hieroglyphics relating the
life history of their occupants, while on them were crowded curious
ushabtiu figures, amulets and scarabs. Finally Kāra reached the end of
the chamber and paused beside the mummy of the great Ahtka-Rā, who,
while not king in name, had nevertheless ruled Egypt during his lifetime
through the weak Rameses II, whom men ignorantly call “the Great.”

Long the Egyptian knelt before the remains of his great ancestor.
Rameses himself, and Seti his father, and many other kings of Egypt were
lying in the museum at Cairo, to be impudently stared at by crowds of
curious modern tourists; but this famous one had wisely provided for his
own seclusion and that of his posterity. It was Ahtka-Rā who had
constructed this hidden tomb during his lifetime, and he kept the secret
so well that no painted or graven record of it existed to guide a
meddling foreign race to its discovery in the years that were to come.

Kāra’s eyes fairly gloated upon the mummy case of his wonderful
ancestor. It was studded thick with precious stones, any of which might
be deemed a fortune to one who, like himself, had existed so long in a
lowly condition. But he did not disturb these gems. Instead, he touched
a spring in the slab, a portion of which slid forward and revealed an
opening.

Kāra took his lamp and crept into the aperture. There were seventeen
steps leading downward; then came a short passage, and he entered
another large chamber hewn from the solid rock.

Here was the treasure house of Ahtka-Rā, its contents doubtless
primarily rifled from the treasure cities of Pithom and Raamses, which
after his death were found to have been despoiled.

The entire room was faced with polished granite, and around the walls
were granite tables to hold the treasure, as well as immense
wide-mouthed vases of porphyry, malachite, lapis lazuli, carnelian and
bronze. Upon the tables were heaps of chains, bracelets, ornaments and
utensils of pure gold. In the center of the room stood twelve alabaster
pedestals, two rows of six each, and each pedestal supported a splendid
vase containing gems of various sorts. On the floor were numerous other
vases and receptacles for jewels and golden ornaments, and one of these
Kāra noticed was yet more than half filled with the precious coins of
Darius Hystaspes, some of which his grandmother had used to provide
herself with necessities because they were of a comparatively modern
date and would arouse no suspicion that the source of their supply was
the ancient tomb of Ahtka-Rā.

Indeed, it was easy to be seen that many of Ahtka-Rā’s successors had
added to this treasure house instead of pilfering from it. The original
store, contained in the twelve great malachite vases, was practically
untouched, although Hatatcha must have drawn upon it at one time. All
the treasure littering the tables and floor had been added since
Ahtka-Rā had lain in his tomb.

Kāra’s face was unmoved, but his eyes glistened brightly. He thrust his
hand into a jar and drew it out filled with rubies. They were of all
sizes and shades of coloring and were polished in flat surfaces instead
of being cut into rose facets according to modern methods. Some of the
stones had small characters graven upon them, but usually they were
smoothly polished.

The Egyptian now turned to the wall tables. Here were also rubies,
diamonds, amethysts and emeralds, set in golden ornaments of many
designs. Some of the stones were of so great a size as to be extremely
valuable. A casket of dark wood inlaid with silver hieroglyphics
attracted Kāra’s attention. He threw back the lid and took from it a
massive chain of gold, which he threw over his head. Each link was
finely engraved with characters relating the name of some king and a
deed he had accomplished. Kāra read some of the inscriptions and was
amazed. The chain had originally been made in twelve links by
Bā-en-nĕter, the twelfth king dating from Mēnēs, during whose reign the
Nile flowed honey for eleven days. His successor, Uătch-nēs, took the
chain and added another link, and so the chain had grown through
succeeding ages down to the time of Ahtka-Rā. No wonder it was long and
heavy!

Kāra did not like to replace this marvelous chain. He dropped its links
inside his burnous and left it hanging around his neck.

After an hour or more devoted to the inspection of these treasures,
which the young man naturally regarded as his own, forgetting that
Hatatcha had warned him he but held them in trust, Kāra reluctantly
prepared to leave the chamber. First, however, he selected twenty-three
great diamonds from a jar and concealed them in the folds of his turban.
The turban is called the Egyptian’s pocket, because a burnous seldom has
pockets, and many things can be secreted in the voluminous cloth of a
turban.

“Here is one diamond for every year I have lived,” said Kāra. “Surely I
am entitled to that many.”

But it did not satisfy him. He thrust his hand into the jar of rubies
again and took all that his fingers could clutch. He loved the color of
the rubies. They appealed to him.

Then he crept up the stairs, reëntered the mummy chamber, and closed the
secret slide in the malachite slab upon which lay the mighty Ahtka-Rā.

Who, not initiated, would ever suspect the enormous wealth lying so
close at hand? Kāra sighed deeply and held himself proudly erect. He
was just beginning to realize his own importance.

Extinguishing the lights of the lamps he had kindled in this chamber, he
retraced his steps to the library, where he gathered up the fifteen
rolls of papyrus, carrying them in the front breadth of his burnous
while he held fast to the hem. In this way he returned along the arched
passage until he came to the rock door which he had left ajar. He
climbed through the opening and thrust the rock back into place,
listening while the heavy bolt fastened itself with a sharp click.

He was now in the natural fissure of the mountain cavern, and it did not
take him long to reach the stone wall which alone separated him from
Hatatcha’s dwelling.

He paused a moment, with his ear to the wall; but hearing no sound, he
extinguished his light and then caught the handle imbedded in the stone
and swung the block upon its pivots. In a moment he was in the
living-room, and the wall through which he had passed seemed solid and
immovable.

He must have been absent for several hours during his exploring
expedition into the mountain, and the night was now far advanced.

Kāra flung the papyri into a corner, covered them with loose rushes from
his grandmother’s couch, and then threw himself upon his own bed to
sleep. He had been awake the better part of two nights, and his eyelids
were as heavy as if weighted with lead.

[Illustration: He thrust his hand into the jar of rubies again, and took
all that his fingers could clutch]




CHAPTER V.

A ROLL OF PAPYRUS.


At daybreak the dragoman thrust his head stealthily through the arch and
looked at Kāra’s sleeping form with suspicion. He had visited the young
man’s house in the evening and found him absent and Hatatcha’s body also
gone. He came again later, and once more at midnight, and still
Hatatcha’s dead form and her grandson’s quick one were alike missing.

Then the dragoman, wishing to know to what secret place the old woman’s
remains had been taken, and from which direction Kāra returned, and
having a fair share of oriental shrewdness, had stretched two threads
across the narrow street--one on either side the arch--and afterward
returned to his couch in the house of old Sĕra to sleep.

Daybreak found him awake and stirring. He discovered both his threads
unbroken, yet the young Egyptian was sound asleep within the room. The
dragoman scratched his left ear in perplexity and shook his head. Kāra
was doubtless clever, but his unusual actions led Tadros to believe
there was something important afoot. And that matter of the coins and
the ancient jewel of old Hatatcha was well worth investigating.

He sat down cross-legged in the cool arch and waited. Kāra slept on. The
girl Nephthys brought the dragoman a cake for his breakfast, silently
placed it in his hand, and carried her jar to the river. On her return
she paused to allow her master to drink and then left him again.

Tadros lighted a cigarette and smoked it to the end. Then he pushed
aside the mat and looked into the room long and steadily. Kāra lay like
one dead; in some strange manner the lazy one must have exhausted his
strength--perhaps in carrying his grandmother’s corpse to some far-away
tomb. Ah, that was the secret place, doubtless, from whence the coins
and the jewel had come. Kāra must know of it, and therefore it would be
well for Tadros to win his confidence. What was that heap of rushes in
the corner, and why had they been taken from Hatatcha’s former couch?
The dragoman was suddenly interested. He unfastened a portion of the mat
and crept into the room. Kāra did not hear him. Softly he advanced on
hands and knees to the corner. He felt among the rushes and drew out a
roll of papyrus.

For a moment the dragoman sat still, his heart beating wildly. Here was
a find, indeed! He knew of a dozen scholars who would willingly bankrupt
themselves to discover a new papyrus roll.

He crawled slowly back to the arch and seated himself where a ray of
light came between the mat and the gray stones. Here he unrolled the
manuscript and examined it eagerly. He did not claim to be much of a
student, but he could read hieroglyphics a little and was a judge of
ancient picture-writing. Here was doubtless a scroll of great antiquity
and value, relating incidents of the war of Rameses against the Kheta,
and its state of preservation was wonderful. In this place was a list of
captives brought back to Thebes; in that was the expense account of the
army. Here was told the--

“Henf!”

The sharp, quick cry was followed by a sudden rustle of the rushes, and
with a spring like that of a panther, Kāra was upon the impudent
intruder into his domain. Before Tadros could rise, his assailant was
kneeling upon his body and with lithe, delicate fingers clutching
viciously at his throat. The dragoman struggled to free himself, but
could not. He tried to breathe, without effect. The skin of his bronzed
face grew black, and his eyes protruded from their sockets with a look
of horror and fear.

Seeing this, Kāra’s set face suddenly relaxed and lost its look of
murderous determination. He released his hold of the dragoman and pushed
away the mat to allow more air to get to him.

Slowly the other, gasping and uttering low moans, recovered his breath.
Kāra’s fingers had left great discoloured blotches upon his neck; but
that did not matter. From certain death he was coming back to life, and
the transition was one to evoke gratitude and joy. Life was sweet to the
dragoman--the sweetest thing he possessed.

Kāra, standing erect, looked down upon him with arms folded in repose
and a countenance very thoughtful. Two reasons had stayed his vengeful
hands. To murder Tadros would get him into trouble with the authorities,
and so cause him great annoyance at this critical juncture, when liberty
of action and freedom from espionage was important. In the second place,
his half-formed plans included the use of the dragoman for his own
advantage. Tadros was both clever and well known. He would become a good
servant when he knew it would further his personal interest to be
faithful, and so it was best that the dragoman should live--for a time.

He had now almost recovered from the shock of Kāra’s assault, and began
to grow angry.

“What do you mean, you dog, by felling me like a wild beast and trying
to throttle me?” he demanded, with his first breath.

“What do you mean by stealing into my house and prying into my private
affairs?” returned Kāra brusquely.

The dragoman’s eyes fell upon the papyrus at his feet, and his face
changed its expression.

“Where did you get it?” he asked, quickly. “Are there more of them? Is
it a tomb or a temple? Tell me, Kāra, tell me all about it.”

The Egyptian smiled, grimly.

“There are more of them,” he said. “Look! in that corner are fourteen
other rolls; but whether they came from a tomb or a temple I do not
know. They are my inheritance from Hatatcha. Where she found them she
alone could have told; but she carried the secret to the nether world.”

Tadros mused for a time.

“Where have they been kept all these years?” he asked in a tone of
disbelief.

“Hidden underneath the rushes of her bed. I dragged them all out last
night, as you can see.”

“Were there any more of the coins?”

“A few.” He showed some in his hand.

“Ah!”

The dragoman drew a deep breath.

“You are rich, my prince,” said he. “Fifteen papyri of the ancient
days!--they are worth a fortune in any event.”

“How much?” asked Kāra, amused.

“This one,” said Tadros, picking it up and partly unrolling it to glance
again at the writing, “I could sell in Cairo for five hundred
piastres--perhaps a thousand. It is wonderfully clear and well
preserved.”

“You may keep it for yourself,” said Kāra.

Tadros stared.

“I will exchange it for the girl Nephthys,” continued the young man,
coolly. “For her you have paid to old Sĕra two hundred and fifty
piastres already. You must pay a like sum to take the girl away with
you, and afterward you must pay for her support. Very well; I will
relieve you of the burden. You will not only save your money, but you
will get a papyrus worth four times what you have invested.”

Tadros frowned and looked glum.

“But the girl is mine!” he exclaimed.

“And the papyrus is mine,” returned Kāra. “Perhaps I could buy two or
three like Nephthys with it; but never mind, it shall be yours in the
way of exchange.”

Tadros moved uneasily and cast a longing glance at the roll.

“I like not this barbaric traffic in womankind,” he muttered, with
indecision.

“Nor I,” agreed Kāra. “It is Sĕra who is to blame. If she has a fat
daughter, she will want a fat price for her. Otherwise, how can she be
recompensed for the girl’s keep? But five hundred is too much for
Nephthys. I would have to give her mother the other two hundred and
fifty piastres myself--and you would have the roll. By Isis, ’tis a bad
bargain! Here; let us say no more about it. Give me the papyrus.”

“Wait--wait!” cried Tadros. “Why are you so unjust in your conclusions?
The bargain is made. No one but a sneaking Arab goes back on his word.”

“It is as you say,” replied Kāra, stretching his long arms and yawning.
“But it is a fine papyrus, Tadros--all about the Kheta and King
Rameses.”

“I know; I know!” returned the dragoman, nervously tucking his prize
under his arm. “Come with me at once. I will inform Sĕra of the
transfer of my property.”

He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, because his throat still hurt
him, and led the way.

Kāra quietly followed.

In Sĕra’s hovel mother and daughter were weaving upon a rude cane loom.

“See here,” announced the dragoman; “this Nephthys is too free with her
favors, and I cannot be coming forever to this forsaken village to look
after her. Besides, I must get back to Cairo to attend to my business,
so I have sold the girl to my friend Kāra here, and when he takes her
away from you, if ever he does, he is to pay the other two hundred and
fifty piastres I promised.”

Sĕra seemed surprised, but nodded her head cheerfully.

“It is all the same to me,” she replied. “If the royal one has the money
to satisfy you, it is none of my business, I am sure. An alliance with
the descendant of the great Ahtka-Rā is something to be proud of.”

The girl had broken a thread. As she prepared to retie it, she glanced
from one to the other of the two men with a look of indifference.

“I do not promise to make Nephthys a wife,” said Kāra, slowly,
“although, of course, it may come to that. My plans are not formed for
the future. But I have acquired the girl in betrothal through my compact
with Tadros, and his rights are hereafter mine.”

“She grows plumper every day,” said Sĕra, glancing at Nephthys
critically. “You will seek long, my Kāra, before you find a more
desirable wife. Yet I am in no hurry to lose my daughter, believe me,
even for the money she will bring. Take your time about deciding the
matter.”

“I will,” responded Kāra, briefly.

“And now, tell me, what has become of your grandmother, Hatatcha?”

“I have carried her into the desert to be embalmed.”

And then, to avoid further questioning, he went away.




CHAPTER VI.

KĀRA BATHES IN THE NILE.


Tadros followed him into the street again.

“Those other papyri,” he said--“do you wish me to sell them for you?”

“They are already sold,” replied Kāra, regardless of truth.

“Indeed! To whom?”

“Winston Bey, the Englishman.”

Tadros uttered an exclamation of annoyance.

“Where have you met him?” he asked.

“Here, at the Nile landing. His boat will come to-night for the papyrus
rolls.”

Many thoughts passed rapidly through the dragoman’s mind. Here was bad
news, indeed. He had planned on getting all those wonderful rolls into
his own hands, and his disappointment was keen to find that this
isolated Egyptian of an out-of-the-way rock village had already been
approached and bought up by one of those rascally scientists, before he,
the clever dragoman, had even known of the existence of the treasures.

“He will rob you,” he ventured to suggest.

“Very well,” replied Kāra, indifferently.

Tadros was in despair. Yet one thing was plainly evident--if Winston Bey
was about to unload fourteen newly found rolls of papyrus upon the
directors of the museum in Cairo, it would be well for him, the
dragoman, to get his one roll in first, at the highest possible price.
That could easily be accomplished. Winston’s dahabeah would consume four
or five days on the downward voyage. Tadros could cross the Nile in a
small boat and catch the railway on the other bank, which would land him
in Cairo the next day. He promptly decided to take the railway.

“I expect,” said Kāra, “to be in Cairo myself shortly. If you are there,
I would like to hire your services as dragoman.”

Tadros, aroused from his meditations, gave a start, and wonderingly
examined the speaker from his dirty bare feet all the way up his soiled
burnous to his strong, calm face and faded turban. He had been a native
of Fedah himself, and had known “the royal one,” as he scornfully called
Kāra, from boyhood. Until now he had regarded him as a permanent fixture
of the little village; a listless, lazy do-nothing, supported in some
mysterious way by his grandmother and destined to grow old amid his
solitary surroundings.

Some slight importance Kāra had doubtless acquired through his
inheritance of the papyri; but that he should think of visiting Cairo
and employing the brilliantly appareled dragoman was a marvel that
fairly astounded Tadros. Yet, why not? He would have money. Tadros could
assuredly teach him how to spend it. Kāra might become an incident in
his career--an element in his future prosperity.

“Call upon me at any time,” he said, condescendingly. “You shall have
the advantage of my experience and knowledge of the world.”

“That is what I want,” returned the Egyptian, “and I will pay you
liberally for it.”

He passed into his dwelling, and the dragoman, watching him go, decided
to make speedy preparation for his own departure.

He felt much easier in his mind than at first. What if Winston Bey
purchased the papyrus rolls? Would not Tadros be the young man’s guide?
Very good. Very good, indeed!

Kāra lay down again and slept until after noon. Then he went to the hut
of Nefert, who baked the bread for the village, and bargained with her
for a loaf and a bowl of milk. Also he acquired from her a large, coarse
sack. In exchange he gave her Hatatcha’s water jar, which had come from
Keneh, and an old scarf his grandmother had worn over her head.

He ate the loaf and drank the milk, feeling much refreshed. Then he
carried the sack to his dwelling and placed the papyrus rolls in it.

From the secret cavity beside the arch he took the bronze vase with the
metal stopper, a scarab ring that his grandmother had sometimes worn,
and a slender dagger with a steel blade. The bronze dagger that served
as a key to the rock door he left in the cavity, as well as the lamp.

Having replaced the stone, he glanced around to see whether there was
anything that might be disturbed or stolen during his absence; but the
room was bare of anything to tempt a thief or a despoiler. So he swung
the sack over his shoulder and walked out and around the end of the
mountain on his way to the Nile.

Winston Bey had kept his word. On the chance that the strange Egyptian
he had encountered would manage to secure either valuable information or
some ancient relics from his mysterious grandmother, he had kept his
dahabeah in the neighborhood, ignoring the protests of his unhappy Arab
crew. The afternoon following his interview with Kāra, he landed near
the group of palms an hour before sunset, and waited until darkness fell
without obtaining a sight of the Egyptian. Then he dropped down the
stream to Tel El Armana, where the dahabeah remained until the next
noon.

To-day he figured on another disappointment; but when Gerald Winston had
an object in view he pursued it with dogged determination, and he had
resolved to keep his appointment each day for a week at least before
considering his future actions. There was no question but he was on the
track of an important discovery, and he did not intend to abandon the
quest lightly.

On this second day, therefore, when he approached the grove and saw a
white-robed figure sitting in the shade, his heart gave a joyful bound.
He hurried forward and recognized Kāra, who remained motionless until
the Englishman had saluted him. Then he bowed his head gravely.

Winston’s eyes were on the sack that rested beside the Egyptian, and his
voice sounded eager in spite of his effort to restrain it.

“Well, my brother?” he exclaimed.

“My grandmother, Hatatcha, is dead,” said Kāra.

The Englishman shrank back in horror.

“You have killed her?”

“Oh, no; not at all,” answered the other composedly. “She was dying when
I returned home after my conversation with you. It would not pay me to
kill Hatatcha, you know.”

“What did you learn from her?”

“Nothing. She was beyond questioning. But she whispered that I should
seek under the rushes of her bed for my inheritance, and then Anubis
took her to his kingdom. Her secret, if she had one, she carried with
her.”

Winston was deeply chagrined. He reproached himself for not having
interviewed the old woman in person and endeavored to wrest her secret
from her. Now, alas, it was too late!

“What have you in the sack?” he inquired, almost indifferently.

“My inheritance,” said Kāra.

“Of what does it consist?”

“I have fourteen rolls of ancient papyrus manuscript.”

“Fourteen rolls?” cried Winston, trembling with sudden excitement. “Let
me see them, man--let me see them!”

Kāra did not move.

“I am going to Cairo,” said he. “Will you take me with you in your
boat?”

“Yes; to be sure. Come to the boat at once.”

“That is better,” declared the Egyptian. “You can then examine the
papyri at your leisure and determine whether they are of interest to
you.”

He slowly arose to his feet and swung the sack across his shoulder.
Winston eagerly preceded him. The stifling heat was all forgotten.
Hatatcha’s unfortunate death was forgotten. A treasure had been
unearthed at last, and surely from fourteen manuscripts much important
information might be gleaned.

On the deck of his dahabeah he glanced at the papyri with amazement.
Each one was perfectly preserved and unrolled without danger of
breaking.

“Their condition is extraordinary!” he observed. “Where, did you say,
you found them?”

“In a hollow of earth, covered by the rushes of Hatatcha’s couch.”

Winston raised his head to look at the speaker closely.

“Then they have not been there long, I am sure.”

“That,” said Kāra, with a shrug, “is a matter of which I have no
knowledge.”

The scientist carefully unrolled a manuscript.

“This,” he said, musingly, “is a poem by the poet Pen-ta-urt. And it is
a composition I have never seen before.”

He began reading it, and soon Kāra corrected him in a passage and
explained how he should properly translate it. Winston’s eyes sparkled.
This Egyptian really knew the hieroglyphics better than he did. His
assistance might be invaluable in some ways. Perhaps the man would prove
as remarkable a find as the manuscripts.

The next writing was an address to his soldiers by Amenhotep III, on the
eve of his invasion of Syria. It was beautifully executed, and would
prove a valuable addition to the literature of the fifteenth century
before Christ.

Far into the night Winston pored over the writings, finding in some
veritable treasures and in others little of worth save for their age and
beauty of execution. Still, as a collection, the fourteen rolls
constituted a remarkable library of ancient literature, and its
fortunate discoverer slept but little on that eventful night.

Before daybreak the dahabeah was wheezing and puffing down stream on its
way to Cairo, and Kāra, who had slept well extended upon the deck, was
given a breakfast such as he had never before tasted. The fragrant
coffee was a revelation to him, and the chops and fruit made his eyes
sparkle; yet so sedate was the Egyptian’s demeanor that Winston was
unaware that his guest had never before eaten a properly prepared meal.

The Englishman’s satisfaction this morning was so great that he also
bestowed upon Kāra one of his choicest cigars, and again the Egyptian
tasted a luxury hitherto unknown to him.

While they were quietly enjoying their smoke Winston said:

“Will you sell me the rolls?”

“Yes,” replied Kāra.

“I will give you a thousand Egyptian pounds for them. That, you know, is
about a hundred thousand piastres.”

Kāra made a mental calculation and frowned darkly.

“Perhaps it is not enough,” added Winston, quickly; “but on the other
hand it may be too much altogether. Until I have examined the writings
with more care I cannot value them accurately.”

“I will accept your offer,” said the Egyptian, still frowning. “I am
sure it is fair, and even liberal. What annoys me is that I have made a
fool of myself.”

“In what way?”

“I purchased a girl yesterday, and paid three times what she is worth.”

Winston smiled.

“Do not let it bother you,” he said, in an amused tone. “Few women are
worth what they cost, believe me, and where their sex is concerned men
are often fools.”

“My brother’s speech is wise,” returned the grave Kāra. “I will conceal
my annoyance, for some day I may be indemnified.”

“Had Hatatcha any of the coins of Darius Hystaspes left?” inquired
Winston, after a moment’s thought.

“Here are seven,” said the other, producing them.

The Englishman was delighted.

“I will pay you five pounds each for these,” said he.

“Then they are yours,” declared Kāra.

Afterward he showed the Englishman the bronze vase, which also changed
hands at a liberal purchase price.

“And is this all?” asked Winston.

“It is all,” said Kāra.

“You will be rich, my brother. Here are ten pounds in English gold to
seal our bargain. After we arrive in Cairo I will take you to my banker
and transfer to your account the entire amount due you. You may draw
then upon the bank as you require your money, in any sums that suit your
convenience--so long as it lasts.”

“I thank you,” replied the Egyptian.

As they proceeded down the river, Kāra noted the spotless tunics and
trousers of the Arabs, who one and all regarded “the dirty Copt” with
open contempt. He also examined intently the Englishman’s dress. When
the boat tied up at Assyut to allow Winston to visit a friend who was
convalescent at the excellent hospital maintained there, Kāra walked
through the bazaars, and returned to the dahabeah bearing several bulky
packages.

That night he bathed in the river while the others all lay asleep.
Afterward he stealthily transferred the contents of his turban to a
chamois bag, which he fastened around his neck. Then he flung the old
burnous and the turban overboard.

In the morning they found the Egyptian transformed. He wore an English
shirt, with collar and necktie all of white, loose linen trousers that
were gathered at the ankles in Arab style, and over these a flowing
white burnous of spotless purity. Upon his head was a red fez; upon his
feet red slippers from Algiers; about his neck hung the massive chain of
the kings; upon his finger was his grandmother’s ring set with the
scarab of Ahtka-Rā.

Winston was astonished, and gazed upon the Egyptian with approval. Then
his eye caught the chain, and he uttered an exclamation of wonder.

“Where did you get it?” he asked, clutching at the chain to examine one
of its exquisitely engraved links.

“It is also a part of my inheritance, but an heirloom that I dare not
part with,” returned Kāra. “It is the record of the kings, my ancestors,
from Mēnēs to Ahtka-Rā,” and he explained the meaning of the chain to
Winston, and assisted him to decipher some of the inscriptions upon the
heavy links.

“But this is a priceless treasure!” exclaimed the savant, filled with
unbounded amazement at what he beheld.

“It is proof of my contention that I am of royal blood,” answered the
other, proudly. “While I live I will not be separated from it.”

“You are right,” agreed Winston, promptly; and from that moment he
entertained a new respect for this humble descendant of the ancient
rulers of Egypt.

Not one of the manuscripts mentioned Ahtka-Rā; but the chain had at its
end the link of that astute leader of men, and his identity was thus
established beyond a doubt. The scarab, of unquestionable antiquity, was
likewise a proof that Kāra’s ancestor was a descendant of kings.
Immediately the young Egyptian became a person of consequence.

Kāra now smoked cigarettes, having purchased several boxes at Assyut.
This was the most satisfactory luxury that attended his new condition,
and conspired, more than anything else, to render him pleased with his
lot.

The dahabeah arrived in Cairo on the morning of the fourth day.

Winston at once took a carriage and drove Kāra to the bank, where he
placed the sum agreed upon to the young Egyptian’s credit. Kāra, who
wrote English in a clear and delicate hand, was given a cheque book and
registered his signature as follows: “Prince Kāra.”

“Residence?” inquired the banker.

“I have just arrived, and am not yet located,” was the answer.
“To-morrow I will send you my address.”

“Let me also know where you are to be found,” said Winston, “for I must
introduce you to the Egyptologists here.”

Then he left his new acquaintance to drive post haste to the museum,
there to show his new-found treasures to his many friends.




CHAPTER VII.

A STEP TOWARD THE GOAL.


Kāra wandered about the streets. Cairo is a marvel to the most blasé
traveler; it could not fail to impress an inexperienced native. But the
Egyptian masked the astonishment under an expression cold and reserved
and a manner dignified and undemonstrative. No one must suspect he was
fresh from the desert and the Nile country. The shops of the jewelers
especially attracted his attention, and he stopped many times to examine
the splendid gems displayed in the windows. Some were priced, and he
wondered at their value. It is said that no capital in the world
contains so many rare and costly gems as Cairo.

In the evening he crossed the great bridge of Isma’il Pasha to the
island of Gizireh, staring at the procession of carriages, camels,
automobiles and donkeys that at twilight followed on one another’s
heels. In the carriages and automobiles rode Syrians, Turks, Copts and
Arabs, clothed in conventional European dress, save for the red fez
everywhere prevalent. The burnous and native dress had been abandoned by
these aristocrats, and this met with Kāra’s full approval. He was not
averse to innovations upon the ancient customs in which he had been
reared. If the dominant people of his country and age were English, then
the manners and customs of the English should be adopted by those who
wished to compete with them in importance.

Also he began to understand that it is more dignified to ride than to
walk. At Gizireh he hailed a carriage and in it returned across the
bridge, avoiding the dust and heat and mingling with a procession of
beautifully costumed women and handsomely dressed men. His own costume
was poor enough in comparison, but his magnificent chain drew the eye of
more than one curious observer.

And now Cairo was ablaze with lights, and the population seemed gathered
upon the sidewalks before the cafés and restaurants. Kāra discovered
that he was hungry. He dismissed his carriage and seated himself at one
of the outdoor tables, ordering liberal refreshment. Opposite him sat a
young English girl with a vacant-faced man for escort. Kāra, as he ate,
examined this girl critically, for she was the first of her class he had
seen at close range. Her dress was dainty and beautiful; but she was not
fat at all. She was vivacious, and talked and laughed with unrestrained
liberty. She seemed to imagine herself on an equality with the man
beside her, who, despite his inanity, was still a man. Altogether, Kāra
was disappointed in her, although his grandmother had warned him that
the training of European women imbued them with peculiar ideas, to which
he must defer in his association with them.

As he watched the girl, Nephthys rose several degrees in Kāra’s
estimation. Nephthys was certainly

[Illustration: In the evening he crossed the great bridge of Isma’il
Pasha to the island of Gizireh]

fat and soft of flesh, and she did not talk much. The possession of such
a woman was quite desirable, and perhaps he had not paid an extravagant
price for Nephthys after all. These independent, chattering Western
women must be tolerated, however, until he had accomplished his mission;
so it would be well to begin at once to study their ways.

Presently someone touched his shoulder familiarly, causing Kāra to
shrink back with an indignant gesture. Tadros, the dragoman, stood
smilingly beside him, more gorgeously arrayed than ever. Tadros was in
an excellent humor. He had not been obliged to take his roll of papyrus
to the museum for a market, but had disposed of it to a private
collector for a price far exceeding his expectations, which had not been
too modest. Altogether he had made an excellent trade, and there might
be other pickings in this unsophisticated fellow-townsman of his, whose
very presence in Cairo was warrant that he had money to part with.

Before accosting Kāra the dragoman had observed the change in his
appearance and demeanor. The former recluse was no longer disgustingly
filthy, but seemed clean in person and was gowned in a snowy and
respectable burnous. The objectionable turban had given place to the
fez; the red slippers were of excellent morocco. Best of all, the chain
around his neck was rich and heavy and of remarkable workmanship. Kāra
was not only presentable, but his manner was dignified and well bred.

All this indicated suddenly acquired wealth--that mysterious old
Hatatcha must have left to her grandson much more than the papyrus
rolls; and although Kāra might endeavor to be secret and
uncommunicative, he was bound to betray himself before very long. Now
was the heated term, and even gay Cairo was listless and enervated. The
dragoman would have ample leisure to pick this bone skilfully before the
tourist season arrived.

Kāra’s first angry exclamation was followed by a word of greeting. He
was glad Tadros had found him, for as yet he had secured no place of
residence, and the bigness of the city somewhat bewildered him in spite
of his assumed reserve.

The dragoman agreed to take him to a respectable rooming-house much
frequented by Copts of the better class. When they had arrived there,
Kāra’s guide made a mystic sign to the proprietor, who promptly charged
his new guest double the usual rate, and obtained it because the
Egyptian was unaware he was being robbed. The room assigned him was a
simply furnished, box-like affair; yet Kāra had never before occupied an
apartment so luxurious. He examined the door with care and was pleased
to find that it was supplied with a stout bolt as well as a lock and
key.

“Now,” said the dragoman, “it is yet early; we have barely crossed the
edge of the evening. I will take you to the theatre to see the dancing
girls, and later to a house where they wager money upon a singular and
interesting game of red and black. We can afterward eat our supper at a
restaurant and listen to a fine band composed of Hungarian gypsies. How
will that suit you?”

“Not at all,” replied Kāra, coldly. “I am going to bed. Be here to
receive my orders at seven o’clock in the morning.”

Tadros fairly gasped with astonishment.

“Seven o’clock is too early,” he said, a little sullenly. “The city is
asleep at that hour.”

“When does it awaken?”

“Well, the shops are open at about nine.”

“Come to me, then, at nine. Good night.”

This summary dismissal was a severe disappointment to the dragoman, yet
he had no alternative but to take his leave. Strange that Kāra had
refused the dancing girls and the game table; but perhaps he was really
tired. Tadros must not expect too much from his innocent at first.

At nine o’clock the next morning he found that the young Egyptian had
breakfasted and was impatiently awaiting him.

“Take me to the leading jeweler in town,” said Kāra.

The dragoman frowned, but presently brightened again and took his
employer to a second-rate shop, where his commissions were assured.

“Not here,” said Kāra. “I have seen much better shops.”

Tadros tried again, but with no better success; so he altered his plans
and took Kāra direct to Andalaft’s, trusting to luck to exact a
commission afterward.

“Now, then,” said he, briskly, “what shall we examine first?”

But Kāra ignored him, asking to see the proprietor in private. Mr.
Andalaft graciously consented to the interview, and when the Egyptian
entered the great jeweler’s private room Tadros was left outside.

Kāra laid a splendid ruby upon the merchant’s table. The latter pounced
upon it with an eager exclamation.

“It is very old,” said the Egyptian. “Tell me, sir, is there any one in
Cairo who can recut it in the modern fashion?”

“But it will be a shame to alter this exquisite gem,” protested
Andalaft. “It is the square, flat cutting of the ancients, and shows the
stone to be absolutely pure and flawless. Such specimens are rare in
these days. Let it alone.”

Kāra shook his head with positiveness.

“I must have it recut,” said he, “and by the best man obtainable.”

“Ah, that is Van der Veen, the Hollander. He does all my important work.
But Van der Veen will himself argue against the desecration. He is a man
of judgment.”

“Where can I find him?” asked the prince.

The merchant reflected.

“I will give you a letter to him,” said he. “If the stone must be recut,
I want Van der Veen to do it himself. He has three sons who are all
expert workmen, but no one in the world can excel the father.”

He wrote the note, addressed it, and gave it to Kāra. Then he again
picked up the ruby and examined it.

“If you would but sell it,” he suggested, with hesitation, “I could
secure for you a liberal price. The Khedive has placed with me an order
for a necklace of the ancient Egyptian gems; but in two years I have
been unable to secure more than three stones, none of which compare with
this in size or beauty. Allow me.”

He opened a drawer and displayed the three antique stones--two emeralds
and an amethyst. Kāra smiled, and putting his hand in a pocket
underneath his burnous, he drew out five more rubies, but little
inferior in size to the one he had first shown.

“Tell me,” said he, “what price you will pay for these, to add to the
Khedive’s necklace.”

Andalaft was amazed, but concealed his joy and eagerness as much as
possible. Carefully he examined the gems under a glass and then weighed
each one in his scales.

“I will give you,” said he, after figuring a little, “four hundred
pounds for the five stones.”

Kāra shrugged his shoulders and picked up the rubies.

“That may be the price for ordinary gems,” he remarked; “but their age
and cutting give these an added value. I am holding them at eight
hundred pounds.”

The merchant smiled.

“It is easy to understand,” said he, with politeness, “that you are a
connoisseur of precious stones; but, because you love the antique, your
partiality induces you to place an undue value upon your rubies. Come!
let us say six hundred.”

“I will not bargain,” returned the Egyptian; “nor do I urge you to buy.
If you cannot afford to pay my price I will keep the rubies,” and he
made a motion to gather them up.

“Stay!” exclaimed the jeweler. “What does it matter? The Khedive wishes
them, and I must make the sacrifice for his pleasure.”

With a hand he vainly endeavored to render steady he wrote a check for
the sum demanded, and Kāra took it and went away. Andalaft had made an
excellent bargain; yet the Egyptian, for all his cleverness, did not
know that he had been victimized.

At the house of the diamond-cutter, on a quiet side street at the lower
end of the Mouski, Kāra had a long interview with Van der Veen and his
three sons. As a result they agreed, after examining the magnificent
diamonds shown them, to devote their exclusive services to Prince Kāra
for a full year, he promising to keep them busy with the work of
recutting his collection of ancient gems.

Afterward he sent Tadros with notes to Gerald Winston and the banker,
informing them of his temporary address, as he had promised. Then he had
an excellent luncheon and smoked a Cuban cigar. In the afternoon he
followed his imploring dragoman into several shops where he made simple
purchases, and returned early to his hotel to find Winston impatiently
awaiting him.

“You must accompany me at once to see my friend Professor Daressy, with
whom I am already disputing concerning the new papyri. He is much
interested in your method of interpreting the manuscripts, but requires
a better proof of its accuracy than I can give him. Will you come?”

“It will give me pleasure,” answered Kāra--he drove with Winston to the
curator’s house. His knowledge of the hieroglyphics was well founded,
and he was not averse to an argument with the two savants. Indeed, they
found his explanations so clear and concise that they were equally
amazed and delighted.

The Egyptian dined with them in a private room, where the discussion
could not be interrupted, and it was late in the evening when he
returned thoughtfully to his own humble lodging.

“Tadros,” said he, “find me a comfortable house in a good part of the
city. Something like that of Professor Daressy will do.”

“It will cost a lot of money,” objected the dragoman.

“Never mind; I will pay the price,” returned the prince, haughtily.

So the next day Tadros rented a furnished house near the Ezbekieh
Gardens for twelve hundred piastres a month, and charged Kāra two
thousand piastres for it. The prince moved in, and for three or four
weeks devoted himself to watching the Van der Veens recut his treasures,
to long conversations with those Egyptologists who were spending the
heated term in Cairo, and to a study of the collection of ancient relics
in the great museum which Maspero had founded under Said Pasha.
Incidentally he observed the social life and manners of those with whom
he came in contact, and acquired a polish of his own in a surprisingly
short period.

At the end of the month he returned to Fedah, taking his dragoman with
him. Tadros went without protest, for he was making excellent profits
from his old-time friend and had perfected a system of robbery that
almost doubled Prince Kāra’s expenses.

They traveled by train and crossed the river in a boat, arriving in the
evening at the tiny village. Tadros carried Kāra’s large traveling case
and walked behind him, as was fitting in a paid retainer.

And so they entered the narrow street of the village, where all the
dozen or so inhabitants stood in their doorways to stare and nod gravely
at their returned fellow-citizens.

Kāra bade his dragoman leave the luggage in his own dwelling and seek a
lodging for himself with old Nefert or Amenka. He then walked on to
where Sĕra and her daughter awaited him.

He pinched Nephthys’ fat cheeks, felt of her round bare arms, and
finally kissed her lips, declaring that she was steadily improving in
condition and would put to shame many of the women of Cairo.

Nephthys allowed the caresses listlessly, her eyes only brightening
slightly when the gaily dressed dragoman came near and stood watching
the proceedings. He wore a green jacket with gold embroidery to-day, and
the girl observed it with evident approval.

“I sold her too cheaply, Kāra,” remarked the dragoman, stroking his thin
mustache reflectively.

“In that I do not agree with you,” answered Kāra.

“I will pay double the price for her return,” said Tadros.

“The girl is not for sale. And see here, my man, keep your hands off her
while you are in Fedah, or I will be obliged to kill you.”

“Never fear; I know my duties,” replied the dragoman, turning on his
heel. It would not be wise to offend Kāra just now. The bone was not yet
picked.

Nephthys put on her spangled gown and sat upon Kāra’s knee, while her
mother brought cakes and milk for their refreshment. Kāra threw a chain
of beads over the girl’s head, and she laughed for very pleasure. Sĕra
felt of the beads and counted them. They were blue, and had cost five
piastres, but the two women were delighted with them and would enjoy
their possession for many days.

It was late when Kāra left Sĕra’s hut.

“In the winter,” said he, “I will doubtless come for the girl and take
her to Cairo. Then you shall have the rest of your money. Meantime, here
is backshish to console you.”

He gave her a piece of gold--the first she had ever possessed--and went
away to his dwelling.

“Nephthys,” said the mother, “I am proud of you. You have made us both
rich!”




CHAPTER VIII.

HIS GRANDMOTHER’S MUMMY.


When Fedah seemed asleep, Kāra took the lamp and the bronze dagger from
their hiding place and swung back the stone in the rear wall, passing
through into the mountain cavern. Then, replacing the stone, he made his
way along the crevice, through the circular rock door into the arched
passage, and down the latter to the mummy chamber.

Here he removed the lid of Hatatcha’s mummy case and carefully dusted
the interior. The forty days were ended. The case might have its
occupant before morning.

Within the splendidly carven casket Kāra found an oblong green stone,
with polished flat surfaces. On one of these surfaces was the cartouche
of Ahtka-Rā, as follows:

[Illustration: hyroglyphic cartouche]

The Egyptian examined this relic carefully and placed it in his pocket.
It was the emerald that Hatatcha had promised the dwarf Sebbet in
payment for embalming her body. How Andalaft’s eyes would sparkle could
he but see this wonder!

But this thought reminded Kāra that he was loitering. He picked up his
lamp and went to the mummy of Ahtka-Rā, sliding back the slab of
malachite and descending through the opening to the treasure chamber
hidden below.

His first act was to inventory carefully the contents of the twelve
great vases that stood upon their alabaster pedestals. From these vases
he abstracted choice specimens of emeralds, sapphires, diamonds and
rubies, filling with them several small leathern sacks he had brought
concealed upon his person. Perhaps he had taken a fortune in this
careless manner; but so vast was the treasure that the contents of the
vases seemed scarcely disturbed.

In one of the numerous jars resting upon the granite floor, and which
had doubtless been added to the hoard at a much later period than that
of Ahtka-Rā, the Egyptian found a quantity of pearls of a size and
quality that rendered them almost peerless among the treasures of the
world. The jar contained a full quart, and Kāra took them all. At the
moment he did not comprehend their value, although Hatatcha had told him
that a single one of these pearls would be sufficient to ransom a
kingdom.

The gems he had already secured were enough to weigh heavily upon his
person; but Kāra was greedy. He examined the contents of many jars and
vases, choosing here and there a jewel that appealed to his fancy, and
adding to his selection a number of exquisite ornaments of wrought
gold; but at last he was forced to admit that he had taken enough from
the treasure chamber to answer his present purposes, and so he
reluctantly returned to the vault above.

As he closed the slab, his eye fell upon a strange jewel set in the
mummy case of Ahtka-Rā. It was surrounded by a protecting band of chased
gold, and sparkled under the rays of Kāra’s lamp in a manner that
distinguished it from any of the thousands of other gems that literally
covered the mummy case of the great Egyptian; for at first this odd
jewel had a dark steely lustre, which changed while Kāra’s eyes rested
upon it to a rich transparent orange, and then to an opal ground with
tongues of flame running through it. A moment later the color had faded
to a dull gray, which gradually took on a greenish tinge.

Kāra set down the lamp and pried the stone from its setting with the
point of his dagger, placing it afterward in a secure inner pocket of
his robe. As he did so, a golden bust of Isis that stood upon the mummy
case toppled and fell to the pavement, and from a hollow underneath the
bust rolled a small manuscript of papyrus. This Kāra took also, and
replaced the bust in its former position. His nerves must have been of
iron, for the uncanny incident had not even startled him.

Now he made his way back to the entrance and along the passage, finally
emerging with his treasure into the room that had been his former
dwelling-place. All was silent and dark. A mild bray from the blind
Nikko’s donkey was occasionally heard, and at times the far-away hoot
of a desert owl; but those within the village seemed steeped in slumber.

Kāra divided his burden by placing the greater part in his traveling
case, which he locked securely. Then he reclined upon the rushes and was
about to compose himself to sleep when the mat across the archway was
thrust aside and Sebbet entered.

“I am here, most royal one!” he announced.

Kāra sat up.

“And my grandmother?” he inquired.

“Here also, my prince. Ah, how natural is Hatatcha! You will be
delighted. It is a skilful and almost perfect piece of work, even though
I praise my own craft in saying so.”

With these words the dwarf led in the donkey. Upon its back was the form
of a swaddled mummy, which was bound to a flat plank to hold it rigidly
extended.

“I will show you the face,” continued Sebbet, in an eager tone, as he
lifted the mummy and placed it upon the ground.

“Do not trouble yourself,” said Kāra. “I will look upon my grandmother
at my leisure. The night is waning. Take your price and go your way.”

He handed the dwarf the emerald, holding the lamp, which he had
relighted, while Sebbet examined the stone with great care.

“Yes; it is the great emerald with the cartouche of Ahtka-Rā,” said the
embalmer, in a low, grave voice. “Osiris be praised that at last it is
my own! Hatatcha was a wise woman, and she kept her word.”

Kāra extinguished the light, but the moon was shining and sent some of
its rays through the arch to relieve the gloom.

“Good-night,” said he.

The dwarf stood still, thinking deeply. Finally he said, glancing at the
mummy:

“Where will my old friend repose?”

“It is her secret,” returned the prince, brusquely. “She trusted you not
to ask questions.”

“And yourself? Will you not wish to be mummified when your course is
run?”

Kāra laughed.

“Ah, my Sebbet, are you immortal?” he asked. “Do you expect to live to
embalm all the generations? You made a mummy of my great-grandmother and
of my grandmother. Your hairs are now white. Be content, and think upon
your own future.”

“That has already occupied my mind,” answered the dwarf, quietly.
“Farewell, then, prince of a royal line. Your ancestors thought first of
the tomb, then of the life preceding it. You are indulging in life, with
no thought of the tomb and the resurrection. It is the new order of
things, the trend of a civilization that forgets its dead and hides the
silent ones in the earth, that they may putrify and decay and become
mere dust. Very well; the age is yours, not mine. May Osiris guide thy
life, my prince!”

He turned to his donkey and led the ghost-like animal out into the
night. Kāra stood still, and in a moment he could hear their footsteps
no longer.

Then he secured the mat before the arch and for a second time swung back
the stone in the wall. This done, he felt in the dusk for the mummy of
Hatatcha, and lifting it in his arms, bore it through the opening and
replaced the stone. The body was heavy, and he panted as he paused to
light his lamp.

It was nearly an hour before Kāra, weary and perspiring, finally
deposited the mummy of his grandmother beside its elaborately
constructed case. He then unfastened the straps that bound it to the
board, and by exercising great care succeeded in placing the body in its
coffin without breaking or injuring it. Next he removed the outer strips
of linen that swathed the head until the outlines of Hatatcha’s face
showed clearly through its mask of tightly drawn bandages. Then he stood
aside, and holding up the lamp, gazed long and earnestly upon the calm
features.

“I promised,” he murmured, “here to repeat my oath: That I will show no
mercy to any one of Lord Roane’s family; that I will hunt them down,
every one, as a tiger hunts his prey, and crush and humble them in the
eyes of all men; that not one shall finally escape my vengeance, and
that all shall know in the end that it was Hatatcha who destroyed them.
So be it. By Āmen-Rā, the Sun-God who gave me being; by Ahtka-Rā, whose
blood now courses through my veins; by my hope of peace on earth and in
the life to come, I swear that Hatatcha’s will shall be obeyed!”

His voice was cold and even of tone; his face grave, but unmoved. He
placed his hand upon the breast of the mummy and repeated the mystic
sign he had used at her death-bed. This done, he raised the heavy carved
lid of the case and placed it in position.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning Kāra gave Nephthys a kiss and returned across the river on
his way to Cairo. The dragoman carried the traveling bag and grumbled at
its weight. He was in a bad humor. It is all very well to make money,
and Kāra is a veritable mine; but had Tadros realized that Nephthys was
so fat and flabby, it would have required much more than a roll of
papyrus to induce him to part with her. True, he had managed, while her
master was asleep, to stealthily meet the girl and embrace her; but he
lacked the satisfaction that exists in proprietorship. One should be
careful about selling young women. They are like untried camels--liable
to develop unexpected and valuable qualities.

These reflections engrossed the dragoman all the way to Cairo; but there
were other things to demand his attention. Prince Kāra announced his
intention of taking the next steamer to Naples, and then traveling to
Paris and London. He asked Tadros to accompany him.

“But that is impossible!” was the reply. “I am a dragoman of Egypt, the
chief of my profession, a guide unequaled for knowledge, intelligence
and fidelity in all the land! But take me away from my own country, and
what am I? Take me from the poor tourists, and what will become of
them?”

“I need you in Europe, to do things in my service that I would not dare
propose to anyone else. I believe,” said the prince, coolly, “that you
are an unprincipled scoundrel. You lie easily and without hesitation;
you rob me cheerfully every day that you are in my employ; you have no
conscience and no morality, except that you are afraid of the law. I
have studied your character with care, and I have estimated it aright.”

Tadros first looked shame-faced, then humble, then indignant.

“By every god of Egypt,” he cried, earnestly, “I am an honest man!”

“That is proof of my assertion to the contrary,” replied the unmoved
Kāra. “Now, I need a scoundrel to assist me, and you are the man of my
choice. Continue to fleece me, if you like; I do not mind. But if you
serve me faithfully in some delicate matters that will soon require my
attention, I will make you the richest dragoman alive, so that Raschid
and the Haieks will all turn green with envy. On the other hand, should
you choose to betray me, you will not require riches, for the nether
world has no commerce.”

Tadros thought it over.

“We are Egyptians,” he said, at last. “Your enemies are equally mine.
Very well; command and I will obey. Are you not a prince of my people?
And why should I ever wish to betray you?”

“Because wise men sometimes become fools. In your case a lapse from
wisdom means death. Others may bribe you with an equal amount of money,
but I alone will exact the penalty for betrayal. I think you will remain
wise.”

“Ah, that is certain, my prince!” declared Tadros, with conviction.

And so Kāra sailed from Alexandria, taking with him the great diamonds
which the Van der Veens had already recut, the wonderful pearls which no
eye but his had yet beheld, and the priceless treasures of Ahtka-Rā.

The dragoman followed him, humble and obedient.




CHAPTER IX.

ANETH.


Charles Consinor, ninth Earl of Roane, was considerably discouraged at
the moment when Luke the butler placed the big blue government envelope
upon his table, thoughtfully leaving it at the top of the daily heap of
missives from impatient creditors.

During a gay and dissipated life, his lordship had seen the ample
fortune left him by his father gradually melt away, until now, in his
old age, he found it difficult to secure sufficient funds to enable him
to maintain a respectable position in the world. He had been ably
assisted in his extravagances by his only son, the Viscount Roger
Consinor, who for twenty years past had performed his full share in
dissipating the family fortunes.

Aside from their mutual prodigality, however, the two men had little in
common. The father was reckless, open-handed and careless of
consequences, indulging himself frankly in such dissipations as most men
are careful to hide. The son was reserved and sullen, and posed as a man
eminently respectable, confining his irregularities mainly to the gaming
table. Between them they had loaded the estates with mortgages and sold
every stick and stone that could be sold. At last the inevitable
happened and they faced absolute ruin.

There seemed no way out of their difficulties. The viscount had
unfortunately married a wife with no resources whatever, although her
family connections were irreproachable. The poor viscountess had been a
confirmed invalid ever since her baby girl was born, some eighteen years
before, and was merely tolerated in the big, half-ruined London mansion,
being neglected alike by her husband and her father-in-law, who had both
come to look upon her as a useless incumbrance. More than that, they
resented the presence of a young, awkward girl in the house, and for
that reason banished Aneth at twelve to a girl’s school in Cheshire,
where she had remained, practically forgotten, until her eighteenth
year. Then the lady preceptress shipped her home because her tuition fee
was not promptly paid.

Aneth found her mother so confirmed in the selfish habits of the
persistent invalid, that the girl’s society, fresh and cheery though it
proved, only irritated her nerves. She found her father, the morose
viscount, absolutely indifferent and unresponsive to her desire to be
loved and admitted into his companionship. But old Lord Roane, her
grandfather, had still a weakness for a pretty face, and Aneth was
certainly pretty. Moreover, she was sweet and pure and maidenly, and no
one was better able to admire and appreciate such qualities than the
worn-out roué whose life had been mainly spent in the society of light
women. So he took the girl to his evil old heart, and loved her, and
tried to prevent her discovering how unworthy he was of her affection.
The love for his granddaughter became the one unselfish, honest love of
his life, and it assisted wonderfully in restoring in him some portion
of his long-lost self-respect.

Aneth, finding no other friend in the gloomy establishment that was now
her home, soon became devoted, in turn, to her grandsire, and although
she was shrewd enough, in spite of her inexperience, to realize that his
life had been, and still was, somewhat coarse and dissipated, she fondly
imagined that her influence would, to an extent, reclaim him--which it
actually did, but only to an extent.

There was little concealment in the family circle as to the state of
their finances. Father and son quarreled openly about the division of
what little money could be raised on the overburdened estates, and the
girl was not long in realizing the difficulties of their position. If
the viscount had nothing to gamble with, he became insufferable and
almost brutal in his manner; if Lord Roane could not afford to dine at
the club and amuse himself afterward, he was irritable and abusive to
all with whom he came in contact, save only his granddaughter. The
household expenses were matters of credit, and the wages of the servants
were greatly in arrears.

And so, when the affairs of the family had become well-nigh desperate,
the big blue envelope with the government stamp arrived, and like magic
all their difficulties dissolved.

A newly appointed cabinet minister--a man whom Lord Roane had reason to
consider an enemy rather than a friend--had for some surprising and
unknown reason interested himself in Roane’s behalf, and the result was
a diplomatic post for him in Egypt under Lord Cromer, and a position for
the viscount in the Egyptian Department of Finance. The appointments
were lucrative and honorable, and indicated the Government’s perfect
confidence in both father and son.

Lord Roane was astounded. Never would he have dared demand such
consideration, and to have these honors thrust upon him at a time when
they would practically rescue his name and fortune from ruin was almost
unbelievable.

He accepted the appointment with alacrity, joyful at the prospect of a
winter in gay Cairo. Roger shared his father’s felicity, because the
gaming in the oriental city would be more fascinating than that of
London, where people had begun to frown when he entered a room. The
invalid viscountess hoped Egypt would benefit her health. Aneth welcomed
any change from the horrible condition in which they had existed
latterly.

“Grandfather,” said she, gravely, “our gracious Queen has given to you
and to my father positions of great trust. I am sure that you will
personally do your duty loyally, and with credit to our honored name;
but I’m afraid for father. Will you promise me to keep him from
card-playing and urge him to lead a more reputable life?”

“Phoo! Nonsense, child. Roger will behave himself, I am sure, now that
he will have important duties to occupy him. The Minister of Finance
will keep him busy, never fear, and he will have neither time nor
inclination for folly. Don’t worry, little one. Our fortunes have
changed; we shall now be able to pay the butcher and baker and
candlestick-maker, and there is little doubt the Consinors will speedily
become the pride of the nation. Ahem! Tell Luke, my dear, to fetch my
brandy and soda as you go out. And, stay! Remember, we are to leave
London on the fourth of October and you must have both your mother and
yourself ready to depart promptly. I depend upon you, Aneth.”

She kissed him and went away without further comment, reflecting, with a
sigh, that her fears and warnings were alike unheeded.

Lord Roane, left to himself, began wondering anew to what whim of fate
he owed his good fortune. Really, there seemed no clue to the mystery.

It was a complicated matter, even to one on the inside, so it is no
wonder the old nobleman failed to comprehend it.

Many years ago the cabinet minister and Lord Roane had been intimate
friends; then the former fell madly in love with a little Egyptian
princess who was the rage of the London season, and sought her hand in
marriage. Roane also became enamored of the beautiful Hatatcha, and went
so far as to apply for a divorce from his wife, that he might wed her.
The fascinating Egyptian, guileless of European customs and won by the
masterful ardor of Roane, chose him from among all her suitors, and
casting aside the honest love of Roane’s friend, fell unconsciously into
the trap set for her and became the mistress of the man who promised her
such rare devotion. Presently, however, the heartless roué tired of his
easy conquest and carelessly thrust her aside, although the divorce for
which he had applied on false representations had now been granted, and
he was free to marry his victim had he so wished.

All London was indignant at his act at the time, and no one was more
enraged than Roane’s former friend. He searched everywhere for the
Egyptian princess when Hatatcha fled from London to hide her shame, and
on his return from the unsuccessful quest, he quarreled with Roane and
would have killed him had not mutual friends interposed.

Time had, of course, seared all these old wounds, although the hatred
between the two men would endure to the grave. The betrayer was careless
of criticism and wealthy enough to defy it. The man who had truly loved
was broken-hearted, and from that time avoided all society and
especially that of women. But he plunged into politics for diversion,
and in that field won for himself such honor and renown in future years
that at last he became a member of Her Majesty’s cabinet, second in
power only to the Premier himself.

Thus Prince Kāra found him. The Egyptian had only to use the magic name
of Hatatcha to secure a private audience with the great man, who
listened quietly while Kāra demanded vengeance upon his grandmother’s
betrayer.

“In England,” said the minister, “there is no vendetta. The rage I
fostered thirty-odd years ago, when my heart was wrung with despair, has
long since worn itself out. Time evens up these old scores without human
interference. Roane is to-day on the verge of ruin. His only son is a
confirmed gambler. Their race is nearly run, and the gray hairs of
Hatatcha’s false lover will go dishonored to the grave. Is that not
enough?”

“By no means,” returned Prince Kāra, with composure. “They must be made
to suffer as my grandmother suffered, but with added agony for the years
of impunity that have elapsed. It was her will--the desire of her long,
miserable life. Will you, her old friend, deny her right to be avenged?”

A flood of resentment swept into the heart of the listener. Years may
sear a wound; but if it is deep, the scar remains.

“What do you ask of me?” he answered.

Before replying, Kāra reflected for some time, his eyes steadily fixed
upon the floor.

“Are there no women in Lord Roane’s family?” he asked, finally.

“There are two, I believe--his son’s wife, who is an invalid, and his
granddaughter.”

“Ah!” The long-drawn exclamation was one of triumphant satisfaction.
Again the Egyptian relapsed into thought, and the minister was growing
impatient when his strange visitor at last spoke.

“Sir,” said he, “you ask me what you can do to assist me. I will tell
you. Obtain for Lord Roane a diplomatic post in Cairo, under Lord
Cromer. Obtain some honorable place for his son as well. That will take
the entire family to Egypt--my own country.”

“Well?”

“In London there is no vendetta. Crimes that the law cannot reach are
allowed to go unpunished. In Egypt we are Nature’s children. No false
civilization glosses our wrongs or denies our right to protect our
honor. I implore you, my lord, as you respect the memory of poor
Hatatcha, to send Lord Roane and his family to Egypt.”

“I will,” said the minister, with stern brow.

And so it was that the Government remembered old Lord Roane, and
likewise his illustrious son, the Viscount Roger Consinor, and sent them
to Egypt on missions of trust.




CHAPTER X.

LORD CROMER’S RECEPTION.


It was but natural that Lord Cromer, with his intense loyalty to the
home Government, should endeavor to show every honor to the latest
recipients of Her Majesty’s favor. He gave a splendid dinner to Lord
Roane and his family, which was followed by a reception attended by
nearly every important personage then in Cairo.

At the dinner Gerald Winston was introduced to Aneth Consinor, and had
the good fortune to be selected to escort her to the table. She won the
big Englishman with the first glance from her clear, innocent eyes, and
he was delighted to find that she conversed easily and with intelligence
upon the themes that most interested him.

Winston knew something of the reputation of Lord Roane at home, and
remembered not only his intrigue with the Egyptian princess in his
youth, but the gossip of many more recent escapades that were distinctly
unsavory. He had also heard whispers concerning his son, the viscount,
that served to cast more or less discredit upon a name already sadly
tarnished; but no one could look into Aneth’s candid eyes without being
convinced that she was innocent of the sins of her fathers. Winston
exonerated her at once of any possible contamination from such sources,
rejoicing exultantly that the English maiden was unconscious of the
smirch of her environments. However, as he listened to the girl’s bright
chatter, an incongruous thought struck him and made him frown
involuntarily. He remembered that she was a cousin--on the left hand, to
be sure, but no less an unrecognized second cousin--to that dirty
Egyptian whom he had lately discovered under the palms of Fedah, and who
had since, by an astonishing evolution, become Prince Kāra. Lord Roane
was grandfather to them both. It was not Aneth’s fault--perhaps she
would never know of the illicit relationship; but his own knowledge of
the fact rendered him uneasy for her sake, and he began to wish she had
never been allowed to set foot in Egypt.

But here she was, and apparently very happy and contented by his side.

“Perhaps I am wrong in my estimate of Cleopatra,” she was saying; “but
the inscriptions on the temple at Dendera seem to prove her to have been
religious and high-minded to a degree. Perhaps it is Shakespeare’s
romance of Antony and Cleopatra that has poisoned our minds as to the
character of a noble woman.”

“Have you been to Dendera?” he asked; “and can you read the
inscriptions?”

“I have penetrated into Egypt no farther than Cairo, Mr. Winston,” she
responded, with a laugh; “therefore my acquaintance with the temples is
confined to what I have read. But at my school was a teacher
passionately fond of Egyptology, and around her she gathered a group of
girls whom she inspired with a similar love for the subject. We have
read everything we could procure that might assist us in our studies,
and--don’t laugh, sir!--I can even write hieroglyphics a bit myself.”

“That is quite simple,” said he, smiling; “but can you decipher and
translate the sign language?”

“No; so many individual signs mean so many different things, and it is
so impossible to decide whether the inscription begins to read from
right to left, or in the middle, or up or down!”

“That may well puzzle more experienced heads than yours, Miss Consinor,”
said he. “Indeed, I know of but one man living who reads the
hieroglyphics unerringly.”

“And who is that?” she asked, with eager interest.

He bit his lip, blaming himself for the thoughtless slip of his tongue.
Nothing should induce him to mention Kāra by name to this girl.

“A native whom I recently met,” he answered, evasively. “But tell me,
are you not going to make the Nile trip?”

“I hope so, when my grandfather has time to take me; but he says his new
duties will require all his present attention, and unfortunately they
are connected with the new works in the Delta rather than with upper
Egypt.” She glanced across at Lord Roane, who was conversing lightly
with two high dignitaries, and his eyes followed hers. “But won’t you
tell me something of your own experiences in the Nile country?” she
asked. “I am told you are a very great discoverer, and have lately
unearthed a number of priceless ancient papyri.”

“They are interesting,” returned Winston, modestly, “but not so
extraordinary as to deserve your comment. Indeed, Miss Consinor,
although I have been many years in Egypt, engaged in quiet explorations,
I cannot claim to have added much to the vast treasures that have been
accumulated.”

“But His Grace the Khedive has made you a Bey,” she persisted.

He laughed frankly and without affectation.

“The Khedive has this cheerful way of rewarding those who will spend
their money to make his ancient domain famous,” he replied. “Beys are as
plentiful in Egypt as are counts in France.”

“But you have made _some_ discoveries, I am sure. The wonderful papyri,
for instance--where did you find them?”

“I bought them, Miss Consinor, with good English money.”

She appeared disappointed, but brightened a moment later.

“At least it was you who discovered and excavated the birth-house at Kom
Ombos. I have read your article concerning it in the _Saturday Review_.”

“Then you know all about it,” said he. “But see; nearly opposite us is
the great Maspero himself--the man who has done more for Egypt than all
the rest of us combined. Does he not look the savant? Let me tell you
something of his most important work.”

Here was a subject he could talk on fluently and with fervor, and she
listened as attentively as he could desire.

After dinner they repaired to the great hall of the palace, to
participate in the reception. Lord Cromer was soon gracefully greeting
his guests and presenting them to Lord Roane, Viscount Consinor and the
Honorable Aneth Consinor.

Gerald Winston, standing at a distance from the group, gave an
involuntary shiver as he saw Prince Kāra brought forward and presented.

Lord Roane greeted the Egyptian with the same cordiality he had bestowed
uniformly upon his host’s other guests. Why should he not? Only Winston,
silently observant in the background, knew their relationship--except
Kāra. Yes; Kāra knew, for he had said so that day beneath the palms of
Fedah. But now his demeanor was grave and courteous, and his countenance
composed and inscrutable.

Aneth smiled upon the handsome native as he passed slowly on to give
place to others.

Kāra, who now affected European dress, wore the conventional evening
costume; but he was distinguished by the massive and curious chain that
hung from his neck, as well as by a unique gem that he wore upon a
finger of his left hand. It had no real color, yet it attracted every
eye as surely as if it possessed a subtile magnetism that was
irresistible. No one saw it in the same aspect, for one declared it
blue, another gray, a third brown and the next one green. But all agreed
that it had a strange, fascinating gleam, and declared that it radiated
tiny tongues of flame.

It was the stone Kāra had picked from the burial case of Ahtka-Rā.

Later in the evening the Egyptian found opportunity for a short
conversation with Aneth, who was plainly attracted by this
distinguished-appearing native. He found her curious concerning the
chain of the kings, and proudly explained it to her, reading some of the
inscriptions upon the links.

“Some time,” said he, “it will give me pleasure to go over all the links
with you, for in them is condensed the history of the great kings of the
early dynasties. There is not another such record in existence.”

“I can well believe it,” replied the girl. “You must honor me with a
call, Prince Kāra, for I am an ardent Egyptologist, although a very
ignorant one.”

“I thank you,” said Kāra, bowing low; “I shall esteem it a privilege to
enlighten you so far as I am able. My country has a wonderful history,
and much of it is not yet printed in books.”

Shortly after this he left the reception, although many of the ladies
would have been delighted to lionize him. He had become known in the
capital as the last of the descendants of the ancient kings of Egypt;
and while more than one was skeptical of the truth of this statement,
its corroboration by the natives who knew of his lineage, the wide
advertisement given his claims by Tadros, the dragoman, and the enormous
wealth the Prince was reputed to possess, all contributed to render him
a most interesting figure in Cairoene society. It is certain that had he
cared to remain at Lord Cromer’s reception, he would have met with no
lack of attention; but his object in attending was now accomplished, and
he left the assemblage and found his carriage awaiting him in the
driveway.

“Home!” said he, in Coptic, and his dragoman nodded cheerfully and
sprang upon the box. The journey was made in moody silence.

Meantime Winston rejoined Aneth and found her a seat in a quiet corner,
where they could converse undisturbed. He had watched Kāra uneasily
while the Egyptian was addressing the English girl, and now inwardly
resolved to counteract any favorable impression the native prince might
have made upon her unsophisticated mind.

Why he should interest himself so strangely in this young woman he could
not have explained. Many a fair maid had smiled upon Gerald Winston
without causing his heart to beat one jot the faster. Nay, they had at
times even practiced their arts to win him, for the bluff, good-looking
young Englishman was wealthy enough to be regarded a good catch. But the
society of fashionable ladies was sure to weary him in time, and here
in Egypt he met only butterflies from England and America, or the
coarse-featured, stolid native women, who had no power to interest any
European of intelligence.

But Aneth Consinor seemed different from all the others. Not because she
was fresh and sweet and girlish, for he had seen nice girls before; not
that she was beautiful, because many women possess that enviable gift;
not that she was gracious and intelligent, with a fascinating charm of
manner, although that counts for much in winning men’s hearts. Perhaps,
after all, it was her sincerity and the lights that lay in the clear
depths of her wonderful eyes that formed her chief attraction. The eyes,
he remembered, had impressed him at first, and they were destined to
retain their power over him to the last.

And the strangest thing of all, it occurred to him, as he sat pleasantly
chatting with her, was the fact that she was Lord Roane’s granddaughter
and the child of Lord Consinor. A remark that Kāra had once made flashed
across his mind: “The father, giving so little to his progeny, can
scarce contaminate it, whatever he may chance to be.” Perhaps this was
more logical than he had hitherto cared to believe.

Aneth mentioned Prince Kāra presently, and asked whether he knew him.

“Yes,” he answered; “it was I who discovered him. Kāra is one of my few
finds.”

“And where was he discovered?” she asked, amused at his tone.

“In a mud village on the Nile bank, clothed in rags and coated with
dirt. But he was very intelligent, for he had been educated by a clever
relative who had once lived in the world; and, in some way, he and his
people had access to an ancient hoarded treasure, so that the man was
rich without knowing how to utilize his wealth. I purchased his
treasure--or a part of it, at least--and brought him to Cairo. He was
observant and quick to adapt himself to his new surroundings. He sold
more treasure, I have since learned, and visited Paris and London. In
six months the dirty Nile dweller has become a man of the world, and
society accepted him because he is rich and talented.”

“How curious!” she exclaimed. “And is he, indeed, a descendant of the
ancient kings?”

“So I believe--on his mother’s side, for the Egyptians trace their
descent only from their mothers. Yet they are so inconsistent that it is
of their fathers they boast. The Egyptian women have usually been poor
creatures, listless and unintelligent. In this they differ from the
women of almost every other semi-tropical country.”

“They must have been different in the olden times,” said the girl,
gravely; “for it is not likely that the first real civilization of the
world sprang from a stupid race. And think for how many centuries these
poor creatures have been enslaved and trodden into the dust. I am
inclined to think the contempt with which the Saracens regarded women
is responsible for their present condition in Egypt. Have you found none
of them clever or womanly, as we understand the latter term?”

He thought of Hatatcha.

“There are doubtless a few exceptions, even in these days,” he answered.
“And you are right about ancient women having had their place in
Egyptian history. Besides poor Cleopatra, whom you so bravely defended
at dinner, there was Queen Hatasu, you know; and Nitocris, Hatshepset
and others who rendered themselves immortal. Have you visited our museum
yet?”

“Only for a glance around; but that glance was enough to fill me with
awe and wonder. I mean to devote many days to the study of its
treasures.”

“Let me go with you,” he begged. “It would please me to watch your eager
enjoyment of the things I know so well. And I can help you a little.”

“You are very good, indeed,” said the girl, delighted at the suggestion.
“We will go to-morrow afternoon, if you can spare the time.”

“May I call for you?” he asked.

“If you please. I will be ready at one o’clock, for I must take full
advantage of my opportunity.”

So he went home filled with elation at the promise of to-morrow. And
never before had Gerald Winston given a thought to a woman after leaving
her presence.

To-night he dreamed, and the dream was of Aneth.




CHAPTER XI.

SETTING THE SNARES.


Kāra also dreamed. The girl’s eyes haunted him. He saw her bright, eager
glance, her appealing smile, the graceful pose of her beautiful head
wherever he might chance to look. And he cursed the persistent vision
and tried to exorcise it, well knowing it might lead to his undoing.

The Egyptian’s present establishment consisted of a handsome villa on
the Shubra road which at one time had been owned by a high Turkish
official. It was splendidly furnished, including many modern
conveniences, and had a pretty garden in the court that led from the
master’s quarters to the harem. Tadros, the dragoman, proudly boasted to
himself--he dared not confide in others--that the furnishing of this
villa had enabled him to acquire a snug fortune. Kāra allowed him a free
hand, and much gold refused to pass through the dragoman’s fingers.

Tadros had ceased to bemoan the loss of his beloved tourists by this
time. Even a dozen profligate Americans could not enrich him as his own
countryman was doing. And the end was not yet.

A few days after the reception Kāra lunched at the Lotus Club and met
there Lord Consinor. Later the prince played a game of écarté with
Colonel Varrin, of the Khedivial army, and lost a large sum. Consinor
watched the game with interest, and after the colonel had retired
proposed to take a hand with the Egyptian himself. To this Kāra politely
assented. He was a careless player, and displayed little judgment. The
result was that he lost again, and Consinor found himself the richer by
a hundred pounds.

The prince laughed good-humoredly and apologized for his poor playing.

“The next time you favor me with a game,” said he, “I will try to do
better.”

Consinor smiled grimly. To meet so wealthy and indifferent a victim was
indeed rare good luck. He promised himself to fleece the inexperienced
Egyptian with exceptional pleasure.

The Lotus Club was then, as now, the daily resort of the most prominent
and at the same time the fastest set in Cairo. Both Roane and Consinor
had been posted for membership, although the former seldom visited the
place until after midnight, and then only to sup or indulge in a bottle
of wine when there was nothing more amusing to do. It appeared that Lord
Roane was conducting himself with exceptional caution since his arrival
in Cairo. His official duties were light, and he passed most of his days
at the rooms in the Savoy, where his party was temporarily located until
a suitable house could be secured and fitted up. He left Aneth much
alone in the evenings, however, and the girl was forced to content
herself with the gaieties of the fashionable hotel life and the
companionship of those few acquaintances who called upon her. As for the
viscount, he was now, as always, quite outside the family circle, and
while he seemed attentive to his desk at the Department of Finance, the
office hours were over at midday and he was free to pass the afternoons
and evenings at the club. The viscountess remained languidly helpless
and clung to her own apartment, where she kept a couple of Arab servants
busy waiting upon her.

Consinor had told Aneth that he would not touch a card while he remained
in Egypt; but if he had ever had an idea of keeping his word the
resolution soon vanished. He found Kāra irresistible. Sometimes, to be
sure, the prince had luck and won, but in that event it was his custom
to double the stakes indefinitely until his opponent swept all his
winnings away.

This reckless policy at first alarmed Consinor, who was accustomed to
the cautious play of the London clubs; but he observed that Kāra
declined ever to rise from the table a winner. No matter with whom he
played, his opponent was sure to profit in the end by the Egyptian’s
peculiar methods. For this reason no man was more popular at the club or
more eagerly sought as a partner in “a quiet game” than Prince Kāra,
whose wealth seemed enormous and inexhaustible and whose generosity was
proverbial.

But the rich Egyptian seemed to fancy Consinor’s society above all
other, and soon it came to be understood by the club’s habitués that
the two men preferred to play together, and the viscount was universally
envied as a most fortunate individual.

Yet Kāra was occupying himself in other ways than card-playing during
the weeks that followed the arrival of Lord Roane’s party in Egypt. The
victims of Hatatcha’s hatred had been delivered into his net, and it was
now necessary to spin his web so tightly about them that there could be
no means of escape. The oriental mind is intricate. It seldom leads
directly to a desired object or accomplishment, but prefers to plot
cunningly and with involute complexity.

One of Lord Roane’s few responsibilities was to audit the claims against
the Egyptian Government of certain British contractors who were engaged
in repairing the Rosetta Barrage and the canals leading from it. This
barrage had originally been built in 1842, but was so badly done that
important repairs had long been necessary. At one place a contractor
named McFarland had agreed to build a stone embankment for two miles
along the edge of a canal, to protect the country when the sluice-gates
of the dam were opened. This man found, when he began excavating, that
at one time a stone embankment had actually been built in this same
place, although not high enough to be effective, for which reason it had
become covered with Nile mud and its very existence forgotten. Finding
that more than half of the work he had contracted to perform was already
accomplished, the astute McFarland kept his lucky discovery a secret
and proceeded to complete the embankment. Then he presented his bill for
the entire work to be audited by Roane, after which he intended to
collect from the Government. The matter involved the theft of eighteen
thousand pounds sterling.

Kāra, whose well-paid spies were watching every official act of Lord
Roane, learned of the contractor’s plot by means of its betrayal to one
of his men by McFarland himself, who, in an unguarded moment, when he
was under the influence of drink, confided his good fortune to “his dear
friend.” But it was evident that Roane had no suspicion of the imposture
and was likely to approve the fulfilment of the contract without
hesitation.

Here was just the opportunity that the Egyptian had been seeking. One
morning Tadros, being fully instructed, obtained a private interview
with Lord Roane and confided to him his discovery of the clever plan of
robbing the Government which McFarland was contemplating. Roane was
surprised, but thanked the informer and promised to expose the swindle.

“That, my lord, would be a foolish thing to do,” asserted the dragoman,
bluntly. “The Egyptian Government is getting rich, and has ample money
to pay for this contract and a dozen like it. I assure you that no one
is aware of this secret but ourselves. Very well! Are we fools, my lord?
Are there no commissions to be exacted to repay you for living in this
country of the Turks, or me for keeping my ears open? I do not want
your thanks; I want money. For a thousand pounds I will keep silent
forever. For the rest, you can arrange your own division with the
contractor.”

Roane grew angry and indignant at once, asserting the dignity of his
high office and blustering and threatening the dragoman for daring to so
insult him. Tadros, however, was unimpressed.

“It is a mere matter of business,” he suggested, when he was again
allowed to proceed. “I am myself an Egyptian, but the Egyptians do not
rule Egypt. Nor do I believe the English are here from entirely
unselfish motives. To be frank, why should you or I endeavor to protect
the stupid Turks, who are being robbed right and left? In this affair
there is no risk at all, for if McFarland’s dishonesty is discovered no
one can properly accuse you of knowing the truth about the old
embankment. Your inspector has gone there now; on his return he will say
that the work is completed according to contract. You will approve the
bill, McFarland will be paid, and I will then call upon you to collect
my thousand pounds. Of your agreement with the contractor I wish to know
nothing; so, then, the matter is settled. You can trust to my
discretion, my lord.”

Then he went away, leaving Roane to consider the proposition.

The old nobleman’s career was punctured with such irregularities that
the contemplation of this innocent-looking affair was in no way
appalling to his moral sense. He merely pondered its safety, and decided
the risk of exposure was small. Cairo was an extravagant city to live
in, and his salary was too small to permit him to indulge in all the
amusements he craved. The opportunity to acquire a snug amount was not
to be despised, and, after all, the dragoman was correct in saying it
would be folly not to take advantage of it.

The next day Kāra personally interviewed the contractor, telling him
frankly that he was aware of all the details of the proposed swindle.
McFarland was frightened, and protested that he had no intention of
collecting the bill he had presented.

But the prince speedily reassured him.

“You must follow out your plans,” said he. “It is too late to withdraw
now. When you go to Roane he will inform you that he has discovered the
truth. You will then compromise with him, offering him one-half of the
entire sum you intend to steal, or a matter of nine thousand pounds.
Give him more, if necessary; but remember that every piastre you allow
Roane I will repay to you personally, if you can get my lord to sign a
receipt to place in my hands.”

“I see,” said McFarland, nodding wisely. “You want to get him in your
power.”

“Precisely; and I am willing to pay well to do so.”

“But when you expose him you will also implicate me.”

“I shall not expose him. It will merely be a weapon for me to hold over
him, but one I shall never use. You can depend upon that. Take your
eighteen thousand pounds and go to England, where it will enable you to
live in peace and affluence.”

“I will,” said the contractor. “I’ll take the chances.”

“There are none,” returned Kāra, positively.

So it was that Lord Roane bargained successfully with the contractor and
won for himself twelve of the eighteen thousand pounds for auditing the
bill. The money was promptly paid by the Government and the division of
spoils followed. Tadros called for his thousand pounds and gave a
receipt for it that would incriminate himself if he ever dared divulge
the secret. Roane also gave a receipt to McFarland, although
reluctantly, and only when he found the matter could be arranged in no
other way.

This receipt passed into the hands of Kāra. The contractor at once
returned to England, and my lord secretly congratulated himself upon his
“good luck” and began to enjoy his money.

While this little comedy was being enacted, Kāra found opportunity to
call more than once upon Miss Aneth Consinor, who was charmed by his
graceful speech and his exceptional knowledge of Egyptian history. Even
Winston, whom Kāra met sometimes in the young lady’s reception-room,
could not deny the prince’s claim to superior information concerning the
ancients, and he listened as eagerly as Aneth to the man’s interesting
conversations, while impotently resenting the Egyptian’s attention to
the girl.

Aneth, however, knowing no reason why she should not admire the handsome
native, whose personal attractions were by no means small, loved to draw
him into discussions on his favorite themes and watch his dark, glowing
eyes light up as he explained the mysteries of the priestly rites of the
early dynasties. Whatever might be the man’s secret designs, he always
treated the English girl with rare gentleness and courtesy, although the
bluntness of his speech and the occasional indelicacy of his allusions
betrayed the crudeness of his early training. Winston grew to dislike
and even to fear Kāra; for while he had nothing tangible with which to
reproach the Egyptian, his experience of the native character led him to
distrust the man intuitively.

Kāra doubtless felt this mistrust, for a coolness grew up between the
two men that quickly destroyed their former friendship, and they soon
came to mutually understand that they were rivals for Aneth’s favor, and
perhaps her affections.

Neither, however, had any idea of withdrawing from the field, and Aneth
distributed her favors equally between them because she had no thought
beyond her enjoyment of the society of the two men who had proved so
especially agreeable. The girl had no chaperone except a young English
lady whose rooms adjoined her own and with whom she had established a
friendship; but Mrs. Everingham took a warm interest in the lonely girl
and was glad to accompany her in many an excursion from which Aneth
would otherwise have been debarred. The visits to the museum with
Winston were frequent and of absorbing interest, for the handsome young
Egyptologist was a delightful guide. Following an afternoon examining
the famous relics, they would repair to the terrace at Shepheard’s for
five-o’clock tea, and here Kāra frequently joined them. The prince had
brought from Paris an automobile, together with a competent French
chauffeur, and in this machine many pleasant excursions were made to the
pyramids, Heliopolis, Sakkara and Helwan, the Egyptian roads being
almost perfection. Winston and Mrs. Everingham always joined these
parties, and neither could fail to admit that Kāra was a delightful
host.




CHAPTER XII.

NEPHTHYS.


Kāra’s plans were now maturing excellently, save in one particular. He
did not wish to acquire a fondness for the girl who was his proposed
victim, yet from the first she had cast a powerful spell over him, which
all his secret struggles failed to remove. Waking or sleeping, her face
was always before him, nor could he banish it even when engaged in play
with her father at the club.

The Egyptian was shrewd enough to recognize danger in this extraordinary
condition, and it caused him much uneasiness.

Finally, during a wakeful night, he thought of a means of escape.

“Tadros,” said he to his dragoman in the morning, “go to Fedah and fetch
Nephthys here. I have an empty harem at present; she shall be its first
occupant.”

Even the dragoman was surprised. He had begun to look upon his master as
one affecting the manners and customs of the Europeans rather than the
followers of the lax Muslim faith; but his face showed his pleasure at
receiving the command.

“Most certainly, my prince,” said he, with alacrity. “I will take the
first train to Fedah, and the beauty shall be in your harem within three
days.”

Kāra caught the tone and the look.

“On second thought, Tadros,” he said, gravely, “I will send Ebbek in
your place. I may need your services here in Cairo.”

“Ebbek! that doddering old Arab! He will never do at all,” cried the
dragoman, blusteringly. “I alone know Fedah, and I alone know how to
deal with Sĕra, and how to bring her fat daughter to you in safety. It
is I who will go!”

“Send Ebbek to me.”

“Not so; I will go myself to Fedah.”

“Am I the master, Tadros?”

“You think so, because you are rich. If I knew of the tombs you are
plundering, it is I who would be the master!”

“You are in great danger, my poor dragoman.”

Tadros, who had been glaring defiantly upon the other, dropped his eyes
before the cold look of Kāra.

“Besides, some one must pay old Sĕra the two hundred and fifty piastres
due her,” he muttered, somewhat confused. “It was the contract, and she
will not let the girl come unless she has the money.”

“Send Ebbek to me.”

The dragoman obeyed. He did not like Kāra’s manner. He might, in truth,
be in danger if he persisted in protesting. No one was so deep as he in
his master’s confidence. But what did he know? Merely enough to cause
him to fear.

Ebbek performed the mission properly. He not only paid Sĕra her due, but
gave her five gold pieces into the bargain, by his master’s
instructions; and he brought the girl, closely veiled, to Cairo and
delivered her to Kāra’s housekeeper.

The rooms of the harem had been swept and prepared. They were very
luxurious, even for Cairo, and Nephthys was awed by the splendor of the
apartments to be devoted to her use. Her dark, serious eyes, glorious as
those attributed to the houris of Paradise, wandered about the rooms as
she sank upon a divan, too dazed to think or speak.

Neither faculty was a strong point with Nephthys, however. Meekly she
had obeyed the summons from the master who had purchased her. She did
not try to consider what that summons might mean to her. What use? It
was her fate. Perhaps at times she had dimly expected such a change.
Kāra had once mentioned to her mother the possibility of his sending for
her; but she had not dwelt upon the matter at all.

In the same listless manner that she had carried water from the Nile and
worked at the loom she followed old Ebbek to Cairo, leaving her mother
to gloat over her store of gold.

The journey across the river was a new experience to her--the journey by
railway was wonderful; but she showed no interest. The great eyes calmly
saw all, but the brain was not active enough to wonder. She had heard of
such things and knew that they existed. Now she saw them--saw marvelous
Cairo, with its thousand domes and minarets, its shifting kaleidoscope
of street scenes, its brilliant costumes and weird clamor--and the
medley of it all dulled her senses.

In a way she was really amused; but the amusement was only sensual. This
costume was more gorgeous than the braided jacket of Tadros the
dragoman, she observed; that house was better than the one old Hatatcha
had lived in. But beyond this vague comparison, the sights were all
outside her personal participation in them. The part she herself was
playing on the world’s great stage, the uncertainty of her immediate
future, the reason why this tall, gray-bearded Arab was escorting her to
Cairo, were all things she failed to consider.

So it was that on her entry into Kāra’s splendid harem the girl could
not at first understand that the luxury surrounding her was prepared for
her especial use. Had she comprehended this fact, she would still have
been unable to imagine why.

She rested upon the cushions and gazed stupidly, yet with childish
intentness, at the rich draperies and rugs, the gilded tables and
chairs, the marble statuary and the tinkling perfumed fountain in the
corner, as if fearing the vision would presently dissolve and she would
awake from a dream.

She had brought a bundle under her dark blue shawl, a bundle containing
her cotton tunic, the spangled robe and the wreath of artificial
flowers. The blue beads Kāra had once given her were around her
neck--all but one, which she had carefully removed and given to Sĕra her
mother for an amulet.

She scarcely noticed when the old hag who acted as Kāra’s housekeeper
tossed her precious bundle scornfully into a corner and began to disrobe
her. The shawl, the black cotton dress, the coarse undergown, were one
by one removed, and then the flat-bottomed home-made shoes.

When she was nude, the hag led her to an adjoining chamber, where her
bath was prepared. Nephthys wondered, but did not speak. Neither did old
Tilga, the housekeeper. She saw that the girl needed a scrubbing rather
than a bath, and gave it to her much as if she were washing a child.

Afterward, when the fat, soft skin was dried, and annointed, and
properly perfumed, Tilga led Nephthys to the robing-room, and dressed
her in underclothing of silken gauze and a marvelous gown that was
fastened with a girdle of cloth of gold. Pink stockings were drawn
snugly over her chubby legs, and pink satin slippers, with silver
bead-work, adorned her feet.

Then Tilga dressed the girl’s magnificent hair, placing a jeweled
butterfly against its lustrous coils.

When Nephthys was led before a great mirror, she could scarcely believe
the image reflected therein was her own. But the woman in her was at
last aroused.

[Illustration: She smiled at herself, then laughed--shyly at first, now
with genuine delight]

She smiled at herself, then laughed--shyly at first, now with genuine
delight. She could have remained hours before the mirror admiring the
gorgeous vision; but the hag pulled her away, dragging her by one wrist
back to the boudoir, with its gilded furniture and the fountain.

As she sank again upon the divan her eyes saw a tabouret at her side,
upon which was a bronze lamp with a floating wick and a tray of
cigarettes. She seized one of the latter eagerly, with a half-defiant
look at old Tilga, and lighted it from the tiny flame of the lamp. Then
she leaned back upon the cushions and inhaled the smoke with perfect
enjoyment.

Tilga nodded approval, surveying her new charge the while critically.
She had much experience with harems, and wondered where Prince Kāra
could have found this exquisite creature; for, to Oriental eyes, at
least, Nephthys was rarely beautiful, and, perhaps, few men of Europe
would have gazed upon her perfect features and great velvet eyes without
admiration.

The rich dress transformed the Nile girl. Her luxurious surroundings but
enhanced her beauty. Seemingly she was born for a harem, and fate had
qualified her for this experience.

The afternoon that Nephthys arrived, Kāra was at the club, playing
écarté with Lord Consinor. He was steadily winning, and in compliance
with his usual custom, he declared he would continue to double until he
lost.

“I’m not anxious to get your money, Consinor,” he remarked, carelessly.
“There will doubtless come a change in the luck before long.”

The viscount was visibly disturbed. In all his experience he had never
seen a man win so persistently. Already the stakes, because of Kāra’s
system of doubling, were enormous, and the game had attracted a group of
spectators, who were almost as eager as the participants.

Gradually the afternoon waned, until at length the prince announced in a
low voice that the stakes were ten thousand pounds. Consinor shivered:
but with his eyes on the flame-lit ring of the prince, he cut the cards
and played his hand as well as he was able. Kāra won, and the viscount
threw down the cards with a white face. Already he was ruined, and to
risk a deal for twenty thousand pounds was more than his nerves could
bear.

“I’m done, Prince,” said he, hoarsely.

“Bah! it is nothing,” returned Kāra, lightly. “We will merely postpone
the play until a more favorable time, when this cursed streak of
luck--which I deplore more than you do--is broken. We will start afresh,
and you shall have a chance to win your money back. Sign me a note of
hand and I will go.”

The viscount drew a sheet of paper toward him and signed a note of hand
for ten thousand pounds. According to the rules of the club, the paper
must be witnessed by two members, so Colonel Varrin and Ering van Roden
penciled their initials upon it.

Kāra stuffed the document carelessly into a side pocket; but a moment
after, as if struck by a sudden thought, he pulled out a paper and
rolled it into a taper. This he lighted from the blaze of a lamp and
with it relit his cigar, afterward holding the taper in his fingers
until it was consumed to a fine ash. Not a word was spoken. The others
watched him silently, but with significant looks, never suspecting he
had substituted another paper for the note of hand, while Consinor, as
the ash was brushed to the floor, breathed more freely.

“The pleasure of winning ought to be enough for any man,” remarked the
prince, and, rising from the table, he sauntered from the room.

“Nevertheless, it is a debt of honor,” said Colonel Varrin, gravely.
“But it is fortunate, Consinor, you were playing with Prince Kāra. The
fellow is so confoundedly rich that money means nothing to him, and he
will not take his winnings unless you force him to accept them.”

“I know that,” returned the viscount. “I would never have allowed
another man to double the stakes during a winning streak. Perhaps I
should not have allowed the prince to do so.”

Then he also left the club, for, despite Kāra’s seeming generosity in
destroying the note, his own insidious nature led him to suspect every
man he had dealings with, and the amount involved was so enormous that
it would swallow up double the sum his father’s crippled estates were
now worth. On his own account he had nothing at all beyond the salary he
drew from the Ministry of Finance; so he realized his danger, and could
not resist feeling that he had been led into a trap.

Meantime Tadros had not forgotten, as his master had done, the probable
arrival of Nephthys by the afternoon train. He should have waited in the
ante-room of the club for Kāra’s orders; but instead he returned to the
house and found that the girl had already been there for an hour.

“I will see her,” he muttered, and disregarding old Ebbek, who would
have stopped him, he entered the harem.

Thrusting aside the draperies, Tadros coolly stalked into the girl’s
boudoir and then stopped short in undisguised astonishment at what his
eyes beheld. Nephthys was reclining upon the divan, smoking her
cigarette, resplendent in her fleecy silks, the golden braid and the
sparkling jewels.

She smiled and nodded as she saw her old friend the dragoman, but Tilga
burst into a flood of angry protestations and curses, rushing at the
intruder and trying to drive him from the room with futile pushes of her
lean hands.

Tadros resisted, and when the hag started to scream he covered her mouth
with his hand, holding her fast at the same time.

“Listen, old imbecile!” he muttered. “Do you wish to lose your place
with Prince Kāra? Be sensible, then. You are under my orders--the
orders of Tadros the dragoman, and you must obey me.”

“I obey only the prince,” retorted Tilga, sullenly. “You will not be
dragoman when the master hears you have violated his harem.”

“Ah, but he will not hear! It is to be our secret, Tilga. You are going
to enter my service, and I will make you rich in a few months. See! here
are five hundred piastres--five golden pounds in good English money. It
is only a promise of more to come. Take it, Tilga.”

The hag took it, but with reluctance.

“If the prince discovers--” she began.

“But he won’t,” declared Tadros, promptly. “He will discover nothing.
Just now I left him at the club, playing cards with an Englishman. Go
outside, my Tilga, and watch in the courtyard.”

She hobbled away, still muttering protests, and the dragoman seated
himself upon the divan beside Nephthys.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE TALISMAN OF AHTKA-RĀ.


Kāra found he had only time to dress for a dinner with Mrs. Everingham.
Aneth was to be there also, and he must not neglect the intrigue he was
conducting to obtain an ascendency over the girl. That was the reason,
he told himself, why he was so anxious to attend.

His plans were progressing well at this time. The only adverse element
was the obvious infatuation of Gerald Winston for Miss Consinor; but the
Egyptian had carefully gauged the depths of the young girl’s character.
She was interested in antiquities, and therefore encouraged Winston, who
was a noted scholar; but there was no danger in that. Kāra knew more of
Egyptology than all the scholars in Cairo, and had often seen Aneth’s
face brighten when he told her some strange and interesting bit of
unwritten history. To be sure, Winston was her own countryman, and had
an advantage in that; yet Mrs. Everingham had once said in his hearing
that a handsome foreigner was always fascinating to an Englishwoman, and
he had remembered the careless remark and pondered its truth until he
had come to believe it.

He had a better argument than any of these in reserve, however. If the
Englishman really succeeded in winning Aneth’s love in the end, then
Kāra knew how to compel the girl to obedience.

As he left his room he found the dragoman leaning against a pillar of
the courtyard.

“Is Nephthys here?” he inquired.

“I suppose so,” answered the dragoman, yawning sleepily. “She was due to
arrive this afternoon, wasn’t she?”

Kāra looked at him with sudden suspicion.

“Have you seen her?” he demanded.

“Am I the keeper of your harem?” retorted Tadros, indignantly. “Old
Tilga has been hidden in the women’s quarters for hours. Probably she is
attending to your Nephthys.”

He eyed his master disdainfully, and Kāra walked on and entered the
carriage. He had barely time to join the company at dinner, and Nephthys
could wait.

Winston was not present this evening, and the prince found Aneth
unusually gracious. She chatted so pleasantly, her manner was so
friendly and her clear eyes so sweet and intelligent, that Kāra gave way
to the moment’s enchantment and forgot all else in the delight of her
society.

Nor did he recover readily from the spell. After returning home he paced
the floor for an hour, recalling the English girl’s fair face and every
change of its expression. Then he gave a guilty start as a recollection
of Hatatcha swept over him, impressing upon his memory his fearful
oath.

Kāra’s nature, despite his cold exterior, was fervid in the extreme. He
had sworn to hate this girl, yet to-night he loved her passionately. But
Hatatcha’s training had not entirely failed. He calmed himself, and
examined his danger critically, as an outsider might have done.

To yield to his love for Aneth would mean enslavement by the enemy, a
condition from which his judgment instinctively revolted. To steel his
heart against her charms would be difficult, but its necessity was
obvious. He determined to pursue his plot with relentless hatred, and to
raise between the girl and himself as many bars as possible. He scorned
his own weakness, and since he knew that it existed, he resolved to
conquer it.

Once Hatatcha had said to him: “You are cold, selfish and cruel, and I
have made you so.” True; these qualities had been carefully instilled
into his nature. He was proud that he possessed them, for he had a
mission to fulfil. And if he desired any peace in his future life, that
mission must be fully accomplished.

In the morning he went to see Nephthys, and his face brightened as he
realized how remarkably beautiful she was. The Orientals generally
admire only the form of a woman, being indifferent to the face; but Kāra
was modern enough to appreciate beauty of feature, while holding to an
extent the Eastern prejudice that a fat and soft form is the chief
attraction of the female sex. So he found Nephthys admirable in every
way; and if her indifference and perfect subjection to his will in any
way annoyed him, he was at this time unaware of the fact. He wished this
girl to replace Aneth Consinor in his affection and esteem, and would
forgive much in Nephthys if she could manage to bring about this
excellent result.

After this he devoted much of his attention to the Nile girl, striving
in his association with her to exclude all outside interests. He
purchased for her marvelous costumes and hired two Arab maidens to
attend her and keep her royally attired. Kāra’s most splendid diamonds
and rubies were set by Andalaft in many coronets, brooches and bracelets
to deck her person, and many of the wonderful pearls he had brought from
the secret tomb were carefully sized and strung to form a necklace for
the Egyptian girl’s portly neck.

Nephthys was pleased with these possessions. They drew her from the dull
lassitude in which she had existed, and aroused in her breast a womanly
exultation that even her mother could never have imagined her able to
develop. It may be the girl began to think and to dream; yet if so,
there was little outward indication of the fact. To comprehend any
woman’s capabilities is difficult; to comprehend those of Nephthys
seemed impossible. She was luxury-loving by nature, as are all
Orientals, and accepted the comforts of her surroundings without
questioning why they were bestowed upon her. Whatever sensibilities she
possessed had long lain dormant. They might be awakening now; her
delight in adornment seemed the first step in that direction.

Kāra purposely remained away from the club for several evenings
following that in which he had won Consinor’s ten thousand pounds.
Perhaps he wished his enemy to become uneasy and fret at the delay in
wiping out the debt, and if so, it would have gratified him to know the
feverish anxiety with which the viscount haunted the club, and watched
every new arrival in the hope that Kāra would appear.

At last the Egyptian judged that he had waited long enough, and prepared
to still further enmesh his victim. In his room that evening he took
from a secret drawer of his cabinet a small roll of papyrus, on which
were closely written hieroglyphics. To refresh his memory he read the
scroll carefully, although it was not the first time he had studied it
since it had fallen at his feet when the bust of Isis was overturned at
the tomb of Ahtka-Rā.

Freely translated, the writing was as follows:

“Being finally prepared to join Anubis in the nether world, I, Ahtka-Rā,
son of the Sun and High Priest of Āmen, have caused to be added to the
decoration of my sarcophagus the precious Stone of Fortune given to me
by the King of Kesh[A] in return for having preserved him and his people
from the wrath of Rameses. It is my belief that this wondrous stone will
guard my tomb when my spirit has departed, and by its powers preserve
my body and my treasure from being despoiled, until that time when I
shall return to Qemt[B] to live again. Let no descendant of my house
remove it from its place, for the Stone of Fortune is mine, and I
bequeath it not to any of those who may come after me. In time of need
my children may take of the treasure what they require, but to disturb
my Stone of Fortune will be to draw upon the offender the bitterest
curse of my spirit. It may be known to all from its changing color,
being never the same for long; and the color of it is not bright, as is
the ruby or the carnelian or amethyst, but ever gloomy and mysterious.
That none may mistake its location, I have embedded it in a triple band
of gold, and it is placed at the head of my sarcophagus. There shall it
remain. Since it came into my possession I have ever worn it in my
bosom, and by its magic I have been able to control Rameses the son of
Seti, to rule his kingdom as if it were my own, to confound all my
enemies and accusers, and to amass such riches as no man of Qemt has
ever before possessed. Also has it brought to me health and many years
in which to accomplish the purpose of my present existence. For this
reason do I refuse to part with it in the ages during which I await the
new life. Whatever else may happen to my tomb, I implore those who live
in the days to come to leave to me this one treasure.”

 [A] Ethiopia.

 [B] Egypt.

It was signed by Ahtka-Rā and sealed with his seal, being doubtless the
work of his own hand.

Kāra rerolled the papyrus and put it away, pausing to glance with a
smile at the strange ring he wore upon his hand.

“My great ancestor was selfish,” he murmured, “and wished to prevent any
of his descendants from becoming as famous as he himself was.
Nevertheless, had I read the script before I removed the stone from the
sarcophagus, I would have respected Ahtka-Rā’s wish; but I did not know
what treasure I had gained until afterward, when it was too late to
restore the stone without another visit to the tomb. A curse is a
dreadful thing, especially from one’s ancestor, and it is even to avoid
Hatatcha’s curse that I am now fulfilling her vengeance. But Ahtka-Rā
may rest content; I have merely borrowed his talisman, and it shall be
returned to him when I have obtained full satisfaction from my
grandmother’s enemies. Meantime, the stone will protect me from evil
fortune, and when it is restored the curse will be averted.”

Something in this expression struck him as incongruous. He thought
deeply for a moment, a frown gathering upon his brow. Then he said: “I
must not deceive myself with sophistries. What if the curse is already
working, and because of it the English girl has turned my strength to
weakness? But that cannot be. Whenever I have worn this ring I have
mastered all difficulties and triumphed as I desired; and I will triumph
in my undertaking to-night, in spite of the reproach I can already see
in Aneth’s eyes. I am still the controller of my own destiny as well as
the destinies of others; for if the talisman did so much for Ahtka-Rā as
he claims, it will surely prove stronger than any curse.”

With a laugh he shook off the uncanny feeling that had for the moment
oppressed him, and went to the club.




CHAPTER XIV.

ROGUES ANCIENT AND MODERN.


Consinor arrived early at the Lotus Club and took his seat at a small
table facing the doorway, where he whiled away the time by playing
solitaire.

Presently Kāra entered and greeted him cordially, seeming to be in an
especially happy mood.

“Well, shall we try our luck?” he said, seating himself at the opposite
side of the table.

Nodding assent, Consinor gathered up the cards and shuffled them.
Several loungers who knew of the previous game and wondered what the
next meeting between the two men would evolve, clustered around the
table to watch the result.

Kāra won the cut and dealt. He played rather carelessly and lost. The
stakes were a pound sterling.

“Double!” he cried, laughing, and again the viscount nodded.

The luck had shifted, it seemed, for the prince repeatedly lost. At
first he chatted gaily with those present and continued to double with
reckless disregard of his opponent’s success; but by and by he grew
thoughtful and looked at his cards more closely, watching the game as
shrewdly as his adversary. The stakes had grown to four hundred pounds,
and a subtle thrill of excitement spread over the little group of
watchers. Was Consinor going to win back his ten thousand pounds at one
sitting?

Suddenly Kāra, in dealing, fumbled the cards and dropped one of them. In
reaching to pick it up it slipped beneath his foot and he tore it into
two. It was the queen of hearts.

“How stupid!” he laughed, showing the pieces. “Here, boy, bring us a
fresh pack of cards,” addressing an attendant.

Consinor scowled and reached out his hand for the now useless deck. Kāra
slipped the cards into his pocket, including the mutilated one.

“They are mine, prince,” said the viscount; “I use them for playing my
game of solitaire.”

“Pardon, but I have destroyed their value,” returned Kāra. “I shall
insist upon presenting you with a new deck, since my awkwardness has
rendered your own useless.”

Consinor bit his lip, but made no reply, watching silently while the
prince tore open the new deck and shuffled the cards.

The viscount lost the next hand, and the score was evened. He lost
again, and still a third time.

“The luck has changed with the new cards,” said he. “Let us postpone the
game until another evening, unless you prefer to continue.”

“Very well,” Kāra readily returned, and throwing down the cards, he
leaned back in his chair, selected a fresh cigar from his case and
carefully lighted it.

Consinor had pushed back his own chair, but he did not rise. After
watching Kāra’s nonchalant movements for a time, the viscount drew from
his pocket three curious dice, and after an instant’s hesitation tossed
them upon the table.

“Here is a curiosity,” he remarked. “I am told these cubes were found in
an Egyptian tomb at Thebes. They are said to be three thousand years
old.”

The men present, including Kāra, examined the dice curiously. The spots
were arranged much as they are at the present day, an evidence that this
mode of gambling has been subjected to little improvement since the
early Egyptians first invented it.

“They are excellently preserved,” said van Roden. “Where did you get
them, viscount?”

“I picked them up the other day from a strolling Arab. They seemed to me
very quaint.”

“There are several sets in the museum,” remarked Pintsch, a German in
charge of the excavations at Dashur. “It is very wonderful how much
those ancients knew.”

Lord Consinor drew the dice toward him.

“See here, Prince,” said he, “let us try our luck with these
antiquities. It is quicker and easier than écarté.”

“Very well,” consented Kāra. “What are the stakes?”

“Let us say a hundred pounds the throw.”

This suggestion startled the group of spectators; but Kāra said at once:

“I will agree to that, my lord.”

He lost once, twice, thrice.

Then, as Consinor, with a triumphant leer, pushed the dice toward him,
Kāra thrust his hands in his pockets and said in a quiet voice to the
onlookers:

“Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that I am playing with a rogue.
These dice are loaded.”

Following a moment’s horrified silence, the viscount sprang up with an
oath.

“This is an insult, Prince Kāra!” he cried.

“Sit down,” said Colonel Varrin, sternly. “No mere words can condemn
you, sir. Let us examine the dice.”

The others concurred, their faces bearing witness to their dismay and
alarm. Such a disgraceful occurrence had never before been known within
those eminently respectable walls. The honor of the club was, they felt,
at stake.

The cubes were carefully tested. It was as Kāra had charged--they were
loaded.

“Can you explain this, Lord Consinor?” asked one of the party.

“I cannot see why I should be called upon to explain,” was the reply.
“In purchasing the dice, I was wholly ignorant of their condition. It
was a mere impulse that led me to offer to play with them.”

“It is well known that these ancient dice are frequently loaded,”
interrupted Pintsch, eagerly, as if he saw a solution of the affair.
“Two of the sets exhibited in the museum have been treated in the same
clever manner.”

“That is true,” agreed Varrin, nodding gravely.

“In that case,” said Consinor, “I am sure you gentlemen will exonerate
me from any intentional wrong. It is simply my misfortune that I offered
to play with the dice.”

“Was it also your misfortune, my lord,” returned Kāra, calmly, “that you
have been playing all the evening with marked cards? I will ask you to
explain to these gentlemen why this deck, which you have claimed in
their presence to be your private property, bears secret marks that
could only have been placed there with one intent--to swindle an
unsuspecting antagonist.”

He drew the cards from his pocket as he spoke and handed them to Colonel
Varrin, who examined them with a troubled countenance and then turned
them over to his neighbor for inspection.

While the cards passed around, Consinor sat staring blankly at the
group. The evidence against him was so incontrovertible that he saw no
means of escape from the disgrace which was sure to follow.

“Gentlemen,” said Kāra, when the last man had examined the cards and
laid them upon the table again, “I trust you will all bear evidence that
it is not my usual custom or desire to win money from those I play with.
Rather do I prefer to lose, for in that way I obtain the

[Illustration: Following a moment’s horrified silence, the viscount
sprang up with an oath]

amusement of playing, without the knowledge that I may have
inconvenienced my friends. But when a common trickster and cheat
conspires to rob me, my temper is different. Lord Consinor owes me ten
thousand pounds, and I demand from him in your presence prompt payment
of the debt. Also, I depend upon you to protect me and my fellow-members
from card sharpers in the future, which I am sure you will gladly do.
For the rest, the matter is in your hands. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He bowed with dignity and withdrew. The others silently followed,
scattering to other rooms of the club. Varrin, as a club official, took
with him the incriminating dice and the marked cards.

Lord Consinor, knowing well that he was ruined, sat muttering curses
upon Kāra and his own “hard luck” until he noticed the deserted room and
decided to go home. The disaster had fairly dazed him, so that he failed
to realize the fact that as he called for his hat and coat in the lobby
the groups of bystanders ceased their eager talk and carefully turned
their backs in his direction.

The viscount had never heard of Hatatcha; yet it was her vengeance that
had overtaken him.




CHAPTER XV.

WINSTON BEY IS INDIGNANT.


In their rooms at the Savoy next morning Lord Roane and his son
quarreled violently. The day’s paper contained a full account of the
affair at the club, and while no names were mentioned, there was no
misunderstanding who the culprit was. “An English nobleman who had
lately arrived to fill an important position in the Ministry of Finance
was detected playing with marked cards and loaded dice by a well-known
Egyptian gentleman of wealth and high station, who promptly exposed the
fraud in the presence of several reputable club members. Fortunately,
the Englishman’s name had only been posted and he had not yet been
admitted to membership in the club, so that his trickery and consequent
disgrace in no way reflects upon that popular and admirably conducted
institution, etc.”

Lord Roane was vastly chagrined and indignant as he read the account.

“You low, miserable scoundrel!” he roared, facing his son; “how dare you
drag the name of your family in the mire, just as we are assuming an
indisputable position of respectability in Cairo? To be a gambler is
despicable enough, but to become a common cheat and swindler is utterly
unpardonable. What have you to say for yourself?”

“Nothing,” said Consinor, sullenly. “I am innocent. It was a plot to
ruin me.”

“Pah! a plot of yours to ruin others rather. Speak up, man! Have you
nothing to say to excuse or palliate your shame and dishonor?”

“What use?” asked the viscount, apathetically. “You will not believe
me.”

“Do you believe him, Aneth?” asked the old man, turning to gaze upon the
girl’s horrified face. “Do you believe that this cur, who is my son and
your father, is innocent?”

“No,” she answered, shrinking back as Consinor looked up curiously to
hear her reply. “He has deceived me cruelly. He promised me he would not
touch a card again, or play for money, and he has broken his word. I
cannot believe him now.”

“Of course not,” her father retorted, reddening for the first time. “My
precious family is so rotten throughout that even its youngest member
cannot give a Consinor credit for being honest or sincere.”

“See here, Roger; I will not have Aneth insulted, even by you. I’m not a
saint, I’ll admit; but I’ve never been guilty of petty swindling, and
your daughter is pure enough to shame us both. As for you, I’ve done
with you, and you must from this time work out your salvation in your
own way. You’ve dissipated any inheritance you might have had; but I’ll
give you a thousand pounds in cash if you’ll take your ugly face out of
Cairo and promise not to come near us again. I’ll take care of your
wife and daughter, neither of whom, I am positive, will miss you for a
single hour.”

“It’s a good offer,” said Consinor, quickly, “and I’ll accept it. Where
did you get the thousand pounds?”

“That,” declared my lord, stiffly, “is none of your accursed business!
Now go. Leave your resignation with the Minister of Finance and then
make yourself scarce. Here, I’ll write you a check now.”

Consinor took the paper.

“If it is good, and the bank will cash it,” he said, slowly, “I’ll do as
I have agreed, and not trouble you again. Good-by, Aneth. Look out for
that snakey Egyptian who is following you around. He alone is
responsible for this affair, and you cannot afford to trust him; and
give my fond farewell to your mother. She won’t mind if I do not appear
in person to irritate her nerves.”

“Where will you go?” asked Lord Roane.

“That, sir, to repeat your own words, is none of your accursed
business.”

With this filial response he left the room, and Aneth burst into a flood
of tears. Never had she felt so wretched and humiliated as at this
discovery of her father’s infamy, and although Roane tried to comfort
his granddaughter by pointing out the fact that Roger had long been a
gambler with a character not above suspicion, the girl had so fondly
hoped for her father’s regeneration that her disappointment was indeed
bitter.

“It won’t hurt us so very much, my child,” continued the old nobleman,
stroking her head soothingly. “The world will know we have repudiated
Roger, and will sympathise with our distress. In a few months the
scandal will be forgotten, and we may again hold up our heads. I’m
afraid I’ve lived a rather wicked life, my dear; but for your sake I
would like to retrieve my good name and die possessed of the honor and
respect of all my fellow-men. And this, I believe, I can accomplish.
Don’t worry, little one! Be brave, and the blow will not hurt half so
much.”

There were tears in his own eyes as he marked her distress, and he
continued to encourage her until the young girl had partly recovered her
self-control and the first shock of her sudden misfortune had been
blunted. Then he kissed her tenderly and went away to his office.

The account in the morning paper had likewise caused Gerald Winston
considerable amazement and dismay. His first thought was of Aneth and
the trouble that had come to her; his next a feeling of resentment
toward Kāra. After pacing the floor restlessly for an hour, he called
for his saddle-horse and rode down the Shubra road to interview the
Egyptian at his villa.

Kāra was at home and received his visitor with cold politeness, which
Winston passed unnoticed. He was not in a mood to be affected by
trifles.

“I understand that you accused Consinor of cheating at the club last
night,” he began, impetuously.

“Well?” said Kāra, lifting his brows inquiringly.

“Why did you do it?”

“Because it was true. He was robbing me.”

“You know what I mean, sir! You have been posing as a friend of Miss
Consinor. To expose her father to public shame was the act of a cowardly
enemy.”

“What would you have done in my place?” asked Kāra, calmly.

“I? I would have concealed the discovery and allowed the man to go,
refusing to play with him again,” declared Winston.

“And so have allowed him to rob others, perhaps?”

“If necessary, yes, that his daughter’s good name might be protected.
But a private warning would have induced him to abandon further
trickery.”

“He is an old offender, I believe,” said Kāra, leaning back in his chair
and regarding the other with an amused expression. “It might benefit you
to reflect that Miss Consinor’s good name has not been acquired on
account of her father’s respectability, any more than through the
reputation of her grandsire, who has grown old in iniquity. Therefore, I
cannot believe that I have injured her in any way.”

A tinge of passionate hatred in the man’s voice as he referred to Lord
Roane aroused Winston’s attention. Then, suddenly, a light broke upon
him.

“See here, Kāra,” he said, sternly, “are you persecuting these people
and plotting against them because of the old wrong that Roane did your
grandmother, Hatatcha?”

“I am neither persecuting nor plotting against them,” declared Kāra.
“Consinor has ruined himself unaided. As for his daughter, I have every
object in protecting her from scandal.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“I intend to marry her.”

At this cool statement Winston stared aghast. Then he gave a bitter
laugh.

“That is absurd and impossible,” he said.

“Why so?”

“You are cousins.”

“She does not know that, and you will not tell her because you have so
much regard for her grandfather’s good name,” with a sneer.

“I see. It is your plot to ruin her; but it will fail, because she will
never consent to marry you,” he continued.

“How do you know that?” asked Kāra.

“It is improbable that she can love you.”

“In that, sir, I am inclined to differ with you. Even if Aneth
discovered our relationship, it would not matter. In olden days our
Egyptian kings married their sisters. And I suppose that Lord Roane
would emphatically deny the assertion that I am his grandson. I would
myself deny it, and you have no proof to back your statement of the
fact.”

“You told me the story with your own lips.”

“To be sure--and the story was true. I do not mind acknowledging it at
this moment, because there are no witnesses present; but if you repeat
the statement in public, I will deny it absolutely.”

For a moment Winston remained thoughtfully silent. Then he said:

“You are proposing a dreadful crime, Kāra, but it will avail you nothing
to defy morality in this way. There is another reason why Miss Consinor
will refuse to marry you, and it is entirely distinct from the subject
of your relationship.”

“To what do you refer?”

“To the woman you are keeping, even now, in your harem. It is a matter
of public scandal, and I am surprised that society has not already
ostracized you for your audacious defiance of propriety. You are neither
an Arab nor a Mohammedan. Doubtless the offense has not yet come to Miss
Consinor’s ears; but if it does, have you any idea she would place her
happiness in the hands of a man of your character?”

Kāra frowned. Here was a weapon against him that he had never before
recognized.

“I suppose you will take pains to inform Miss Consinor that I have a
slave-girl among my servants,” he said, mockingly.

“I shall ask Mrs. Everingham to tell her the truth concerning your
domestic relations,” returned Winston, decidedly.

The Egyptian arose.

“I think it will be as well to end this interview, Winston Bey,” he
said. “You are yourself a pretender for the hand of my future bride, and
it is useless to endeavor to fairly discuss matters wherein you are so
selfishly concerned.”

“Do you choose to defy my warnings?” asked Winston, angrily.

“By no means. I merely ignore your implied threats. They can in no way
interfere with my plans.”

“I believe,” said Winston, striving to control his indignation, “that
those plans are inspired by hatred rather than love. I shall do my best
to oppose them.”

“Naturally. It is your privilege, sir.”

Winston turned to go.

“I shall always regret,” he remarked, bitterly, as a parting shot, “that
I was so foolish as to bring a filthy native from out the natural
environment of his mud village.”

“The filthy native would have found other means of escape had you not
brought him; so you need not reproach yourself,” returned Kāra, with a
smile. “But the trifle you have mentioned should not be your deepest
regret, my stupid Englishman!”

“Did I do anything more foolish?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“You kicked me twice beneath the palms of Fedah.”

“Ah! I should not have restrained myself to two kicks.”

“Be content, sir. Twice was sufficient, since it is liable to cause you
much unhappiness. I had it in mind, had you kicked me again, to kill
you.”

Winston left the villa more thoughtful than he had been on his arrival.
The matter involved much more, it seemed, than the loss of Lord
Consinor’s reputation. Kāra’s confident tone had not failed to impress
his rival, and the Englishman was more uneasy than he cared to admit
even to himself. His love for Aneth was sincere and unselfish, and he
could imagine no greater calamity for the girl than to acquire a
fondness for the treacherous native whose presence he had just left.
Such a contingency had not occurred to him before, and for this reason
Kāra’s claims were as startling as they were revolting. He longed to go
to the girl at once and strive to comfort her in this, her hour of
sorrow; but a natural delicacy restrained him. She would like to be
alone, at first, until she had somewhat recovered from the humiliation
she would be sure to suffer at the public exposure of her father’s
misdeeds. Afterward he could assure her of his confidence and
friendship, and, when the proper time came, of his love. Meantime he
contented himself by sending Aneth a basket of the most beautiful roses
to be found in Cairo.

No such delicacy of feeling influenced Kāra. In the afternoon he went to
the Savoy and sent up his card.

Aneth was alone, Mrs. Everingham having just left her for a drive. The
girl received the Egyptian almost with eagerness.

“Can you forgive me, Prince?” she asked, by way of greeting, as she
stood before him with scarlet cheeks and downcast eyes.

“Forgive you for what, Miss Aneth?” he replied, gently.

“For--for the wrong my father did you,” she stammered.

Kāra smiled, and she glanced up shyly in time to catch his expression of
amusement.

“Let us sit down and talk it over,” he said, taking her hand and leading
her to a chair. “But it will be unnecessary, I am sure, for me to say
that I have nothing to forgive, since you have in no way offended.”

“But my father--” she began, timidly, again dropping her eyes in shame.

“Yes, I know, Miss Aneth,” said he. “Your father did a foolish thing,
for which people will justly condemn him. I am very sorry that it was
through me he was detected, but I assure you I was powerless to prevent
it. Others saw the marked cards and forced the accusation against him.
Believe me, I would have saved him if possible; but I could not.”

“I believe you, Prince Kāra,” she said. “It was all my father’s fault,
and his punishment is only such as he deserved.”

“I am deeply grieved for your sake,” continued Kāra, and indeed the
sight of her sweet face, convulsed with anguish, so appealed to him at
the moment that his speech was almost sincere. “I know what this
disgrace will mean to you, Aneth--the avoidance of your former
associates, and the jeers, perhaps, of those who have envied you. The
world is heartless always, and visits the sins of the fathers upon their
children; so that your innocence will not be considered save by your
truest friends.”

He paused, for she was crying now, softly but miserably, and the tears
moved him strangely.

“That is why I have come,” he continued, his voice trembling with
earnestness, “to assure you of my faith in you and of my steadfast
friendship. Nay, more; I offer to protect you against the sneers of all
the world, if you will grant me the right.”

The girl started, glancing nervously and almost affrightedly into his
face.

“I--I do not understand you, Prince Kāra,” she murmured.

“Then I must speak more plainly,” he quickly rejoined, springing up to
stand before her with sparkling eyes and outstretched hands.

“Aneth, my sweet one, I love you! To me you represent the joys of earth
and the delights of paradise. Only in your presence do I find happiness
and content. Be my wife, Aneth; give me yourself, and I will guard you
so well and place you so high that all the world will bow at your feet.”

The speech shocked her, for there was no mistaking the man’s
earnestness. Nor did she know how to reply, the proposal being as
unexpected as it was inopportune. Aneth may have had vague dreams of
love, as maidens will and should have; but she had been so happy in
Cairo that she had not thought the attentions of Kāra meant more than
the kindly good-fellowship of the other men she had met. Indeed, she had
not considered such a subject at all, and at this hour, when her heart
was wrung with grief, she found in it no response to her suitor’s fervid
appeals.

“I cannot reply to you just now, Prince Kāra,” she said, with
hesitation; “it is all new to me, and quite unexpected, and--and I do
not wish to marry anyone.”

His face hardened as he gazed upon her timid, shrinking form, but the
longing in his dark eyes remained. With all his lately acquired polish,
the native failed to comprehend that an English girl does not yield
herself to the demands of any man unless her heart and inclinations lead
her to acknowledge his authority. But he was wise enough to perceive
that the difficulties of the situation required tact if he wished to
succeed.

“Aneth,” said he, more quietly, “this is no time for evasions or
misunderstandings between us. I have told you that I love you, that my
earnest desire is to make you my wife. You need a protector at this
moment, and a delay is as foolish as it is dangerous to your interests.
If you love me at all, you can tell me so to-day as well as later.”

“Ah, that is it, Prince! I’m afraid that I do not love you in the way
that you wish,” answered the girl, aroused to a more dignified tone by
his persistence. “I am very grateful to you, Prince Kāra, and
appreciate the honor of your proposal; but I have nothing more to offer
you than my sincere friendship.”

“Then I will accept that as sufficient for the time being,” said he. “I
will marry your friendship, Aneth, and perhaps the love will some time
follow.”

“Oh, I cannot allow that!” she cried, distressed. “I am sorry to hurt
you when you are so kind to me; but can’t you see that I am unnerved and
unhappy to-day, and that if you force me to answer you, I can only say
‘no’?”

He grew thoughtful at this, studying her features carefully. After a
moment he replied:

“I will not press the question further now, but will give you two days
for consideration. Will you answer me at the end of that time?”

She hesitated, knowing already what the answer would be and that it was
best he understood her at once. Yet to her inexperienced mind it seemed
more easy to postpone the matter until she had time to collect her
thoughts and reply to Kāra more gently and effectively.

“Yes,” said she, answering him; “come to me in two days, please.”

To her surprise he bowed gravely and at once left the room; but the
relief she experienced made her glad that she had found this simple way
to evade her present difficulties. In two days she would know better
what to say to him.

Kāra was astonished at his own forbearance. Where he might have
threatened and compelled he had merely implored, and he could not in the
least understand the mood that had swayed his actions. But while in the
girl’s presence he seemed not to be himself, or even to know himself.

If only Aneth would love him, how gladly would he shield her from the
inheritance of his grandmother’s malignant vengeance! Even if she could
not love him, he was determined to win her for his wife, for the longing
of his heart was at this time too great to be denied.

In her tears and distress the girl had seemed more lovely than ever,
and, as he drove slowly homeward, he dwelt upon her with an ecstasy of
adoration that seemed entirely foreign to his cold and calculating
nature. At this moment perhaps he really loved Aneth; but the Eastern
lover is prone to sudden fits of intense passion that soon exhaust
themselves, and the reaction is apt to restore them to their native
apathy with surprising abruptness.

When Kāra arrived home he at once crossed the courtyard and entered the
quarters devoted to women. Ever since Winston had sneered at his
relations with Nephthys that morning, the thing had rankled in his mind,
and now, fresh from Aneth’s presence, he reproached himself for his
folly in bringing the stupid Nile girl to Cairo. For, in spite of his
efforts to amuse himself in her society, Nephthys had not only proved
unable to destroy his love for Aneth, but her quiescent indifference,
beautiful though she was, served rather to disgust him by its sharp
contrast with the English girl’s brightness and innocence.

Never doubting that he would shortly install Aneth in Nephthys’ place,
he suddenly resolved to have done with the Egyptian girl, who had been
so great a disappointment to him.

There was a dark scowl upon Kāra’s face as he pushed aside the draperies
and entered the apartment of Nephthys. He found the girl seated upon her
divan, with the dragoman comfortably established beside her. Both were
smoking cigarettes and Tadros was holding Nephthys with one arm loosely
clasped around her waist.

They did not notice the master’s presence for a moment; but when they
looked up, Kāra was standing before them with folded arms. The frown had
vanished, and his expression was one of positive content; for here was
his excuse.

“Tadros,” said he, in a soft voice, “be good enough to go into the
courtyard. You may wait there for me.”

The dragoman stood up and flicked the ash from his cigarette. He was
evidently much disturbed.

“If you think, Kāra--” he began, in a very loud, boisterous voice.

“Go into the courtyard, please,” interrupted the other, quietly.

Tadros hesitated and glanced at Nephthys. The girl was staring with
frightened eyes into her master’s face. Following her gaze, the
dragoman gave a shudder. Kāra’s countenance was as cold and inexpressive
as that of a statue. Tadros had learned to fear that expression. Softly
he tiptoed from the room, and the draperies fell behind him.

Clinging to the curtains of the arch leading to the next room, appeared
old Tilga, who was trembling violently. Had the master been an Arab, her
life was already forfeited. She was not sure what an Egyptian would do
under the circumstances.

Kāra beckoned her to approach. Then, pointing a finger at Nephthys, he
said:

“Remove those jewels and ornaments.”

As the old woman eagerly attempted to obey, Nephthys stood up and asked
in a low, horrified voice:

“What are you going to do?”

Kāra did not reply. He watched Tilga’s nervous fingers rapidly removing
the diadem, earrings, brooches and bracelets, which she cast in a heap
upon a table. Nephthys submitted quietly until the hag seized her string
of pearls; then she shrank away and clutched at her throat to save her
treasure, loving the pearls better than all else.

Kāra grasped her wrists firmly and drew her hands down to her side,
while Tilga unwound the triple row of priceless pearls from the girl’s
neck and added it to the heap upon the table. He continued to hold her
fast until the housekeeper had stripped from her fingers the rings of
diamond, ruby and emerald. Then he let her go, and Nephthys moaned and
covered her face with her hands.

“Take off her robes,” commanded Kāra, sternly.

Tilga rushed to do his bidding, and, when Nephthys resisted, the hag
struck her across the face with her open hand. She literally tore away
the exquisite gown, as well as the silken hose and satin slippers, until
the girl stood shorn of all her finery except the fleecy underclothing.

“Leave her that,” said Kāra. “And now, where is her black cotton dress?”

Tilga hurriedly fetched it from a closet in the robing chamber. She
brought the head-shawl and the coarse shoes also.

Nephthys was sobbing now as miserably as a child that has been robbed of
its toys.

“I won’t wear them! I won’t have them! Take them away!” she wailed, as
the old Fedah garments were produced.

But the woman shook her angrily and slapped her again, covering her with
the crude, soiled gown, and then pushing her back upon the divan while
she placed the flat shoes upon the girl’s bare feet. Tears were still
standing in Nephthys’ great eyes, but she submitted to the inevitable
with a resumption of her old obedient manner.

“Call Ebbek,” said the master; and Tilga displayed such activity that
she quickly returned, dragging the Arab after her.

“You will take this woman back to Fedah, whence you brought her, and
deliver her over to her mother again. There is a train at sundown, and
you will be able to catch it if you are prompt. Drive to the station in
a carriage.”

Ebbek bowed without betraying surprise at his master’s unexpected
command. Perhaps he had been observant, and knew the reason for the
girl’s dismissal.

“Must old Sĕra return your money?” he asked.

“No; tell her she may keep it. Here is gold for your expenses. Feed
Nephthys at the railway station, if you have time, and buy her some
cigarettes. Now hasten.”

Ebbek took the girl’s arm to lead her away. As she passed Kāra she
halted to say, with despairing intensity:

“I hate you! Some day I will kill you.”

Kāra laughed. He was in a pleased mood.

“Good-by, Nephthys,” he rejoined, complacently. “Tell Sĕra I present you
to her with my compliments.”

Then he left the room and found Tadros standing stiffly outside the
door.

“Follow me,” he said, and the dragoman obeyed.

He led the way to his own room and sat down facing the dragoman.

Tadros remained standing. He held in his hand the stump of a half-burned
cigarette, which he eyed critically and with an air of absorbing
interest.

Kāra, being amused, remained silent.

After a time the dragoman coughed to clear his throat.

“You see, Kāra,” he began, “I bought the girl first, and paid good money
for her when I was desperately poor--a fact that deserves some
consideration; yet you forced me to sell her.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, for an insignificant roll of papyrus. I don’t complain, having
accepted the bargain; but you mustn’t blame me for all that has
happened. By the beard of Osiris! is a man’s heart to be bought and sold
like a woman’s body? It is absurd.”

He paused, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he lifted his eyes,
and was pained to find Kāra staring at him fixedly.

“There should be no quarrel between us,” he continued, striving to speak
confidently. “I have been your jackal, and did your dirty work for a
fair amount of pay. What then? To ruin me will cause your own downfall.
You dare not do it. But I am honest with you, and a good servant. You
need not fear me in the future, for I will promise you on my word to
avoid your harem--the word of Tadros the dragoman!”

As he spoke, a shrill scream reached their ears. Tadros bounded to the
window, and through the lattice saw Ebbek pushing the unhappy Nephthys
into a carriage. He turned a frowning face toward his master.

“What are you doing to the girl?” he demanded, fiercely.

“Sending her back to Sĕra.”

The dragoman uttered a curse and made for the door.

“Come here!” cried Kāra, sternly.

Tadros stopped, hesitated, and then returned. He realized that he could
do nothing.

“Very well,” said he, sullenly. “She will be safer in Fedah than in
Cairo. But you have been cruel, Kāra. A man who is really a man would
not treat a beast as you have treated Nephthys. To teach her the
splendid luxury of a palace and then thrust her back into a mud hut on
the forsaken Nile bank is a positive crime! I suppose you have also
taken away her fine clothes and her pretty ornaments?”

“Yes.”

“Poor child! But there--one does not argue with a snake for fear of its
venom. I am likewise in your power,” said the dragoman, gloomily.

Kāra actually laughed at his rueful expression.

“You were born a fool, my Tadros,” said he, “and a fool you will die.
Look you! there is no excuse in all your chatter to me of your own
treachery--the crime that our customs declare merits death. You simply
accuse me of harshness in sending away a faithless woman. Tell me, then,
some plausible reason why I should not kill you.”

Tadros grew pale.

“There are two reasons,” he replied, seriously. “One is that murdering
me would cause you to get into trouble with the police. The other is
that you have need of me.”

“Very good. The first argument does not count, because you could be
killed secretly, with no personal danger to me; and that, without doubt,
is the manner in which I shall kill you some day. But your present
safety, my Tadros, lies in your second reason. I still need your
services, and will permit you to remain alive until I am quite sure to
have no further use for you.”

The dragoman drew a long breath.

“Let us forget it, Kāra,” said he. “I admit that I have been somewhat
indiscreet; but what then? All men are indiscreet at times, and you will
cease to blame me when you discover how faithful I am to your
interests.”

Kāra did not reply. The carriage had long since driven away. The
dragoman again shifted his position uneasily.

“May I go?” he asked.

“Yes.”

And Tadros withdrew, his heart filled with fear and hatred; but the
hatred remained long after the fear had subsided.




CHAPTER XVI.

KĀRA THREATENS.


Those two days were uneasy ones to Kāra. He felt no dread of Aneth’s
final answer, but the waiting for it was wearisome. Their arrangements
might easily have been concluded at the last interview had he not been
weak enough to defer to the girl’s foolish desire to postpone the
inevitable. Since he had come from Fedah, the world had been his
plaything, and he found it in no way difficult to accomplish those
things he determined upon. He had, therefore, acquired unbounded
confidence in the powers of Ahtka-Rā’s remarkable Stone of Fortune,
which he believed to have a strong influence over all his undertakings.
So the Egyptian merely sought to occupy his time to good advantage until
he could bring his bride--willing or unwilling mattered little--home to
his handsome villa.

He sent Tadros to summon the most famous merchants of Cairo to wait upon
him, and arranged to have the women’s quarters redecorated in regal
fashion. He selected many rich silks and embroideries for Aneth’s use
when she should need them, and secured an increased corps of Arab
servants, well trained in their duties, to attend the slightest wish of
their new mistress. He realized that the establishment must hereafter be
conducted more upon the plan of a modern European household, and that
the apartments of the harem must be transformed into parlors,
reception-halls and drawing-rooms.

In marrying Aneth he determined to abandon all Oriental customs and
adopt the manners of the newer and broader civilization. He would
exhibit his wife in society, and, through her, gain added distinction.
His villa would become renowned for its fêtes and magnificent
hospitality. Such a life appealed to his imagination, and a marriage
with the English girl rendered it possible.

Hatatcha had educated and trained Kāra for a purpose; but now her
mission and his oath to fulfil it were alike disregarded. He had given
the matter considerable thought recently, and decided that his love for
Aneth Consinor canceled all obligations to persecute her or her people
further. Hatatcha was dead and forgotten by the world, and her wrongs
could never be righted by any vengeance that he might inflict upon her
enemies. She could not appreciate the justice of retribution, since her
spirit was far away in the nether world with Anubis, and her body in the
tombs of Fedah. He had, at first, been conscientious in his
determination to accomplish his grandmother’s will, but a girl’s eyes
had thwarted him, and Hatatcha had herself proved weak when love
assailed her. Even as all his schemes were approaching fruition and his
grandmother’s revenge was nearing accomplishment, the compelling power
of his love arrested his hand and induced him to cast aside everything
that might interfere with his prospective happiness.

On the afternoon of the second day he dressed himself carefully and
ordered his chauffeur to be ready to drive him to the Savoy; but as he
was about to leave his room, a note was brought to him from Aneth. He
tore it open and eagerly read the message--

     Dear Prince Kāra:--I am not going to risk another unpleasant
     interview, because I am anxious we should remain in the future, as
     in the past, good friends and comrades. But please do not again ask
     me to marry you, for such a thing is utterly impossible. While I am
     glad to enjoy your friendship, I can never return the love you
     profess to bear me, and without love a true woman will not marry.
     So I beg you will forget that such a thing has ever been discussed
     between us, and forbear to refer to it again.

                            Your friend,

                                         ANETH CONSINOR.

As he read the note Kāra’s face grew set and stern and his dark eyes
flashed ominously. He read it a second time, with more care, trying to
find some word of hope or compromise in the frankly written epistle. But
there was none.

He experienced a sensation of disappointment and chagrin, tinged with
considerable astonishment. Strange as it may seem, he had never for a
moment anticipated such a positive refusal. But his nature was impetuous
and capricious, and presently anger drove all other feelings from his
heart; and the anger grew and expanded until it was hot and furious and
took full possession of him.

Perhaps it was the blow to his self-esteem that was most effective in
destroying the passion he had mistaken for love. Anyway, the love
dissolved with startling rapidity, and in a half hour there was little
tenderness remaining for the English girl who had repulsed him. He
accepted her answer as conclusive, and began at once to revive his
former plans of vengeance. One transport was liable to prove as sweet
and exciting as another to him, and he began to revel in the
consciousness that he was the supreme master of the fate of all the
Consinors. Hatatcha was right after all. These English were cold and
faithless, and unworthy the consideration of one of his noble race. He
had been incautious and weak for a time, but now he resolved to fulfil
his oath to the dead woman to the very letter.

He tore the offending paper into fragments, and left the room with a
resumption of his old inscrutable demeanor. It was the look that Tadros
had learned to fear.

“Drive me to the Savoy,” he said to his chauffeur.

Lord Roane had reserved one small room on the first floor of the hotel
as an office, and here he transacted such business matters as came under
his jurisdiction. Kāra found him unoccupied, and Roane, who knew his
visitor but slightly, greeted the man with cordial politeness.

“Pray be seated, Prince,” said he, offering a chair; “I am entirely at
your service.”

The other bowed coldly.

“I fear my mission may prove somewhat disagreeable to you, my lord,” he
began, in quiet, even tones.

Roane gave him a shrewd glance.

“Ah, I hear that my son is largely indebted to you for losses in
gambling,” he returned, thinking that he understood Kāra’s errand. “So
far, it is merely a rumor that has reached me; but if you come to me to
plead that case, I beg to assure you that I am in no way responsible for
Consinor’s debts of honor.”

The Egyptian shrugged his shoulders as a Frenchman might have done.

“That is another matter, sir, which I do not care to discuss at this
time,” he answered. “My present business is to obtain your consent to
marry your granddaughter.”

Roane was startled with amazement.

“Aneth! You wish to marry Aneth?” he asked, as if he could not have
heard aright.

“Yes, my lord.”

So confident was the prince’s tone that Lord Roane, although much
unnerved by its suddenness, began involuntarily to consider the
proposition. The fellow was handsome and dignified and reputed to be as
rich as Crœsus; but the Englishman had a natural antipathy to
foreigners, especially the dark-skinned ones. The idea of giving Aneth
to an Egyptian was revolting.

“Ahem! This is indeed a surprise, Prince,” he said, haltingly. “The
child is hardly old enough yet to think of marriage.”

Kāra did not reply to this observation.

“Have you--ah--approached her with this proposal as yet?” inquired
Roane, after a few moments’ reflection.

“I have, sir.”

“And what did she say?”

“She refused to marry me, giving as her reason the fact that she does
not love me,” was the calm reply.

Roane stared at him.

“Then why the devil do you come to me?” he demanded, angrily.

“Because the girl must not be allowed to choose for herself,” said Kāra.

“Must not, sir?”

“Decidedly not, Lord Roane. Too much depends upon her refusal. At
present your granddaughter stands disgraced in the eyes of all the
world, because of that dishonest father, who, as you remarked a moment
ago, owes me ten thousand pounds.”

“Aneth disgraced!” cried Roane, indignantly; “by no means, sir! Even
your vile insinuations cannot injure that pure and innocent girl. But
Consinor has gone away, and his daughter is now under my personal
protection. I will see that she is accorded the respect and
consideration to which she is entitled, despite her father’s misdeeds.”

“Such an assertion, my lord, is, under the circumstances, ridiculous,”
replied Kāra, with a composure equal to the other’s irritation. “In the
near future, when you are yourself disgraced and imprisoned, who will
then be left to protect your granddaughter’s good name?”

Roane uttered a roar of exasperation.

“You infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, “how dare you come here to
browbeat and insult me! Leave my presence, sir!”

“I think you will be glad to hear more,” remarked Kāra, without changing
his position. “Perhaps you are not aware that your robbery of the
Government through the contractor, McFarland, is fully known to me.”

Roane fell back in his chair, white and trembling.

“It’s a lie!” he muttered.

“It is not a lie,” said the imperturbable Egyptian. “The proofs are all
in my hands. I hold your receipt to McFarland for the stolen money.”

Roane glared at him, but had not a word to reply. He felt like a rat in
a trap. From the most unexpected source this blow had fallen upon him
when least expected, and already he bitterly regretted his lapse from
honesty.

“The Egyptian Government, when it learns the facts,” continued Kāra,
“will show you no mercy. Even Lord Cromer will insist upon your
punishment, for he will resent any embezzlement in office that would
bring the English colony here into disrepute. You must be aware of your
danger without the necessity of my calling your attention to the fact;
so that you have, absolutely, no hope of escape except through my
clemency.”

“What do you mean?” asked the old nobleman, hoarsely.

“That at present the secret is in my sole possession. It need never be
disclosed. Give me Aneth in marriage, and you will not only secure your
safety, but I will see that you want for nothing in the future. I am
wealthy enough to promise this.”

“The girl has refused you.”

“Never mind. You will force her to accept me.”

“No, by God, I will not!” cried Roane, springing to his feet. “Hell and
all its imps shall not induce me to drag that innocent child to my own
level. I am a felon because I am an ass, and an ass because I have no
moral stamina; but even then, my heart is not as black as yours, Prince
Kāra!”

The Egyptian listened unmoved.

“The matter deserves more careful consideration,” said he. “Sentiment is
very pretty when it does not conflict with personal safety. An
examination of your case reveals comfort and prosperity on the one hand,
disgrace and prison on the other.”

“They weigh nothing against Aneth’s happiness,” returned the old man,
promptly. “Expose me as soon as you like, sir, for nothing will ever
induce me to save myself from the fruits of my folly at the expense of
that poor girl. And now, go!”

Kāra smiled with quiet scorn.

“It is quite refreshing to witness your indignation,” said he. “If it
were equaled by your honesty, you would have no reason to fear me.”

“Nor do I fear you now,” retorted Lord Roane, defiantly. “Do your worst,
you infamous nigger, for you cannot bribe me in any way to abet your
shameful proposals.”

Kāra reddened at the epithet, but did not reply until he had risen and
started to move toward the door. Then he half turned and said:

“It will enable you to appreciate your danger better, Lord Roane, if I
tell you that I am but the instrument of an Egyptian woman named
Hatatcha, whose life and happiness you once carelessly ruined. She did
not forget, and her vengeance against you and yours will be terrible,
believe me, unless you engage me to defeat it instead of accomplishing
it. My personal interest induces me to bargain with you. What do you
say, my lord? Shall we discuss this subject more fully, or do you wish
me to go?”

Roane was staring at him with affrighted eyes. A thousand recollections
flashed through his mind at the mention of Hatatcha’s name, attended by
a thousand terrors as he remembered his treatment of her. So lost was he
in fear and wonder that Kāra had to speak again.

“Shall I go, my lord?”

“Yes,” was the answer. It seemed to be wrenched from the old man’s
throbbing breast by a generosity that conquered his cowardice.

Kāra frowned. He was disappointed. But further argument was useless, and
he went away, leaving Roane fairly stunned by the disclosures of the
interview.




CHAPTER XVII.

ANETH SURRENDERS.


Kāra went straight to Aneth’s apartments, insisting that he must see
her.

The girl was much distressed by this sudden visit, and, thinking that
the Egyptian wished merely to renew his protestations and appeals, tried
hard to evade the ordeal of an interview. Mrs. Everingham was with her
at the time, and in her perplexity Aneth confided to her in a few brief
words Kāra’s infatuation, and asked her advice how to act under such
trying circumstances.

Mrs. Everingham was a woman of strong character and shrewd judgment. She
was tall and admirably formed, with undoubted claims to beauty and a
carriage queenly and dignified. The wife of a prominent engineer,
she had lived much in the Orient and was accustomed to its
unconventionalities as well as to its most representative social life.
Although so much older than Aneth, the lady had manifested a fondness
for the lonely girl from their first meeting, and had gladly taken her,
as she expressed it, “under her wing,” as well as to her sympathetic
heart; so that Aneth had come to rely upon her friend in many ways, and
now turned to her in this emergency.

“I think it will be best for you to see him,” advised Mrs. Everingham,
after a thoughtful consideration of the case. “If you evade the
explanation he doubtless wishes to force upon you, he is the sort of man
to annoy you persistently until you grant him an interview. Better have
it over at once; and be positive with him, my dear, as well as gentle,
so that you leave no hope alive to warrant his renewing his suit.”

“Won’t you stay with me, Lola?” begged Aneth.

“That would hardly be fair to Prince Kāra,” smiled Mrs. Everingham, “for
my presence would embarrass and humiliate him unnecessarily. No; I will
withdraw into the next room, where I shall be within call, but
invisible. Be brave, Aneth dear. These disagreeable duties are often
thrust upon women who, like yourself, have a faculty of unconsciously
winning men’s hearts, and are exacted as inevitable penalties. I am
sorry for the poor prince, but he is not of our race and had no business
to fall in love with an English girl.”

Then she kissed her protégé and retired to the adjoining room, taking
pains to leave the door ajar. Aneth sighed, and called her Arab to admit
Kāra.

When the Egyptian entered, his manner in no way indicated the despair of
a rejected lover, or even the eagerness of one who hoped to successfully
appeal his case. Instead, he bowed coldly, but with profound deference,
and said:

“You must pardon me, Miss Aneth, for forcing this interview upon you;
but it was necessary.”

“Forgive me, also, Prince Kāra,” faltered the girl. “I am sorry you
came, for my answer was final. I can never--”

He waved his hand with a gesture of insolent indifference that arrested
her words.

“You will not be called upon to repeat the dismissal conveyed in your
letter,” said he. “I may ask you to reverse your decision, but it will
be a matter of business between us, in which inclination will have no
part.”

“Sir,” she replied, shrinking back before his stern look, “I--I fear I
do not understand you!”

“Be seated,” he requested, “and I will explain.”

She obeyed silently, with a partial recovery of her self-control.
Strange as the Egyptian’s words proved, they were, after all, more
bearable than his endearing protestations would have been, and in her
ignorance she welcomed any topic but love.

Kāra spoke with brutal frankness.

“The scandal caused by your father’s dishonesty is too recent for you to
have yet escaped its contamination,” he began. “Lord Consinor has left
Cairo owing me money, a matter of some ten thousand pounds. That you may
have no cause to doubt my word, please to examine this note of hand. It
is witnessed by two respectable gentlemen residing in this city.”

He handed her the paper and she took it mechanically, wondering what it
meant.

“According to our laws,” he resumed, “I can bring an action to recover
this money against any member of Consinor’s family. I am assured such
an action would ruin Lord Roane completely.”

She was afraid of him now, but drew herself up proudly.

“That will not matter in the least, sir,” she replied. “Lord Roane will
gladly meet any just obligation, even though it may leave him penniless
to do so.”

“My lord does not express himself quite so honorably as that,” replied
Kāra, with an open sneer. “But this note of hand is really unimportant.
I merely mentioned it to emphasize the debt that you and your
grandfather already owe me. Your father has cleverly escaped the result
of his misdeeds by absconding. Unfortunately, Lord Roane is unable to do
the same thing.”

“No one will blame Lord Roane for his son’s faults,” she protested,
greatly distressed by the cruelty of Kāra’s remarks.

“That is not my meaning,” he replied. “Roane’s own misdeeds are so much
more serious than those of his son that, when they are discovered, he
cannot escape a prison cell.”

Aneth gasped in horror. The accusation was at first beyond belief; but
Kāra’s tone was positive and a sudden recollection of her grandfather’s
doubtful life flashed over her and made her dread to question further.

It was not needful. The man continued calmly to enlighten her concerning
McFarland’s crime and her grandfather’s participation in it, while the
girl sat with wide-open eyes and a look of despair upon her white face.

Finally Kāra produced a second paper.

“This, Miss Aneth,” he said, more gently, “is the receipt signed by Lord
Roane for his share of the stolen money. It is proof positive against
him, and you will, of course, recognize his signature. Besides, I can
produce two witnesses to the crime--a crime for which the penalty is, as
I have hinted, a long term of imprisonment as well as dishonor through
all the ages to come. But this is only for discovery. There is no
penalty exacted for an undiscovered crime. Personally, I do not wish to
see Lord Roane disgraced and sent to prison, or your invalid mother
impoverished, and you, yourself, left to the mercies of a reproachful
world; so I have come here to-day to save you all from these
consequences of Roane’s folly, if you will let me.”

Aneth tried to control her bewilderment. She wanted to think calmly. So
vividly had Kāra described Lord Roane’s offense, that she saw it all
before her as in a dream, and knew that the old man’s feet were
stumbling at the edge of a bottomless pit. But the last words of the
Egyptian, if she heard them aright, seemed to promise a chance of her
awakening and exorcising the nightmare.

“How can you save us?” she asked, wearily.

“By making you my wife,” he answered. “It all rests with you, Miss
Aneth. I alone can protect Lord Roane from any possibility of discovery,
and I will do so if you now promise to marry me. More than that, I will
pay off all the mortgages on your grandfather’s estates, so that he may
live in comfort during the remainder of his life, honored and respected
by all. And you shall have your father’s note of hand for the ten
thousand pounds as soon as I receive your promise, as an earnest of my
good faith.”

“And if I refuse?” she suggested, trembling.

“Then you render me powerless to aid, and plunge your aged grandfather
into prison, disgraced and humiliated beyond any hope of redemption.”

“No, no! I cannot do that,” she wailed, miserably. “He has been so good
to me and loved me so fondly that I dare not--I will not--sacrifice him
to secure my own happiness!”

“It is as I hoped,” said Kāra, a note of triumph in his voice. “Do you
promise, sacredly and on your honor, that you will marry me in return
for my shielding your grandfather from the consequences of his crime?”

“Yes,” she answered, clasping her hands with a shudder.

“And you will come to me any day and hour that I may appoint?”

“Yes.”

“Aneth! Aneth! what have you said? What have you done?” cried Mrs.
Everingham, running from her hiding-place to clasp the terrified girl in
her arms.

“What have I done?” repeated Aneth, vacantly. “Why, Lola, I have saved
my dear grandfather from disgrace and ruin.”

[Illustration: “You shall not keep that promise!” declared the woman]

“You shall not keep that promise!” declared the woman, turning fiercely
to confront Kāra. “It was wrung from you by threats--by blackmail--and
this scoundrel is playing upon your generous and loving heart. You shall
never keep so absurd a promise.”

“Yes,” returned Aneth, bravely; “I have given my word, and I shall keep
it.”

Kāra laid a paper upon the table.

“There is your father’s note, Miss Aneth. You may destroy it.” He
hesitated an instant, and then added the second paper. “And here is your
grandfather’s receipt for the stolen money. So fully do I trust to your
good faith that I leave the incriminating evidence all in your own
hands. Good afternoon, Miss Aneth.”

With a bow, grave and courteous, he passed from the room, and Mrs.
Everingham lifted the girl in her strong arms and carried her into the
adjoining chamber to lay her tenderly upon her bed. The strain had been
severe, and Aneth had fainted.




CHAPTER XVIII.

FINDING A WAY.


Gerald Winston endured several miserable, uneasy days following that of
Lord Consinor’s public disgrace. He longed to call upon Aneth, but dared
not intrude, and so compromised by sending her a daily gift of flowers.
At last, however, he decided to see Mrs. Everingham and endeavor to
ascertain Aneth’s condition, and whether her father’s fault was making
her as sorrowful as he feared.

He found Mrs. Everingham at her rooms in the Savoy, and was admitted at
once.

“I want to ask you about Miss Consinor,” he said, after he had been
warmly greeted, for they were good friends and she was glad he had come.

“Aneth is very unhappy,” was the sober reply.

“I can understand her humiliation, of course,” he continued, with a
sigh; “although I hoped she would be brave, and not take the unfortunate
circumstance too much to heart.”

“She is young,” answered Mrs. Everingham, evasively, “and cannot view
these things as composedly as we do. Moreover, you must remember that
Lord Consinor’s trouble touches her more deeply than anyone else.”

“Unless it is the viscountess,” he suggested.

“Oh, the poor viscountess knows nothing of it! She passes her time in an
exclusive consideration of her own ailments, and will scarcely see her
own daughter at all. Do you know, Gerald, I sometimes wonder how the
child can be so sweet and womanly when her surroundings are so
dreadful.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Consinor has always borne a doubtful
reputation at home, and in past years Roane’s life has also been more or
less disgraceful. But the old fellow seems to be conducting himself very
properly since he came to Egypt, and it is possible he has reformed his
ways.”

She did not reply at once, but sat musing until she asked, with
startling abruptness:

“Gerald, do you love Aneth?”

He flushed and stammered in his endeavor to find words to reply. Since
his interview with Kāra he had confessed to himself that he did love
Aneth; but that another should discover his secret filled the big fellow
with confusion.

“Why do you ask?” he faltered, to gain time.

“Because the girl needs true and loving friends more at this moment than
in all her life to come,” said she, earnestly.

“I will be her true friend in any event,” he returned.

“But I must know more than that,” persisted Mrs. Everingham. “Tell me
frankly, Gerald, do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Well enough to wish to make her your wife, in spite of her family’s
shady history?”

“Yes,” he said again, looking at her inquiringly.

“Then I shall confide to you a great secret; for it is right that you
should be apprised of what is going on; and only you--with my
assistance, to be sure--can hope to defeat the cunning plot that
threatens to separate Aneth from you forever.”

Thereupon she related to him the details of the interview she had
overheard between Kāra and the girl, and told of the promise Aneth had
made to save her grandfather from disgrace by marrying the Egyptian.

“But this is nonsense!” he exclaimed, angrily. “The man is a fool to
wish to force any woman to marry him, and a scoundrel to use such means
to accomplish his purpose.”

“I know; I have discussed this matter with Aneth long and earnestly, but
all in vain. She is determined to sacrifice herself to save Lord Roane
from this disgrace; and Prince Kāra is inflexible. For some unknown
reason he has determined to make this girl his wife, although he did not
talk like a lover, and she told him frankly she could never love or even
esteem him. Really, it seems incomprehensible.”

“I know his reason well enough,” answered Winston, moodily. “He is
acting under the influence of the strongest and most evil human
passion--revenge. If you will kindly listen, my friend, I will relate a
bit of romance that should enable you to understand the Egyptian’s
purpose.”

He proceeded to recount the story of Hatatcha and Lord Roane, adding his
grounds for believing that Kāra had from the first contemplated the ruin
of the entire Consinor family.

“This is horrible!” cried Mrs. Everingham, indignantly. “If what you say
is true, this native prince is himself a grandson of Roane, and
therefore Aneth’s cousin.”

“I have called his attention to that fact, and he declares it is no bar
to his marrying her. I imagine his real meaning is that the relationship
is no bar to his prosecuting his nefarious plans. Does Lord Roane know
of this proposed sacrifice of his granddaughter for his sake?”

“No; and Aneth has made me promise to keep the secret from him. I cannot
see that he would be able to assist us in any way, if he knew all that
we know.”

“Perhaps not. Is the story true? Has Roane actually embezzled this
money?”

“I do not know.”

“It seems to me,” said the young man, thoughtfully, “that our first
action should be to discover the truth of Kāra’s assertion. He may have
trumped up the charge to work upon Aneth’s feelings, and lead her to
consent to marry him against her will.”

“That is true,” she said. “How can we investigate the matter?”

“Very easily. I will go to-morrow to the Rosetta Barrage and examine the
embankment. Afterward I can look up the records and discover what sort
of contract this man McFarland had, and how much money he collected for
its execution. That will give us the truth of the matter, and I can
accomplish it all in two days’ time.”

“Then go; but make haste, for every day is precious. We do not know when
the prince may call upon Aneth to fulfil her promise.”

They discussed the situation a while longer, and then Winston withdrew
to prepare for taking the early morning train.

The second evening after, he again called upon Mrs. Everingham.

“Well,” she inquired, eagerly, “what did you discover?”

“It is all true,” he answered, despondently. “The swindle has been
cleverly consummated, and in just the way Kāra explained it to Aneth.
There is no doubt of Lord Roane’s guilt; neither can we doubt that Kāra
has both the power and the will to expose and imprison him if it suits
his purpose to do so.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Everingham, firmly, “we must find another way to save
Aneth. The poor child is heart-broken, and moans every moment that she
is left alone with her misery. Lord Roane tries earnestly to comfort
her, for I am sure he loves her as well as one of his character is
capable of loving. But he imagines she grieves over her father, and
does not suspect the truth.”

“Is she still resolved upon keeping her promise?” he inquired.

“Yes; and that in spite of all I can say to move her. The girl has a
gentle and loving nature, but underneath it is a will of iron and a
stubbornness such as the early martyrs must have possessed. She holds
her own happiness as nothing when compared with her grandfather’s
safety.”

“Then what can we do?” he asked, pacing the floor nervously.

“We must resort to a cunning equal to Kāra’s in order to induce Aneth to
break her foolish promise,” responded Mrs. Everingham, promptly.

“I fear I do not quite understand,” he said, stopping before her to read
her countenance for the clue.

“I think--nay, Gerald, I am certain--the girl loves you; for I have
questioned her skilfully during your absence and led her to speak of
you, watching her tell-tale eyes as she did so. In my opinion it is this
secret love for another that makes her sacrifice so grievous, and will
end in breaking her heart.”

He blushed like a girl at hearing this, but was evidently reassured and
delighted.

“Yet I do not understand even now, Mrs. Everingham,” he said.

“It is not so much that you are stupid as that you are a man,” she
answered, smiling. “You must become the instrument to save Aneth from
herself. In a few moments I shall take you to see her. Her rooms are
just across the hall, and doubtless she is at this moment alone, Lord
Roane having left the hotel an hour ago. This evening I will give you
countenance, but thereafter you must play your own game, and do your
utmost to draw from Aneth a confession that she loves you. When you have
done that, our case is won.”

“Why so?”

“Can’t you see, Gerald? No right-minded girl would ruin the life of the
man she loves to save her grandfather from the consequences of his own
errors. If she is in the mood to sacrifice, we will let her sacrifice
Lord Roane instead of herself or you.”

“Oh!” he said, blankly. “I can’t do that, you know, Mrs. Everingham.”

“Why not?”

“It would not be honest or fair. And it would be selfish in me, and--and
unmanly.”

“But I am not thinking of you at all, sir, except as the instrument. I
am thinking of Aneth and her life’s happiness. Are you willing, on your
part, to sacrifice her to such a man as Kāra, that he may crush her to
gratify his revenge?”

“No; but--”

“Will you permit her, in her blindness and folly, to break her own heart
and ruin her own life, when you know that you can save her?”

“No.”

“The struggle is between you and Kāra. Lord Roane is a felon, and to
save him from the penalty due his acts will be to merely postpone the
day when another of his criminal misdeeds will be discovered. There is
little possible redemption for a man who has attained his sinful years;
but if the possibility did exist, the price would be too high. Opposed
to the desirability of shielding this reprobate nobleman and giving Kāra
his way--which simply means Aneth’s ruin--we must consider your mutual
love and the prospect of a long life of happiness for you both. Do you
dare to hesitate, Gerald Winston?”

“I will do exactly as you say, Mrs. Everingham,” he replied,
impetuously. “I can’t let her go to this fiend--to the terrible fate
that awaits her. Tell me what to do, and I will obey!”

“Your first duty will be to come with me to her room. And drop that long
face, sir! Be cheery and lighthearted, and woo Aneth as tenderly as if
you were wholly ignorant of the dreadful position she is in. Arrange to
call again to-morrow, and in the future do not leave her alone for a
single evening, and haunt her at all hours of the day. Remember that
time is precious, and the situation demands all your skill and
diplomacy. It cannot be a long siege; you must determine to capture her
by attack.”

“I--I’ll try,” he said, nervously.

And so he met Aneth again, for the first time since her trouble had come
upon her, and he performed his part so creditably that Mrs. Everingham
had but little fault to find with her coadjutor. The sight of the girl’s
swollen eyelids and her sad and resigned expression of countenance so
aroused his loving pity and indignation at the cruel plot that had
enmeshed her, that he could scarcely restrain the impulse to declare at
once his love and entreat her to give him an immediate right to protect
her.

Perhaps Aneth read something of his love for her in his eager face, for
she joined with Mrs. Everingham in sustaining the flow of small talk
that was likely to prove her best safeguard, and in this way was led to
forget for the moment her cares and fears. She hesitated a moment when
Gerald proposed to bring her a new book next afternoon, but finally
consented. Therefore, he left her feeling more buoyant and hopeful than
he had thought could be possible a few short hours before.

From that evening his former shyness disappeared, and he pushed his suit
with as much ardor as he dared, utterly ignoring Aneth’s evident desire
to restrain him from speaking too plainly. But sometimes she, too,
forgot her impending fate, and gave way to the delight of these happy
moments. Already she knew that Gerald loved her, for her woman’s
instinct was alert, and at night she lay upon her bed and wailed
miserably because the gates of paradise had suddenly opened before her,
and her willing feet were so bound that she might not enter.

During these days Lord Roane devoted much of his time to his grandchild,
treating her with almost reverential tenderness and striving in every
possible way to cheer her spirits. The old man realized that his
probation might be short. At any moment Kāra was liable to fulfil his
threat and expose him to the authorities, and involuntarily he caught
himself listening at all times for the footfall of the official coming
to arrest him. He even wondered why he had escaped so long, knowing
nothing of the manner in which Aneth had saved him.

And the girl, noting his loving care for her and marking the trouble
that often clouded his handsome face, was encouraged in her resolve to
carry out her compact with Kāra rather than see her aged grandfather
thrust into prison, humiliated and disgraced.

Between her awakening love for Gerald Winston and her desire to save the
family honor, the girl was indeed in pitiable straits. Yet never for a
moment did she hesitate as to which way the path of duty led.

She felt that every day she remained unmolested by the Egyptian was a
precious boon to be grateful for, yet always she dreaded Kāra’s summons.
However, he was in no hurry, realizing the bitterness to her of these
days of waiting, and enjoying the prolongation of her sufferings. All
the love that Kāra had formerly borne the girl seemed to have dissolved
as if by magic, and in its place had grown up schemes for so horrible a
vengeance that he often wondered whether Hatatcha herself might not have
hesitated to accomplish it.

But Kāra did not hesitate. The very diablerie of the thing fascinated
and delighted him, and he anticipated the event with eager joy.

Tadros spent much of his time at the hotel, in charge of Kāra’s
elaborate system of espionage. His functions as dragoman gained for him
special privileges, and the hall porter allowed him free access to the
lobby; yet he was only able to enter the upper halls when he could plead
some definite errand. This excuse was provided by a guest of the hotel,
an agreeable Frenchman who was in Kāra’s employ and maintained a
surveillance over the interior of the establishment, while a half-dozen
Arabs and Copts watched carefully the exterior. Thus Tadros was enabled
to keep in close touch with the movements of Lord Roane and Aneth, as
well as to spy upon those who might visit them, and his orders were to
report promptly to Kāra any suspicious circumstances which might
indicate that his victims were planning their escape.

But, from the dragoman’s reports, all seemed well, and his prospective
prey apparently made no effort to evade their fate.

Kāra depended much upon Aneth’s delicate sense of honor and her strength
of character, and read her so truly that there was little chance of her
disappointing him. Roane, however, caused him a little uneasiness, and
the Egyptian’s spies shadowed him wherever he went. But Kāra misjudged
the old gentleman if he supposed that Roane would tamely submit to
Aneth’s sacrifice had he known her secret. The girl understood him
better, and although she did not know of his indignant rejection of
Kāra’s offer to shield him at the expense of his granddaughter’s
happiness, Aneth knew that if Roane learned the truth he would at once
give himself up to justice in order to save her; and here was a danger
the clever Egyptian had not even suspected.

In many of his dealings Roane was doubtless an unprincipled knave; but
certain points of character were so impressed upon his nature, through
inheritance from generations of more noble Consinors, that in matters of
chivalry his honor could not be successfully challenged.

The dragoman said nothing to Kāra about Winston’s frequent visits to
Aneth. During his hours of watching Tadros indulged in reflection, and
these musings encouraged a growing resentment toward his master that
destroyed much of his value as a confidential servant. Aside from the
resentment, Tadros was afraid of Kāra, and also uneasy as to his
financial condition. The prince, who was accustomed to scatter money
with a liberal hand, had of late refrained from exhibiting a single
piastre. Tadros wondered, and grew suspicious. One evening, as he
reported to Kāra, he said:

“The tradesmen are clamoring for their money. They say you are not
paying them as promptly as you did heretofore.”

Kāra looked up with surprise.

“Is not my credit good?” he inquired.

“For the present, yes,” replied the dragoman; “but it will not remain
good unless you begin to pay for all the magnificence you are putting
into this villa.”

“I see,” said Kāra, nodding thoughtfully. “They are fools, my Tadros,
but they might become troublesome. Keep them satisfied with promises for
a time longer. That should not be a difficult task.”

Tadros looked at him distrustfully.

“Tell me, my prince; have you spent all your treasure?” he asked.

The Egyptian smiled.

“If I should live a thousand years, my Tadros,” he returned, “I could
not spend the half of it.”

“Then why do you not pay these merchants?”

“Because I have at this time no more money in the bank, and it is not
convenient for me to leave Cairo just now to secure a further supply.”

“Oh, I see!” remarked the dragoman, heaving a sigh of relief. “You must
make another trip to Fedah.”

Kāra gave him one of those intent, thoughtful looks that always made
Tadros uneasy; but when he spoke his voice sounded soft and pleasant.

“What causes you to think my treasure is at Fedah, my good friend?” he
asked.

The tone reassured the dragoman.

“It stands to reason, my prince, that it is there,” he answered, with
frank indifference. “Do I not well remember first seeing the papyri in
your house, and afterward carrying away from there the heavy traveling
case that was filled with precious gems?”

“Ah! was it?”

“Of course, Kāra. How else could you give so many ancient gems to the
Van der Veens to recut, or turn so many more into money by selling them
to Andalaft, the jeweler?”

“You have been observant, my Tadros.”

“It is natural. I am no fool. But if, as you say, there is more treasure
at Fedah, I will undertake to keep the rascally tradesmen quiet until
you can make another deposit in the bank.”

Kāra was still reading the countenance of his dragoman.

“It is quite evident that you are no fool, my Tadros,” he said, softly;
“yet I had not imagined you capable of so much shrewdness and wisdom.
Look you! Fedah consists of a rock and a few stone houses cemented with
Nile mud. It is familiar to you, being your birthplace as well as my
own. Now where do you suppose, within the limits of that simple village,
a treasure could have been discovered?”

“It has puzzled me,” acknowledged Tadros; “but I suppose you do not wish
me to know the exact location. Nevertheless, it is evident that the
treasure is a very ancient one, and therefore it must have been hidden
by your forefathers in the mountain itself, or perhaps on the desert
that adjoins the village.”

“A long-buried and forgotten temple; eh, Tadros?”

“Oh, no; a tomb, of course! They did not keep pearls and rubies in the
temples. Only in tombs could such trinkets be found. That is why I
believe your statement that you are the last descendant of the great
kings of Egypt; for this tomb was not discovered by accident, I know.
The secret of its existence must have been handed down through the
generations. Hatatcha knew, and told you of it before she died; so it is
your personal property, and its possession proves your noble blood. I am
glad the treasure is ample; for at the rate you are squandering money,
it would otherwise be soon exhausted.”

“Very wisely argued, indeed,” said Kāra. “I wonder how much of my
inheritance has already found its way into your own pockets.”

“Not too much, you may be sure,” answered the dragoman, gravely. “I am
very honest, and take only my rightful perquisites. It is better that
these trifles should go to me than to strangers, for I am your own
kinsman and almost as pure an Egyptian as yourself.”

“True. I do not complain, my Tadros. But in acquiring my money you
should take care not to acquire too much knowledge of my affairs with
it, for such knowledge is liable to prove extremely dangerous. Consider
the pearls of wisdom that have even now dropped from your lips. Must
they not be repaid? And already I am greatly in your debt.”

“You are talking riddles,” growled the dragoman, uneasily. “Tell me what
you mean in plain words.”

“Do you remember the day that Nephthys broke her water-jar?”

“Yes.”

“You struck me, your prince, and knocked me down.”

“Well, you choked me afterward. That should even the score.”

“Not quite. I choked you for spying upon me. That was another offense.
The blow has not yet been accounted for.”

Tadros frowned.

“I do not bear grudges myself,” he muttered.

“There are a few other matters scored against your account,” continued
Kāra. “Still, so long as you serve me faithfully, and I have need of
you, I shall not exact a reckoning; but they stand on record, my Tadros,
and some day the account must be balanced. Do not forget that. For these
reasons, and remembering that you have declared yourself no fool, I am
certain that you will admit you were wrong about the location of my
treasure. When you think it over, you will conclude that it lies in
Luxor, or Abydos, or perhaps is a myth altogether, and never has
existed. And, when you chatter to others, no mention of a hidden tomb or
temple will be permitted to pass your lips. I am quite sure you will be
circumspect, and I trust you to keep to yourself the secret of my
affairs. If I thought you would betray me, I would kill you now, instead
of waiting. But you will not do that; you are too fond of living and of
the money you are saving to hazard losing both.”

Tadros returned to his duties in a very thoughtful mood. In playing upon
his fears, Kāra had overreached himself, and made the dragoman so much
afraid that he believed his life hung by a thread. Therefore, he sought
most earnestly for a way of escape from the thrall of his terrible
countryman.

The following morning Gerald Winston, on leaving Mrs. Everingham after a
conference concerning their plans, met Tadros face to face in the
corridor of the hotel. He recognized the man at once as Kāra’s dragoman
and confidential servant. Moreover, he suspected that the fellow had
just come from the Consinor apartments; so he had no hesitation in
accosting him.

“May I speak with you a moment in private?” he asked.

“Most certainly, sir.”

Winston led the way into Mrs. Everingham’s drawing-room, where the lady
greeted his return with surprise, but a quick appreciation of the
importance of securing an interview with Kāra’s confidant.

“You are Prince Kāra’s dragoman, I believe?” began the Englishman.

“Yes, Winston Bey.”

“And devoted to him personally, of course?”

“To an extent, naturally,” returned Tadros, hesitating what to say. “You
see, he pays me liberally.”

Winston and Mrs. Everingham exchanged glances. Then the lady took up the
conversation.

“Prince Kāra,” she said, in a stern tone, “is a scoundrel, being even
now engaged in perfecting one of the most diabolical plots the mind of
man has ever conceived.”

Tadros did not reply. It was not his business to deny the charge.

“Our desire and intention to defeat this plot,” she continued, “lead us
to speak to you frankly. We must save Miss Consinor from an ignoble
alliance with your master.”

Tadros listened carefully.

“To accomplish our purpose, we are willing to expend a great deal of
money--enough to make some faithful ally comfortable for the remainder
of his life.”

A pause followed this significant statement. Tadros felt the effect of
their scrutinizing glances, and cleared his throat while he looked
swiftly around to make sure they could not be overheard. Then,
reassured, he answered with his native bluntness of speech.

“I am willing to earn this money,” said he, “if you will show me how to
do it with safety. Kāra is a fiend. He would not hesitate to kill all
three of us if he had reason to suspect we were plotting against him.”

“I will give you a thousand pounds,” said Winston, “if you will tell us
what you know of Kāra’s plans. I will give you two thousand pounds
additional if we succeed in saving Miss Consinor.”

Tadros was pleased. He had intended to break with Kāra anyway. To be
well paid for doing this was a stroke of good fortune.

“I accept your offer,” he replied. “But I must inform you that there is
no time to be lost. I have just taken a message to Miss Consinor,
telling her to be ready to go to Kāra at nine o’clock this evening.”

“This evening!” exclaimed Winston, alarmed. “And what was her reply?”

“She assured me that she would keep her compact with the prince and be
ready to accompany me at the hour named. I am to call for her and take
her in a closed carriage to Kāra’s villa.”

“And then?” asked Mrs. Everingham, eagerly.

“Then there is to be a mock ceremony of marriage, which is intended to
entrap the young lady so that she will think everything is regular, and
will make no disturbance,” answered Tadros, calmly. “A Copt, named
Mykel, who is one of Kāra’s servants, is to be dressed as a priest and
perform the Coptic marriage service, which is a Christian function not
unlike your own. But the man is not a priest, and the marriage will be
illegal. The intention is to destroy the young lady’s good name, after
which Kāra will drive her away. Then he intends to deliver her
grandfather, Lord Roane, over to justice.”

“What a dreadful crime!” exclaimed Mrs. Everingham, indignantly. “And
Aneth is sacrificing herself because she believes the act will save her
grandfather.”

“That is Kāra’s promise,” returned the dragoman. “But he has no
intention of keeping it. Did he not give her a forged copy of Roane’s
receipt? For some reason my prince aims at the ruin of the entire
Consinor family. The young lady’s father he has already disgraced and
driven from Cairo.”

“I understand his motive,” said Winston, “and believe you are right in
claiming that Kāra will not spare Lord Roane once Aneth is in his power.
The danger is terrible and imminent, for nothing will move Aneth to
abandon her purpose. She imagines she is saving Roane, and has exacted
from us a promise not to tell the old gentleman of her sacrifice. So our
hands are tied.”

“It seems to me,” declared Mrs. Everingham, after a moment’s thought,
“that we must use the self-same weapons in fighting Kāra that he is
employing. With the dragoman’s assistance it ought to be easy to save
Aneth, even against her will.”

“In what way?” inquired Gerald, earnestly.

She did not reply at once. Instead, she studied the dragoman’s
countenance with steadfast eyes.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Tadros, madam.”

“Will you follow our instructions faithfully, and not betray us to
Prince Kāra?”

“Yes. I hate Kāra. He will kill me for deserting him if he gets the
chance; but then he intends to kill me anyway as soon as he can spare my
services. If your plan includes the murder of Prince Kāra, I shall be
very glad.”

“It does not; but we will protect you from any harm, rest assured. Your
task is simple. When you call for Miss Consinor to-night you will drive
her, not to the prince’s villa, but to the embankment, where you will
place her on board Winston Bey’s dahabeah. It will lie opposite Roda, on
the west bank. Cross the Gizireh bridge and drive as rapidly as possible
to the boat, where we shall be waiting to receive you.”

“My dahabeah!” cried Winston, astonished.

“To be sure. You will have everything in readiness for a voyage up the
Nile, with a prisoner aboard.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes; Aneth. She will, of course, refuse to go willingly, having given
Kāra her word. I will accompany the party as her keeper, and we must
find some way to induce Lord Roane to join us also. Once afloat on the
mysterious river, Kāra will have no means of knowing what has become of
his victims, and before we return, my friend, we shall have perfected
such arrangements as will render the prince’s intention to marry our
Aneth impossible. That is why I desire Lord Roane to join the party. He
also will be safe from Kāra for a time.”

“I understand you now,” said Winston; “and while I do not see quite to
the end of the adventure, the plan will at least give us time to
formulate our future action and enable us to thwart Kāra’s immediate
schemes.”

“That is my idea,” she returned. “Something must be done at once; and by
abducting Aneth, we not only gain time, but save her temporarily from
the consequences of her own folly.”

Then she turned to Tadros.

“What do you think of my plan?” she asked.

“It is excellent,” said he, “except for one thing; there are several
spies about this hotel, who would at once follow us and inform Kāra that
we had boarded the dahabeah; but I think I can find a way to throw them
off the scent. They are under my orders, and I will send them to other
stations before nine o’clock. Aside from this, then, do I understand
that my only duty is to deliver the young lady on board the dahabeah?”

“That is all we ask.”

“I will show three red lights,” said Winston, “so that you cannot
mistake the exact location of the boat.”

“I know the boat,” replied the dragoman. “Abdallah, your engineer, is a
friend of mine.”

“You will not fail us?” asked Mrs. Everingham, anxiously. “All depends
upon you, Tadros!”

“I know, and I will not fail you,” he said.

“I believe you will earn the three thousand pounds,” remarked Winston,
significantly.

“As for that, sir,” replied the dragoman, with dignity, “I hope you will
give me credit for a little humanity as well as cupidity. Being an
Egyptian, I love money; being a man, I am eager to assist a woman in
distress. But, above all else, I shall have pleasure in defying Kāra,
who hates me as heartily as I hate him. Thus, three passions vouch for
my fidelity--love, pity and hatred. Can you doubt my devotion to the
cause?”

After this he went away, leaving his fellow-conspirators to plan the
details of the evening’s adventure.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE ABDUCTION.


Mrs. Everingham passed the afternoon in Aneth’s company. The girl was
visibly nervous and excited, but made pitiful attempts to conceal her
weakness. In no way did she allude to Kāra or to the fact that the hour
had arrived when she was to consummate the sacrifice of her own
happiness to maintain her grandfather’s integrity and the honor of her
family’s name.

Her friend ventured one or two remarks about the folly of her promise
and the absurdity of keeping it; but these so distressed Aneth, and had
so little visible influence upon her decision, that Mrs. Everingham
abandoned the topic and turned the conversation into more cheerful
channels. When she mentioned Gerald Winston she noticed that Aneth’s
cheeks flamed scarlet and then turned deathly white; so here was another
subject to be avoided, if she did not wish to make the girl’s position
unbearable. Indeed, those last days of association with Gerald had
taught Aneth the full extent of her martyrdom, and now she began to
realize that she was losing all that might have rendered her life’s
happiness complete, had it not been for the advent of Kāra and his
terrible threat to destroy the family honor and send her loving
grandfather to prison.

Early in the evening Mrs. Everingham kissed her friend and returned to
her own room across the corridor, there to complete her simple
preparations for the proposed voyage.

Meantime Winston had been busy with Lord Roane. The young man was
fortunately a prime favorite with Aneth’s grandsire, and he listened
attentively to Gerald’s explanation of a plot to rescue his darling
grandchild from the slough of despondency into which she had fallen.

“Mrs. Everingham is confident a Nile voyage would do much to cheer her
up and keep her from dwelling upon her troubles,” he suggested. “What do
you think of the idea, sir?”

“Capital,” said Roane--“if Aneth can be induced to consent. I asked her
to run over to Helwan the other day, for a few weeks’ change of scene;
but she declared she would not listen to such a proposal.”

“That is our difficulty,” acknowledged Winston, speaking in a
confidential tone. “She has told Mrs. Everingham she would not leave
Cairo, but we think her decision is based upon the fear that you would
be unable to accompany her; so we have decided to engage in a little
conspiracy, for the morbid condition into which she has fallen has made
us all anxious. Is there any reason, my lord, why you should not leave
Cairo for a month or so?”

“None whatever, if my going will benefit Aneth in any way.”

“Very good! Now, here is our plan. I have fitted my private dahabeah for
a cruise. Mrs. Everingham will go along to chaperone your granddaughter,
and you will join us to complete her happiness and keep her contented.
Only one thing stands in our way--the young lady’s refusal to embark.
That barrier will be surmounted by Mrs. Everingham, who is a woman of
experience and who loves Aneth as well as if she were her own daughter.
So this evening you and I will get aboard quietly, without declaring our
intentions to anyone, and rely upon Mrs. Everingham’s promise to join us
with Aneth at nine o’clock. Do not ask me, sir, how she will succeed in
overcoming your granddaughter’s scruples against leaving Cairo. We will
trust to woman’s wit. When the party is embarked, we go up the Nile, to
find roses for your grandchild’s pale cheeks and have a jolly good time
as well.”

Roane accepted the program with enthusiasm. He himself was in a
dreadfully nervous state, expecting hourly to be accused of a crime the
proof of which would separate him forever from Aneth. To get away from
Cairo just now, without Kāra’s knowing where he had gone, would be to
gain a few weeks’ respite. Eagerly he availed himself of the
opportunity.

Winston knew there was no danger of the old man’s betraying their plans,
but he could not divine what Kāra’s next move might be, and resolved to
take no chances; so he clung fast to Roane until he had put him and his
light luggage aboard the dahabeah, whereupon he sent a messenger to
apprise Mrs. Everingham of his success.

So far, all had gone well; but Mrs. Everingham’s anxiety grew as the
hour of nine approached. Lord Roane had sent word to Aneth that he would
be out for dinner and might not return to the hotel until late that
night; so the girl, glad of this fortunate chance, had her dinner served
in her own room, and the Arab servant, being intercepted by Mrs.
Everingham, declared that she ate little and wept continually, as if
overcome by some hopeless sorrow.

All depended now upon the faithfulness of Tadros the dragoman, and Mrs.
Everingham, finding nothing more for her woman’s ingenuity to devise,
entered a carriage at half past-eight o’clock and was driven quietly to
the embankment. Within sight of the three red lights Winston had
displayed, she halted her vehicle to await the arrival of the dragoman.

Tadros, meantime, being fully instructed by Kāra as to the conduct of
his mission, drove in the Egyptian’s private carriage to the hotel. The
coachman had been instructed to obey the dragoman’s orders implicitly,
so he suspected nothing when Tadros, having alighted at the Savoy,
commanded him to drive to the citadel and remain in the shadow of the
mosque until midnight.

The dragoman then hired another carriage that was driven by a sleepy and
stupid-looking Arab, after which he immediately entered the hotel and
went directly to Aneth’s room.

She opened the door in person, having dismissed all her attendants.

“It is nine o’clock, miss,” announced Tadros, as he entered.

The girl clasped her hands with a gesture and look of terror.

“Where is--is--Prince Kāra?” she asked, vaguely.

“At his villa, awaiting, with the bridal party, your arrival. You must
understand that the wedding is to be very quietly conducted, yet
strictly in accordance with the requirements of the Christian faith. My
master desires me to say that every consideration and courtesy shall be
shown you, his highest ambition in the future being to promote your
happiness.”

She shuddered.

“Is that all he said?”

“Except that his promises to you shall be faithfully kept, and Lord
Roane’s comfort and safety carefully provided for.”

“Let us go,” she said, hastily. “I am ready.”

“Any luggage, miss?” he asked.

She pointed to a small traveling-case that stood beside her, and Tadros
stooped and picked it up.

With a frightened glance around her, she placed a note directed to Lord
Roane upon the table and then hurriedly left the room, leaving the door
unlocked.

The dragoman escorted her to the side entrance, reserved for ladies, and
they were fortunate in finding it almost deserted at that moment. Aneth
entered the carriage quickly, as if fearful of being interrupted in her
escape, and Tadros closed the door and took his seat beside the driver.

“To the opera house,” he said, for the benefit of the few loungers who
stood upon the pavement.

After driving a couple of blocks, he made the Arab driver stop in front
of a tobacco shop, and sent him in to purchase some cigarettes. The
moment the fellow disappeared, Tadros started the horse and applied the
whip, and the carriage had whirled swiftly around the comer before the
wondering Arab returned to the street, to find his equipage and his
passengers missing.

Aneth, as soon as she had leaned back against the cushions, had fallen
into a sort of stupor. Her weary brain refused to think or to speculate
upon the doubtful fate to which she was rushing. She felt the carriage
bumping over the crossings and saw vaguely the lights flash by; but she
noted neither the direction in which they were proceeding nor the length
of their journey. Across the Nile bridge the horses abated their speed;
but then through the darker lanes of the west embankment they dashed
along at a wild pace, that might have frightened the girl, had she been
capable of realizing the actual conditions.

Suddenly, with a jolt that almost threw her into the opposite seat, the
carriage halted. She looked out of the window and saw three dim red
lights burning, and beyond these the glint of a stray moonbeam upon the
river.

When Tadros came to assist her in alighting, she saw Mrs. Everingham
standing behind him.

“Where am I?” asked the girl, wildly.

“Hush, dear,” said her friend, taking her in her arms to kiss her
tenderly. “Am I not welcome at your wedding?”

“But why are we here?” asked Aneth, pleadingly. “Why are we at the
river, and where is Prince Kāra?”

“Come and let me surprise you,” answered Mrs. Everingham, soothingly,
leading the young girl, who was still half dazed and thoroughly
mystified, aboard the dahabeah and into the brightly lighted little
cabin. There sat Lord Roane and Gerald Winston.

Aneth stared, and then, looking wildly around, she gave a plaintive cry
and threw herself into her grandfather’s arms.

“I don’t understand!” she wailed, sobbing hysterically. “What does it
all mean? Why are you here, and where is Prince Kāra?”

Roane was puzzled by her speech, as well as distressed by her agitation.

“Prince Kāra!” he repeated. “Confound it, Aneth, you don’t want that
rascally nigger, do you?”

“No, no!” she replied; “but he wants me, and I have promised; I must go
to him. Why am I here? What have you done?”

By this time the dragoman had tied his horses to a palm and come aboard,
just as Hassan drew in the gangplank and Abdallah started the wheezy
engine. Tadros stood in the cabin doorway and listened intently to
Aneth’s protests.

“See here, miss,” he exclaimed, with assumed sternness, “you are in my
charge, for I am Prince Kāra’s dragoman, and you have promised to obey
me. Is it not so?”

She turned to look at him.

“Are you obeying Prince Kāra’s orders?” she demanded.

“To be sure! He wished to surprise you. He says he merely intended to
test your honesty, being interested in knowing whether an English girl
would keep her promises. But he does not desire to make you unhappy. He
is a prince, and generous; therefore, he releases you from your compact,
and you are free from this time forth to do exactly as you please.”

She was white and trembling now.

“But my grandfather--” she began, eagerly.

Tadros cut her short.

“He also is safe, in proof of which you see him at your side. You need
have no fears in the future that--”

He stopped abruptly, for the overwrought nerves of the girl could not
withstand this sudden revulsion of fate. Gerald caught her swaying form
and carried her to her berth, where Mrs. Everingham tended her lovingly
and applied restoratives to relieve her faintness.

As for Lord Roane, he swore loudly and glared upon the dragoman.

“What cursed nonsense is this?” he cried.

Tadros smiled, and Gerald came up and seized the dragoman by both hands,
pressing them warmly.

“Thank you, my man!” said he. “You are a loyal ally, and I shall not
forget how you have lied to save us from an embarrassing position.” Then
he turned to Lord Roane. “If there is anything your lordship does not
understand,” he said, “I will gladly endeavor to explain it. Prince Kāra
has been playing a deep game, with you and Aneth as pawns; but I think
we have him checkmated at last.”

The old nobleman did not reply at once. Any questioning on his part
would necessarily be a very delicate matter. He turned his eyes
thoughtfully toward the shore, where the lights of Cairo were slowly
disappearing from their view.




CHAPTER XX.

THE SHEIK AGREES.


Kāra congratulated himself. For one whose early life had been passed in
a hovel, he had been very successful in directing the destinies of the
great. All his grandmother’s vengeful plans, supplemented by his own
clever arrangement of details, had matured in a remarkably satisfactory
manner, and this evening he was destined to complete the ruin of Lord
Roane’s family. In addition to compromising Aneth beyond all hope by a
false marriage, he would to-morrow have my lord cast into prison on a
charge of embezzlement. The proof which he had pretended to place in the
girl’s keeping, and which she had without doubt promptly destroyed, was
merely a forgery of the receipt to McFarland. The original was still
safe in his custody.

This ruse had been a clever one. His judgment of the girl’s nature was
marvelously accurate. Having destroyed the paper to insure her
grandfather’s safety, Aneth was effectually prevented from breaking her
contract with Kāra. There was no way for her to recede. He had paid the
price, and she was left with no excuse for not fulfilling her part of
the agreement.

When Kāra entered his courtyard he found it ablaze with lights. The
women’s apartments, now completely refitted, were truly magnificent. A
dozen servants, arrayed in splendid costumes, stood motionless at their
posts, awaiting the arrival of their new mistress. Mykel, a rascally
Copt whom Kāra had recently attached to his household, was clad in
priestly robes, and paced up and down the court with an assumed dignity
that elicited sly smiles from his fellow-servants.

Only the prince’s own people were present, for Kāra wished to be in a
position to deny even the farce of a ceremony, should Aneth attempt in
the future to use it as an excuse for her downfall. But it pleased him
to lull her suspicions in this way in the beginning, and so render her
an easy victim. It also gave an added flavor to his revenge.

Tadros had been carefully instructed, and would have no difficulty in
fulfilling his mission. He ought to reach the villa on his return by
half-past nine, allowing for natural delays. Kāra trusted Tadros because
the dragoman was so completely in his power; but, with his usual
caution, he had sent a spy to watch his messenger and report any
irregularity in his conduct. Tadros did not know of this spy; otherwise,
he might have felt less confidence in himself.

Half-past nine arrived, but no sound of carriage wheels broke the
stillness. The servants stood motionless in their places, and Kāra paced
the courtyard in deep reflection while engaged in drawing on his white
kid gloves. The false priest stood under the bower of roses where the
ceremony was to take place, trying to find the service in the Coptic
Bible he had borrowed.

Nine-forty-five; ten o’clock. The dark-eyed servants noticed that their
master grew uneasy and cast anxious glances toward the entrance.

It was twenty minutes later, when the nerves of the most unconcerned
were beginning to get on edge, that the patter of horses’ feet and the
rapid whir of wheels broke the silence. A carriage dashed up to the
villa and halted.

Kāra hurried forward expectantly, but paused abruptly when he met the
spy who had been sent to watch Tadros.

“Where is the dragoman?” he demanded, in a sharp voice.

“The dragoman, your highness, is a traitor,” said the man.

Kāra’s nervousness suddenly subsided. He became composed in demeanor and
his voice grew soft.

“Explain, if you please,” said he.

The man bowed.

“Arriving at the hotel, Tadros sent away your excellency’s carriage--”

“Where is it now?”

“I do not know. Then he engaged another equipage--that of the Arab named
Effta Marada, bearing the number of ninety-three. Tadros brought the
young lady down and placed her in Effta’s carriage, ordering him to
drive to the opera house. I sprang up behind and accompanied them.
Tadros soon got rid of Effta by sending him on an errand and then drove
quickly away. He crossed the Nile to the west embankment and drove down
the river to a point opposite the island of Roda, where your dragoman
placed the lady on board a dahabeah.”

“Yes; go on.”

“When the boat steamed away up the river, I took the deserted carriage
and drove here as rapidly as possible. That is all, your excellency.”

“Whose dahabeah was it?”

“That belonging to Winston Bey. I saw him on board.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“The lady who has been a friend to Miss Consinor.”

“That is Mrs. Everingham.”

“And an old Englishman, Lord Roane.”

“Ah! Quite a family party. And our dear Tadros went with them?”

“He did, your excellency.”

“Up the river, you say?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“Thank you. You may retire.”

Kāra turned to Ebbek.

“Put out the lights and send the servants to their quarters,” he said,
calmly.

In his room the prince tore off the white gloves and changed from
evening dress to a gray traveling suit. Then he returned to the now
deserted courtyard and sat down in the moonlight beside the fountain to
smoke a cigar.

The blow had been sharp and sudden. While Kāra fully realized the
natural capability of Tadros for deception and double dealing, he also
knew that the blustering dragoman was an arrant coward, and so was
bewildered at the courage manifested in his treachery.

But it was characteristic of Kāra that he neither bemoaned his adverse
fortune nor became despondent. He entertained a passing regret that he
had delayed killing the dragoman, but did not permit himself to dwell
long upon his servant’s defection. The thing to be first sought was a
remedy for the apparent failure of his carefully laid plans. By and by
he would attend to the dragoman’s reward. Just now it was imperative to
prevent his intended victims from succeeding in their attempt to escape.

There was no demand for immediate action. The dahabeah was, as he knew,
a slow steamer, and would be forced to breast the Nile current
sluggishly. His enemies doubtless depended for their safety from pursuit
upon Kāra’s supposed ignorance of their whereabouts. He admitted that
someone had plotted shrewdly against him. On the Nile a party in a small
boat is almost as isolated as if at sea. The express steamers and
tourist steamers pass now and then, but they travel rapidly, appearing
and disappearing within the brief space of half an hour. Aside from
these, only the native barges, picturesque and ghostlike as they drift
by, break the ripples of the broad river. The banks are sprinkled with
many villages, and at this season shaduf workers are plentiful; but the
native has tired of staring at the Nile flotilla, unless awaiting with
eagerness the landing of the big tourist steamer, from whose passengers
a scant livelihood is gained, and this occurs only at certain points of
interest.

So Kāra had time to be deliberate. It even occurred to him that this
seeming calamity might turn out to be exceptionally favorable to the
success of his schemes. In Cairo one must act with circumspection,
because the police of the city are alert and almost incorruptible. The
Nile dwellers fear the law rather than respect it; but they are too far
from the capital to be very much afraid. Where tourists disembark, a
mounted officer is stationed to lash the impudent villagers into a state
of dull apathy, such as the caged tiger feels for its trainer; but they
lapse into savagery when his back is turned, and in the more
unfrequented villages the sheik is absolute king.

Kāra considered carefully these conditions, and soon formed new plans to
complete his vengeance. Then, the cigar being finished, he went to bed
and slept until daybreak.

“I shall be absent for several days,” he said to Ebbek, as he ate an
early breakfast. “See that everything is in perfect order when I return.
If tradesmen come to demand money, promise them payment immediately on
my arrival in Cairo.”

“Yes, my master.”

He caught the morning train for Luxor and arrived by noon at a station
opposite the native village of Beni-Hassan, whence he crossed the river
in a small boat.

The children of Hassan have for centuries been known as “the bandits of
the Nile,” and their three connected villages, lying close to the river
bank, have replaced those that were totally destroyed by the Government
during the reign of Mohammed ‘Ali in the hope of scattering the tribes
and breaking up their thieving propensities; but the Beni-Hassans
rebuilt their mud dwellings and calmly remained in possession. To-day
they are cautiously avoided by isolated tourists, who are fully warned
of their evil reputation.

As he landed, Kāra found the villages seemingly deserted. Underneath the
tall palms at the right a few swathed figures lay motionless, while
small black goats and stray chickens wandered listlessly about; but the
visitor paid little attention to these signs. He knew the old men and
women were swarming in the huts while the younger men were away at the
distant tombs in the hills or engaged in earning a stipend at the
neighboring shadufs.

Turning to the left, he followed a path leading up a slight incline to
the low bluff covered with a second grove of stately palms, beneath the
shade of which the better dwellings of Beni-Hassan have been built. He
had never been in the village before, but had heard it described
innumerable times since his boyhood. Even when he paused before an
extensive building having cane and mud walls and a roof of palm leaves,
he was fairly certain he had correctly guessed the location of the place
he sought.

“Does Sheik Antar live here?” he asked a child that came out to stare at
him.

The little one nodded and ran within. Kāra sat down cross-legged upon
the path of baked mud, removed both his shoes and placed them beside
him, and then patiently awaited his reception.

After some five minutes a gigantic Arab bent his head to emerge from the
low doorway, and, after a calm but shrewd glance at his visitor, came
forward and stood before Kāra.

“Allahu akbar!” he said, spreading wide his arms in greeting. “The
stranger is welcome to all that I possess.”

“May Allah bless and guard the habitation of the mighty sheik!”
responded Kāra, in purest Arabic.

Then the sheik sat cross-legged upon the ground, facing his guest, and
also removed his red morocco slippers. His beard was gray and his eyes
black and piercing. His frame was lean and the flesh hard as iron,
denoting great strength. He wore the green turban that proved he had
made the Mecca pilgrimage.

“It pleases me that I behold the mighty Sheik Antar, beloved of Allah,
and the curse of all enemies of the prophet,” began Kāra after a brief
silence, during which the men eyed each other earnestly.

“My brother speaks well,” was the grave reply; “yet so lost am I in
wonder at the glory and honor conferred upon my humble home by his
presence, that the exalted name of my guest escapes my fickle memory.”

Kāra bowed to the ground.

“I am of Gebel Abu Fedah, the grandson of the Princess Hatatcha, and
descended from the line of Ahtka-Rā and the royal kings of ancient
Egypt. My name is Kāra.”

With dignified gesture the sheik extended his hand and clasped that of
the stranger.

“The fame of the last great Egyptian has already reached my ears,” said
he. “Raschid, the Syrian dragoman, whose boat, the _Rameses_, was here
but three days since, told me of your life in Cairo, of your
magnificence and vast riches, of your generosity and wisdom. Fedah I
know, for the sheik of Al-Kusiyeh is my comrade. The glory of Kāra the
Egyptian is reflected upon every dweller along the Nile bank.”

After another pause to permit of due and deliberate appreciation of this
compliment, Kāra drew a heavy sigh and responded:

“Yet all is not at peace with me, most noble Antar. My enemies oppress
me and cause me much sorrow; wherefore I am driven to appeal to my
brother for aid.”

The eyes of the sheik sparkled.

“Already,” said he, “confusion has fallen upon Kāra’s foes; for they
surely cannot escape the blight of Antar’s hatred!”

“Then see how gratitude flows from my heart like a very cataract,”
answered the other, with downcast eyes. “It is little that Kāra can do
to repay such brotherly love; but the great sheik must distribute for me
ten thousand piastres to his worthy poor, even on that day when my
enemies are confounded.”

Antar’s brow was thoughtful. A great payment meant a great service.

“My brother will tell me a story,” said he, “and I will listen.”

Thereupon, in the flowery language of Arabia, which English words but
feebly translate, the Egyptian told of a boat steaming slowly up the
Nile and bearing his enemies toward the villages of Beni-Hassan. He
described the women and the men, and noticed that the sheik grunted with
discouraging emphasis when Winston Bey’s name was mentioned. Then,
following out the idea of relating a tale, Kāra told how his brother,
the mighty sheik Antar, fell upon the dahabeah and captured it, turning
over all the passengers and crew to Kāra except one--Tadros the dragoman
being unfortunately killed and dropped overboard to find a final
resting-place in the mud at the river’s bottom. Then Winston’s crew was
replaced by six strong men of Beni-Hassan, who obeyed Kāra’s commands as
willingly as if they proceeded from Antar himself. And Kāra afterward
steamed up the Nile to Fedah, with the sheik on board, and at Fedah gave
to him not only the ten thousand piastres for his poor, but many gems
of fabulous worth for his personal adornment and that of his women.

Was it not a pretty story? he concluded, and did it not sound like a
prophecy in Antar’s discerning ears?

The sheik considered long and earnestly. He did not like meddling with
Winston Bey, whom he knew of old and respected highly; but Kāra’s
allusion to the gems was irresistible, and Antar might discover a way to
keep from being recognized by the scientist.

It required several hours to conclude the bargain, but at last both men
thoroughly understood the details of the service that was required and
must be rendered. The assault upon the dahabeah was discussed and
planned, and the terms of payment agreed upon. The killing of Tadros was
an incident that the sheik accepted without demur.

With two clever rascals such as the Egyptian and the Arab in charge of
the raid, there seemed little hope that Winston Bey’s unsuspecting party
could escape absolute destruction.




CHAPTER XXI.

LOTUS-EATERS AND CROCODILES.


If in all the realm of travel there is a voyage that is absolutely
ideal, it is the trip up the Nile. The constant change of scene, varying
with every bend in the river; the shifting lights, the gentle ripple of
the waters, the distant songs and shouts of the native boatmen; the
outlines of the Libyan hills by moonlight and the rocky wastes of
desert, dotted with gorgeous crimson and yellow cacti, by day; the
sunsets that paint the cloudless Egyptian skies with entrancing
splendor, and the silhouettes of donkey and camel trains above the high
embankment at twilight; these, taken in connection with the care-free,
lotus-eating existence of the voyager, leave an impression so vivid and
sweet and altogether satisfactory that no other experience in the whole
world of travel can compare with or ever efface it from one’s memory.

Aneth believed the dragoman’s assertion that Prince Kāra had been
generous at last and released her from her promise. Neither Winston nor
Mrs. Everingham dared vouch for the dragoman’s statements; but they
remained silent while Tadros, unabashed, explained that his master was
whimsical and erratic, but very kind-hearted and considerate, and
incapable of wronging any one in any way.

“As for Lord Roane, miss,” he said, confidentially, “there is no doubt
he did an imprudent thing, which vexed my master, who has a high sense
of honor; so he frightened my lord, to teach him to be more careful in
the future. But never had he the slightest idea of exposing him to
public infamy, I assure you. Kāra has told me so himself.”

The dragoman derived much satisfaction from these inventions, especially
as he noticed how implicitly Aneth believed them, and how they operated
to cheer her spirits and render her content with her novel and
delightful surroundings. Everyone on board was devoted to the girl, and,
under the genial influences of the voyage, she recovered, to an extent,
her old brightness and vivacity. There was no harm now in blushing
happily at the love-light in Gerald’s eyes, and her three companions
were those she loved best in all the world. Her recent cares and
heartaches seemed all to have been left behind in Cairo, and she could
look forward to many weeks of keen enjoyment.

She was sorry, however, that she had misjudged Prince Kāra, and promised
herself to implore his pardon immediately on her return to Cairo.

Gerald and Mrs. Everingham, while they did not disabuse Aneth’s mind,
were a trifle uneasy at the growing audacity of the dragoman’s
statements, and warned him to be more careful. After the girl had
regained her health and self-possession, they would explain to her the
truth of the matter and discredit Tadros freely; at present they were
content to note her bright eyes and the roses creeping back to her
cheeks.

Lord Roane had wisely decided not to ask questions. From what he
overheard he understood that Kāra was now befriending Aneth instead of
persecuting her, and this being the case, his own danger was reduced to
a minimum. He could not understand the Egyptian’s change of attitude in
the least. If Kāra had intended merely to frighten him, he had succeeded
admirably, and Roane told himself that the punishment he had already
suffered through terror and despair was sufficient to expiate his
long-forgotten sin against Hatatcha. But did Kāra think so? That was a
question he could not answer, but he decided to defer all worries for
the present at least.

Gerald Winston would have been less than human had he refrained from
showing to Aneth, during these delightful days, how dearly he loved her
and what happiness her companionship brought to him. The moonlit
evenings on deck were sufficient to inspire the most bashful lover, and
Gerald did not dare waste his golden opportunities. If he won Aneth at
all, it must be on this trip, and under the spur of Mrs. Everingham’s
counsel to be bold, he soon put his fate to the test and marveled at his
success. The girl had suffered too much to trifle with her lover’s
heart, and her consent was readily won. It was his intention that they
be married while at Luxor or Aswan, there being English churches in both
places and ample conveniences for a proper conduct of the ceremony.
Roane was fond of Winston, and offered no objection to a plan which
would ensure Aneth’s happiness and which seemed to be defective only in
its precipitancy.

The project pleased Aneth as much as it delighted her lover. In her days
of misery, when she thought she had lost him forever, the full value of
Gerald’s love had been so impressed upon her that she clung to him now,
realizing that he represented the full measure of her future happiness;
still, she experienced an uneasy sensation that any unnecessary delay
might prove dangerous. Her contract with Kāra, moreover, had taught her
to face the possibility of a sudden marriage, and what was a hateful
ordeal then would now become a crown of triumph.

“Whenever you like, Gerald,” she said, “I will become your wife. I could
never wish for other witnesses of my wedding than my dear grandfather
and Mrs. Everingham; and happiness is such a precious thing and life so
uncertain, that I have no desire to resist your proposal.”

“Thank you, my dear one,” he said, gravely.

“And I think I prefer Luxor to Aswan. It will be so romantic to be wed
in the old Theban city, where the Egyptian princesses once made their
home and where they lived and loved, will it not?”

“It shall be Luxor,” he declared.

That week was one of never-to-be-forgotten delight. Even Tadros wore a
perpetual smile, although this method of sweet communion between lovers
was all new and amazing to him. He felt quite secure now for the first
time since Kāra had asserted his power over the dragoman’s destinies,
and wondered--the thing being so easy--why he had so long hesitated to
break with his arrogant and imperious master. As the dahabeah lazily
breasted the languid current of the river, Tadros idly wondered what
Kāra was doing now, and could not forbear a laugh at the thought of the
Egyptian’s anger and perplexity when he had discovered the flight of his
proposed victims. Oh, well--Kāra had pitted his cunning against the
dragoman’s intelligence! It was little wonder he was discomfited.

On the afternoon of the seventh day they steamed slowly past
Beni-Hassan, their moderate progress being due to the fact that the boat
tied up from every sunset to the next sunrise. Beni-Hassan was a
picturesque village as viewed from the river, where its filth and stench
were imperceptible, and the groups of splendid palms lent a dignity to
the place that a closer inspection would prove undeserved.

Aneth, seated happily by Gerald’s side beneath the ample deck awning,
admired the village greatly, and her lover promised to stop there on
their return and give her an opportunity of visiting the famous tombs in
the nearby hillside.

At twilight they anchored midway between Beni-Hassan and Antinoe, the
boat lying motionless a few yards away from the east bank.

The evenings are delightful in this part of Egypt, and it was midnight
before the passengers aboard the dahabeah sought their couches. Tadros,
indeed, being wakeful, lay extended upon the stern deck of the steamer
long after the others were asleep, engaged in thoughtfully gazing at the
high bank and indulging in pleasant dreams of future prosperity when he
had added Winston Bey’s three thousand pounds to the snug savings he had
already accumulated.

Presently a dark object appeared for an instant at the top of the bank
and quickly vanished against the black surface below. Another succeeded
it, and another.

Tadros scratched his head in perplexity. These dark objects seemed to
have form, yet they were silent as the dead. He counted a dozen of them
altogether, and while still pondering upon their appearance, being
undecided as to whether they were ghosts or jackals, his quick ears
caught a splash in the water beside the bank.

They were not jackals--that was certain; for those ravenous beasts never
take to the water. Neither are ghosts supposed to bathe. From where he
lay, the surface of the river was scarcely a foot distant, and, leaning
well over the stern, Tadros managed to discover in the dim light several
heads bobbing upon the water.

He ought to have given an immediate alarm, but terror rendered him
irresolute, and before he had time to act, it was too late to arouse his
fellow-passengers.

Clambering up the bow were half a score of naked Arabs, their knives
held between their glistening teeth, their dark eyes roaming fiercely
around.

Tadros’ first impulse was to fight; but just as he was about to rise to
his feet a man whom he knew bounded aft and sprang into the little cabin
where the women lay asleep.

It was Kāra.

There was no indecision on the part of the dragoman after that. He
slipped off the deck into the water with the dexterity of a seal sliding
from a rock, and while a succession of terrified screams and angry
shouts bombarded his ears, Tadros swam silently across the Nile toward
the opposite shore.

The water was cold, and he shivered as he swam; yet the chill was from
within rather than from without. There are no crocodiles in the Nile
now; but in places there are serpents and sharklike fish that will bite
a mouthful of flesh from a swimmer’s leg. Tadros knew of this, but did
not think of it just then. Reflected in his mind was Kāra’s dark visage,
grim and malignant, and with certain death facing him aboard the
dahabeah, the dragoman’s only impulse was to get as far away from the
danger as possible.

The turmoil on the boat prevented his escape from being immediately
noticed, and after a long swim, that nearly exhausted his strength, he
reached the west shore and fell panting upon the hard earth.

Slowly regaining his breath, he strained his ears to catch any sound
that might proceed from the dahabeah; but now an oppressive silence
reigned on the opposite side of the river. The lights of the steamer
gleamed faintly through the night, but the fate of those he had left on
board was wrapped in mystery. Perhaps Kāra and his band of assassins
would murder all except the girl; it was possible he would murder her as
well. Anyway, the dragoman’s connection with the enterprise had come to
an abrupt ending.

A mile or so away was the little town of Roda, with its railway station.
Tadros started to walk toward it, keeping well back from the edge of the
bank so that he might not be discovered in case anyone pursued him.

His dejection and dismay at this sudden reversal of fortune were
extreme. He had lost the last vestige of the jaunty bearing that usually
distinguished him. With three thousand pounds already earned but
irretrievably lost, and the knowledge that Kāra’s merciless enmity would
pursue him through life, the dragoman’s condition was indeed deplorable.

He wondered what he should do now. Returning to Cairo was out of the
question. He would go back to Fedah, his old home. Nephthys and her
mother were there, and would hide him if Kāra appeared unexpectedly.
Yes, Fedah was his only haven--at least until he had time to consider
his future plans.

By and by he reached the station at Roda--the village named after the
ancient island in the Nile opposite Cairo. A sleepy Arab porter was in
charge of the place and eyed the dragoman’s wet clothing with evident
suspicion. When questioned, he announced that a train would go south at
six o’clock in the morning.

Tadros slipped outside the station and found a convenient hiding-place
against a neighboring house, where the shadows were so deep that he
could not be observed. Here he laid down to rest and await the arrival
of the train.

By daybreak his clothing had dried, but he observed with regret that his
blue satin vest had been ruined by the river water and that his Syrian
sash was disgracefully wrinkled. Next to life itself, he loved his
splendid costumes, so that this dreary discovery did not tend to raise
his dampened spirits.

When the train drew in he boarded it and found himself seated in a
compartment opposite to Lord Consinor. They stared at each other for a
moment, and then the viscount emitted a sound that seemed a queer
combination of a growl and a laugh.

“It is Kāra’s alter ego,” he sneered, in English.

“Pardon me, my lord,” said the dragoman, hastily, “the alliance is
dissolved. I have even more reason than you to hate the prince.”

“Indeed?” returned Consinor.

“He is a fiend emanating directly from your English hell,” declared
Tadros, earnestly. “I know of no other diabolical place where Kāra could
have been bred. One thing is certain, however,” he continued, with
bitter emphasis, “I will have vengeance upon him before I die!”

There was no mistaking the venom of the man’s rancorous assertion.
Consinor smiled, and said:

“It would give me pleasure to share your revenge.”

A sudden thought struck Tadros--a thought so tremendous in its scope and
significance that he was himself astonished and stared blankly into the
other’s face. For a time he rode in silence, revolving the idea in his
mind and examining its phases with extreme care. Then he inquired,
cautiously:

“Where are you going, my lord?”

“To Assyut.”

“I thought you had left Cairo long ago.”

“So I did. I have been to Alexandria, but found nothing there to amuse
me. I am now bound for Assyut, and from there I intend traveling to
Aswan, and up to Wady Halfa.”

“Are you in any hurry to reach there?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Then leave the train with me at Kusiyeh. I have something to propose
that will interest you.”

Consinor studied him a moment.

“Does this program include our revenge?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Very well; I will do as you suggest.”

“Good!” exclaimed Tadros. Then he leaned over and whispered: “Revenge
and a fortune, my lord! Is it not worth while?”




CHAPTER XXII.

THE DRAGOMAN’S INSPIRATION.


They left the train at the station opposite Fedah, and the dragoman
secured a native to row them in his skiff across the river. Consinor
asked no questions and appeared wholly indifferent as to their
destination. Indeed, his life had been so aimless since his disgraceful
flight from Cairo that he welcomed any diversion that might relieve its
dull monotony.

When they arrived at Fedah, Tadros took him secretly to the hut of old
Nefert, the bread-baker, which was directly across the street from the
dwelling of Hatatcha, now owned by Kāra. The viscount was inclined to
resent the filthiness of the hovel wherein he must hide, until the
dragoman led him to the shade of the opposite archway and explained to
him something of the project he had in mind.

Tadros began by relating the “royal one’s” early history, emphasizing
the fact that old Hatatcha had been able to support herself and Kāra
without any labor whatever. Then he told of Hatatcha’s death, and how
he, Tadros, had discovered the valuable rolls of papyrus in Kāra’s
possession. From thence to the brilliant advent of the “prince” in Cairo
was but a step, and the entire history permitted but one
explanation--the fact that Kāra had knowledge of an ancient tomb
containing great riches.

“Once,” said the dragoman, “Kāra and I made a visit to Fedah; but I did
not suspect his errand and so neglected to watch him, being at the time
greatly occupied with a certain maiden. In the morning I found he had
loaded his traveling cases with treasures--wonderful gems that have
enabled him to live in princely fashion ever since.”

“Where did he get them?” asked Consinor, eagerly.

“As I said, from some hidden tomb, the secret of which is known only to
himself.”

“Do you think he has carried all of the treasure away?”

“I have reason to believe that more remains than has ever been taken.
Once, in an unguarded moment, Kāra told me that he could not spend it
all in a thousand years.”

“Do you suppose we can discover this tomb?”

“Yes, if we are clever. It is no use to hunt without a clew, but Kāra
will furnish us the clew we need.”

“In what way?” the viscount inquired.

“He is coming here presently.”

Consinor frowned.

“I do not care to meet him,” he said, hastily.

“Nor do I,” rejoined Tadros, with a shudder; “but it will not be
necessary for us to meet Kāra, who will not suspect we are in the
village.”

“What then?”

“He is coming to secure more treasure, his former supply being
exhausted, as I have reason to know. He has promised his tradesmen
money, and will not dare delay his visit to Fedah. Besides, he is not
far from here at this very moment. By to-morrow, if he comes in Winston
Bey’s dahabeah, he will reach this place. If he decides to take a
railway train, he may be here this evening.”

“In that case, what do you propose to do?” demanded Consinor.

“Spy upon him; discover where the treasure is hidden, and when he is
gone, help ourselves,” was the confident reply.

The idea seemed quite feasible when further elaborated. They entered the
room of Kāra’s dwelling and examined the place carefully.

“This,” explained the dragoman, “is doubtless his starting-point. From
here he has either a secret passage into the mountain, or he steals away
to the desert, where the entrance to the tomb is hidden underneath the
shifting sands. We must be prepared to watch him in either event, and
that is why I have proposed to you to assist me, rather than try to
secure all the fortune myself. I am assured there is plenty for two, and
to spare.”

“Doubtless,” replied the viscount, laconically. Already he saw visions
of great wealth, which would enable him to return to London and rise
superior to all the sneers and scandals that had been thrust upon him.

They discussed the matter long and earnestly, the few inhabitants of the
village, stupid and inert, being entirely ignorant of their presence. It
was finally decided that on Kāra’s approach Consinor should conceal
himself beneath the dried rushes of the old bed, Tadros so arranging his
position that the viscount could observe every action of one moving
within the room. Then the dragoman would himself lurk at the edge of the
village to follow Kāra if he stole away into the desert.

As a matter of fact, Tadros was firm in his belief that the treasure was
hidden within the mountain; but he had no intention of risking his own
life when he could induce Consinor to become his catspaw. Discovery
meant death--he knew that well enough. It was better not to take
chances, and if the viscount succeeded in learning Kāra’s secret it
would mean the same to Tadros as learning it himself. He knew how to
handle this outcast Englishman, and if the treasure proved as large as
he suspected, he could afford to be generous, and would play fair with
his accomplice. Otherwise--but that could be considered later.

Tadros did not desire to expose the stranger to the curious gaze of the
villagers, but there was no harm in their knowing that the dragoman had
come among his old friends once more; so he insisted that Consinor
should stay concealed in Nefert’s hovel, flying to a dark corner at the
sound of every footstep, while he himself visited Sĕra and her daughter
in furtherance of his sagacious plans.




CHAPTER XXIII.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.


As the dragoman approached Sĕra’s hut he paused upon the threshold to
observe the scene within, hesitating, as he remembered that it was
because of his own reckless conduct that the Nile girl had been stripped
of her beautiful gowns and jewels and sent home from Cairo scorned and
repudiated.

Her humiliation and despair had haunted him ever since.

But now he found her seated meekly at the well-worn loom, casting the
shuttle back and forth with the same mechanical lassitude she had
exhibited of old. The discolored black dress, open at the breast and
much patched and torn, was her sole garment. Even the blue beads were
again about her neck.

But the eyes she turned toward Tadros were different, somehow. Their
former velvety depths were veiled with a dull film, while the smoothness
of her brow was marred by the wrinkles of a sullen frown.

After a moment, however, she seemed to recognize the dragoman, and rose
from her place with a sudden eager look and flushed cheeks.

“You have come for me again?” she asked.

“No,” answered Tadros, casting himself upon a settle. He felt abashed
without knowing why he should entertain such a feeling--abashed and
sorrowful, in spite of his habitual egotism and selfish disregard of
others.

Nephthys leaned back and resumed her weaving. The film covered her eyes
again. She paid no further attention to her mother’s guest.

Sĕra, however, was voluble and indignant.

“That Kāra,” she hissed, “is a viper--a crocodile--a low, infamous
deceiver! He is worse than an Arab. Henf! If I had him here I would
stamp him into the dust. Why did he spurn my beautiful daughter from his
harem? Tell me, then!”

“Merely because Nephthys and I, being old friends, wished to converse at
times of you and our acquaintances at Fedah. Why should we not gossip
and smoke a cigarette together? Once I owned her myself.”

“True. You were a fool to sell her.”

“Still, you must not forget that Nephthys has had an experience,” he
resumed, more lightly. “For a time she was a queen, splendid and
magnificent beyond compare in her robes of satin and her sparkling
jewels. Ah, it is not every girl who enjoys such luxury, even for a
brief season! Let her be content.”

“Content!” screamed old Sĕra, shrilly; “it has ruined her. She is no
longer happy in the old home, and when she speaks, which is but seldom,
it is only to curse Kāra. Look at her! Is she now fat and beautiful as
before? No. If the poor child lives long enough, she will die a
skeleton!”

“Allah forbid!” exclaimed Tadros, hastily. “But if she expects to be
taken back again, her case is hopeless. I am sure Kāra will never relent
or restore her to favor. He is a poor judge of a woman. But I,” slapping
his chest proudly, “I will take Nephthys to myself; and while I do not
promise to robe her as gorgeously as did Kāra, she shall become fat
again, and have her silks and ornaments the same as before.”

“And the cigarettes?”

“Of course.”

He drew a box of the coveted cigarettes from his pocket and tossed it
toward her. Sĕra lighted one eagerly and gave the box to Nephthys. After
staring at it blankly for a moment the girl seemed to understand. She
took a cigarette and lighted it from the one her mother was smoking. A
smile of childish enjoyment slowly spread over her face, and she left
her loom and came and sat upon Tadros’ knee.

“I expect Kāra in Fedah presently,” remarked the dragoman. “But he must
not know that I am here. We have had a falling-out. I quarreled with
him, and he threatens me.”

“Never fear,” said Sĕra, calmly. “I can hide you in the cavity in the
rear wall, which the royal one knows nothing of. There you will be safe
until he goes away.”

“Very good!” he replied.

“When will Kāra come?” asked the woman, “and why does he visit Fedah
again?”

“I expect him to-night or to-morrow. Why he comes I do not know.”

“Perhaps to pray beside Hatatcha’s mummy.”

“Where is that?” he asked, quickly.

“I cannot discover,” she returned. “Often I have examined their
dwelling, but no secret door can I find anywhere. The tomb must be in
the hills--or perhaps in the desert. There is an oasis where the dwarf
Sebbet lives. He was known to be one of Hatatcha’s most devoted
followers.”

“True,” said the dragoman, thoughtfully.

“The tomb must be in Sebbet’s oasis. Once Kāra stole old Nikko’s donkey
and rode there.”

“Was that the last time we came here?” questioned Tadros.

“No; it was when Hatatcha died.”

“Then the tomb is not in the oasis. I am sure it is quite near Fedah.
But listen, my Sĕra; if I agree to take Nephthys and provide for her,
you must help me when Kāra comes.”

“I have promised to hide you in the old wall,” she replied. “Can I do
more than that?”

“Yes. You must go at once to the hill and watch for the royal one’s
coming. Your eyes are sharp, even though you are old. He will come from
the Nile--either across the river or from the north, on a boat that
smokes and has no sails. As soon as you discover him you will hurry here
to me, and that will give us time to prepare for Kāra. Will you do this
for me?”

“May I have the box of cigarettes to take with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will do your bidding.”

She went away to the hill at once, leaving Tadros with Nephthys; but the
girl had already forgotten his presence and was staring straight before
her with lusterless eyes.

The dragoman sighed.

“It is very unfortunate,” he murmured, examining her critically, “but it
is doubtless true, nevertheless--she is getting thin.”




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SHEIK DEMURS.


No one on board the dahabeah had entertained even a suspicion of danger.
Winston Bey knew well the unreliable character of the natives of certain
villages, but even he did not dream that the steamer would be molested
or its passengers annoyed; therefore, the surprise was complete.

Mrs. Everingham, awakening with a start, heard the patter of many feet
upon the deck and saw a man advancing into the cabin where she and Aneth
had been sleeping.

Her first inspiration was to scream; but instead she reached beneath her
pillow and drew out a small revolver, with which she fired two shots in
rapid succession point blank at the intruder.

Neither bullet took effect, but they startled Kāra as much as her
vigorous screams, in which Aneth now joined. He retreated hastily from
the cabin, thus allowing Mrs. Everingham to close the door and secure it
with a heavy bar provided for that purpose.

The after-cabin having been given up to the women, Winston and Lord
Roane occupied a smaller cabin forward. Between the two were the kitchen
and the engine-room. As the natives boarded the steamer near the bow,
their first act was to drop into the forward cabin and seize the white
men before they were fairly awake. Roane offered no resistance whatever,
but Winston struggled so energetically that it took three of the men,
headed by the gigantic sheik, to secure him. It required but a few
moments to bind the prisoners securely hand and foot, and then they were
left in their bunks under a guard of natives, who held their bare knives
in their hands in readiness to prevent any possible escape.

The four Arabs of Winston’s crew were easily overcome, and by the time
that Kāra arrived forward they laid upon the deck carefully pinioned.
There had been no bloodshed at all, and the steamer was now entirely in
the control of Kāra and his mercenaries.

“All right,” said the sheik, nodding his satisfaction as the Egyptian
approached. “It was very easy, my prince. The two white men are below,
and the boat is ours.”

Kāra, by the dim light of a lantern, peered into the faces of his
prisoners.

“Where is the dragoman?” he asked. “Did you kill him, as I commanded you
to do?”

“We had not that pleasure,” returned the sheik, “for he was not on
board.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure, my prince.”

“He may be in hiding. Search every part of the steamer thoroughly except
the cabin of the women.”

The sheik shrugged his shoulders, but gave the command to his men. They
examined every possible hiding-place without finding the dragoman.

Meanwhile Kāra squatted upon the deck, thinking earnestly of what his
future action should be, while the silent sheik sat beside him with
composed indifference. When the Arabs returned from their unsuccessful
quest, the Egyptian said to his ally:

“Let your men watch the prisoners until morning. We can do nothing more
at present.”

So they stretched themselves upon the deck and rested until daybreak.

As soon as it was light enough to distinguish objects readily, Kāra
arose and ordered Winston and Lord Roane brought upon deck. There they
saw the Egyptian for the first time and understood why they had been
attacked.

“I suspected that I owed this little diversion to you,” said Winston,
glaring angrily upon his enemy. “Perhaps you do not realize, Prince
Kāra, that by this lawless act you have ruined yourself and your
career.”

“No,” returned Kāra, smiling; “I do not realize that.”

“These things are not tolerated in Egypt to-day,” continued the Bey.

“Not if they are known,” admitted Kāra.

“Do you think, sir, that I will remain silent?” demanded Winston,
indignantly.

“Yes.”

“And why?”

“Because I have no intention of permitting you to return to Cairo.
Understand me, Winston Bey--I entertain no personal enmity toward you;
but you saw fit to interfere with my purposes, and in doing so destroyed
yourself. Having been lawless enough to capture your boat, an outrage
only justified by my desire to obtain possession of the persons of Aneth
Consinor and Lord Roane, I am compelled, in order to protect myself, to
silence every person aboard who might cause me future annoyance.
Therefore, it is necessary to kill you.”

“You dare not!”

“You misjudge me,” answered Kāra, coolly; “but I shall be glad to
furnish you immediate proof of my sincerity.” Turning to Antar, he said:
“Comrade, oblige me by placing your knife in the heart of Winston Bey.”

The sheik did not move.

“Well?” cried Kāra, impatiently.

“It is not in the compact,” returned the imperturbable Arab.

“You are wrong,” said the Egyptian, sharply. “It was fully understood
you should obey my commands, especially as to killing those of my
enemies whom I desired to silence.”

“My brother will remember,” returned the sheik, “that there was also
another understanding--a little matter relating to certain jewels and
piastres.”

“You shall have them!”

“And you shall be obeyed--when I have them.”

Winston smiled, and Kāra saw it and uttered a curse.

“Will you thwart me now, when it is too late for either of us to retreat
with safety?” he asked Antar, angrily.

“By no means. I do not object to the killing, believe me, my brother;
but my people are poor, and the money you have promised them will do
much to ease their sufferings. Let me but see the gems and the piastres
and all your desires shall be gratified.”

Winston looked at the gigantic Arab closely. He seemed to remember the
man, but could not place him, for Antar had not only trimmed his gray
beard, but had dyed it a deep black. Still, all natives are crafty and
covetous, and the words he had overheard gave him an idea.

“Listen, my sheik,” he said in Arabic. “If it is money you wish, I will
double Kāra’s offer to you. It is but natural that a man will pay more
for life than another will pay for revenge. State your price, and the
sum shall be yours.”

Antar turned toward the Egyptian, an expression of satisfaction upon his
keen features.

“My brother will answer,” he said.

“This is absurd,” declared Kāra. “Winston Bey but trifles with you. His
money is all in Cairo. When you go there to get it, he will throw you
into prison, and your people will be destroyed and their houses torn
down to satisfy the Government police.”

“The noble sheik is no fool,” observed Winston. “He will keep us in his
power, closely guarded, until he has sent to Cairo and obtained the
money. Also, I will promise not to betray him, and my word is as good as
that of Prince Kāra.”

“But why should he go to Cairo at all?” asked the Egyptian. “If he will
but come with me to Fedah he shall have his price. Not all of Winston
Bey’s wealth can approach the magnificence of the treasure I will place
in Antar’s hands.”

The eyes of the sheik sparkled.

“Good!” he exclaimed.

“You will be faithful to me?” asked Kāra.

“Why not?”

“There is much treasure at my command. Not a mere handful of gems shall
be yours, but enough to make your tribe wealthy for all time to come.”

“I believe that my brother speaks truth.”

“Then,” said Kāra, relieved, “I ask you to kill Winston Bey as a proof
of your confidence in me. The others may live until we get to Fedah.”

“Tah! What is the use of dividing the ceremony?” returned the sheik,
with a gesture of indifference. “I like not this pig-sticking in
sections. It means cleaning one’s knife several times instead of once.
Be patient, my brother. When we have arrived at Fedah and our friendship
is further cemented by your royal generosity, then will I accomplish all
the killing in a brief space and have done with it. Is it not so?”

Kāra hesitated, but saw clearly that the wily sheik would not trust him.
Moreover, he feared that Winston’s eager offers to outbid him, if
persistently repeated, might prove effectual unless he carried out his
own promises to the greedy Arab. He had not expected to pay Antar any
great price for his services, and in the beginning intended that the
“handful” of gems would be a very small one; but Antar had entrapped him
cleverly, and he now realized he must expend an exorbitant sum to induce
the old sheik to obey his orders.

After all, that did not matter. The entire treasure had been Hatatcha’s
before it descended to him, and a portion of it would be well expended
in securing her vengeance. He alone knew that the hoard was practically
inexhaustible, and he might even bury the big Arab in jewels and golden
ornaments and still have left more than he could use in his own
lifetime.

So he agreed, with assumed content, to Antar’s proposition, and
Abdallah, the engineer, was released from his bonds and instructed to
start the dahabeah upon its voyage up the river. It would be thirty
hours before they could hope to reach Fedah.

Roane and Winston were permitted to remain upon deck, but were tied to
their chairs and carefully guarded. Breakfast was served, and Kāra
accompanied the Arab who carried the tray to the cabin of the women. The
Egyptian had not disturbed them since the night before, well knowing
they had made themselves as secure as he could have done.

He rapped boldly upon the door and said:

“Let me in.”

“Who is it?” asked Mrs. Everingham.

“Prince Kāra.”

“By what right do you annoy us with your presence aboard this boat?” she
continued.

“That I will explain when you permit me to see you,” he answered.

For a few moments there was silence.

“Your breakfast is here, and the servant is waiting for you to open the
door,” continued Kāra.

Somewhat to his surprise the bar was removed, and Aneth threw the door
wide open.

“One moment, please!” cried Mrs. Everingham, and as Kāra was about to
enter he saw the lady standing in the middle of the cabin with her
revolver pointed toward him.

“I was so startled last night that I missed you,” she said, calmly; “but
I am almost certain I can shoot straight this morning.”

Kāra shrank back a little.

“Why do you fear me?” he asked.

“I don’t,” she answered. “It is you who fear, and with reason. But I do
not trust you, because you have convinced me that you are a consummate
scoundrel. If you have anything to say to me or to Miss Consinor, we are
prepared to hear it; otherwise you had better go, for I am extremely
nervous and my finger is upon the trigger.”

“I have taken possession of this steamer,” he announced. “All on board
are now my prisoners.”

“How dramatic!” she returned, with a laugh. “May I ask what you intend
to do with us? Will you scuttle the ship, or raise the black flag and
become a modern pirate of the Nile? Come, my buccaneer, confide to us
your secret?”

“In due time, madam, you shall know all, and more, perhaps, than will
please you,” he answered, furious at her gibes. “One thing, however, is
certain. Miss Consinor”--and here he cast an evil glare at the girl, who
stood with white face in the background--“shall not escape me again. I
intend to take her to Cairo and keep her secure in my villa. As for you,
Mrs. Everingham, your life hangs by a thread. If I could depend upon
your discretion and silence I might spare you; but you are clever enough
to understand that I cannot afford to take chances of future
accusations.”

“My man,” replied Mrs. Everingham, “your own miserable life is at this
moment not worth a farthing’s purchase. If you dare to molest this girl
or me again, or even show your ugly face in this cabin, I swear to shoot
you upon the spot. Here, Selim, bring in that tray. Place it on the
table; that will do. Now, Prince Kāra, I will give you one minute to
disappear.”

That was too long; he was gone in an instant, his face contorted with
rage as he cursed the woman who had so successfully defied him.

On deck he met the sheik.

“Tell the engineer to urge the boat forward,” he said; “we must keep
moving day and night until we reach Gebel Abu Fedah.”

“Very good,” responded the sheik. “I am even more impatient than you
are, my brother. It is only the prisoners, who have been watching us
sharpen our knives, that are in no hurry.”




CHAPTER XXV.

THE BRONZE BOLTS.


Old Sĕra kept watch faithfully that day and the next at her post of
observation on the hill, finding solace through the tedium of the hours
in an occasional cigarette from her precious box.

Soon after noon of the second day she hurried to Tadros.

“He is coming,” she said.

The dragoman sprang up.

“From which direction?” he inquired.

“From down the river. He is in the steamboat, and in half an hour will
be at the landing.”

“Go back at once,” commanded Tadros. “Wait until he lands, and then come
to me immediately. I will be in Hatatcha’s house.”

Sĕra obeyed, and, to the dragoman’s surprise, Nephthys followed her
mother to the hill. The girl had roused herself when the old woman
returned, and seemed to comprehend, from the eager conversation and the
dragoman’s orders, that Kāra was coming. She said nothing, however, but
hastened after her mother and took a position beside her on the height
commanding the river.

Tadros ran to the house of Hatatcha, where Consinor, having rebelled at
the confinement in old Nefert’s hovel, had that morning installed
himself. It was as safe a refuge as the other, for none of the villagers
ventured to enter the grim archway, and so long as the viscount escaped
observation Tadros was content. There was little cheer in the gloomy
room, however, and Consinor had begun to believe that he could scarcely
be recompensed for the miserable hours of waiting by the promised reward
when, to his infinite relief, his fellow-conspirator entered to announce
that the long-anticipated time for action had arrived.

“There is not a moment to be lost,” said Tadros. “Get under the rushes,
quick!”

The viscount immediately burrowed beneath the dry rushes, and the
dragoman placed him in such a position that his head was elevated
slightly and rested against the stones of the wall, thus enabling him to
observe every corner of the room through the loosely strewn covering.

Having safely concealed him, Tadros stood back and examined the rushes
critically to satisfy himself that Kāra would have no suspicion that
they had been recently disturbed. The arrangement was admirable. He
could not see Consinor himself, even though he knew he was hidden there.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

“Not very.”

“I mean, can you remain quietly in that position for an hour or more?”

“Yes,” answered Consinor, through the rushes.

“Then I will go,” announced Tadros. “Be very careful in your actions.
Remember that a fortune for both of us hinges upon the events of the
next hour, and we must make no mistake. I go to watch the street and the
desert beyond. Farewell, and may fortune attend you!”

He left the house, dropping the ragged mat over the inner arch and then
crossing to Nefert’s hut.

Presently Sĕra came running toward him.

“He has landed and is coming this way,” she reported.

“Very well. Go home.”

“The cigarettes are all gone.”

He tossed her another box, and soon she had disappeared within her own
doorway. Nephthys was not with her, but Tadros had forgotten the girl
just then.

He crept within Nefert’s front room and hid himself in the shadows in
such a way that he could see through the hole, which served as a window,
the opposite archway of Hatatcha’s dwelling.

Kāra entered the narrow street and looked cautiously around him. It
pleased him that no curious native was in sight. The sheik and his band
were in possession of the dahabeah and the prisoners, and were awaiting
Kāra’s return with impatience. Therefore, he must enter the secret tomb
at once, without the cover of darkness to shield his movements; but the
inhabitants of Fedah were dull and apathetic--they were not likely to
spy upon him.

He glanced with pride at the ring he wore upon his finger. The talisman
of Ahtka-Rā was indeed powerful, for it had enabled him to accomplish
all that he desired, and was protecting him even now. Should he take
this occasion to restore it to the tomb of his ancestor--that ancient
one who had entreated that it be left with his mummy for all time, and
had threatened with dire misfortune anyone who dared to remove it? Why
should Kāra leave the precious Stone of Fortune in that mountainous
dungeon? Why should he deprive himself of the powers it bestowed upon
its possessor? It could not now benefit Ahtka-Rā, who was long since
forgotten in the nether world; but it might be of service to Kāra in
many ways. Yes; he would keep it, despite the pleading and curses of
that dead one who so foolishly and selfishly wished it left with his
mummy.

Perhaps some day, years hence, he would restore the stone to the
sarcophagus from whence he had taken it; but not now. Again he looked at
the strange jewel, which seemed of extraordinary brilliancy at that
moment, shooting its tongues of flame in every direction. The curse?
Henf! Why should he care for the curse of a mummy, when the greatest
talisman of fortune in the world was his?

He slipped within the archway of his dwelling and drew the mat closely
behind him. Tadros had marked his every movement, and now breathed a
sigh of relief. For the present, at all events, the adventure was in
Consinor’s keeping rather than his own, and Consinor must suffer the
risk of detection.

The dragoman settled himself upon an earthen bench and kept his eyes on
the archway. Presently Nephthys came stealing into view, treading with
the caution of a cat and crouching low beneath the stone arch. She did
not attempt to draw aside the mat, but squatted upon the ground just
outside the barrier. Tadros observed her curiously, and noticed that one
of her hands was thrust within her bosom, as if clutching some weapon.

A dagger? Perhaps. Nephthys had been wronged, and might be excused for
hating Kāra. Should the dragoman interfere to save him? To what end?
Before the girl could strike, the royal one’s secret would be in
Consinor’s possession, and then--why, Nephthys would save them any
annoyance their discovery might entail. Clearly, it was not a case that
merited interference.

Meantime Consinor had noted the entrance of Kāra, as well as the care
with which the matting had been fastened to keep out prying eyes. It
shut out most of the light, also; but that bothered the Egyptian more
than it did the Englishman, whose eyes had now grown accustomed to the
dimness.

Kāra had to feel his way along the wall to the secret crypt, but he knew
the location of the place exactly, and soon found it. Consinor saw him
take from the recess a slender bronze dagger with a queerly shaped
blade, and an antique oil lamp. With these he approached the opposite
wall of the room--that which was built against the mountain--and pushed
vigorously against one of the stones.

It swung inward. The spy saw only blackness beyond; but his first
consideration was to count the stones from the corner to the opening,
and then to note that it was in the third tier or layer of masonry. By
this time Kāra had crept through and closed the orifice.

Consinor was breathing heavily with excitement. The great discovery had
been made with ease. All he need do was to wait until Kāra came out and
left the village, and then he would be able to visit the secret tomb and
its treasure-chamber himself.

But as the moments slowly passed--moments whose length was exaggerated
into seeming hours--Consinor began to feel uneasy. He remembered that
Tadros had impressed upon him the necessity of following Kāra wherever
he went. The secret might not be all upon the surface.

Fearful that he had wasted precious time in delay, he threw aside the
covering of rushes and approached the wall. It was scarcely necessary to
count the stones. He had stared at them so long that he knew the exact
spot which Kāra had touched.

Responsive to his push, the great stone again swung backward and he
crept through as the other had done and found himself confronted with
blackness.

The dragoman had foreseen such an event, and had thoughtfully provided
his accomplice with a candle. Consinor lit it, and, leaving the stone
entrance somewhat ajar, so that he might have no trouble in escaping if
he were compelled to return in haste, he began a cautious exploration of
the various passages that led into the mountain.

He lost some time in pursuing false trails; but at length he came upon a
burnt match, tossed carelessly aside when Kāra had lighted his lamp, and
it lay within the entrance of a rough and forbidding-looking gallery
between the rocks.

However, Consinor followed this trail, and after stumbling along blindly
until it had nearly ended in a cul-de-sac, he came to a circular door in
the cliff which stood wide open. Beyond was a passage carefully built by
man into the very heart of the mountain.

The viscount paused to examine the door carefully. It had been most
cleverly constructed, and fitted its opening accurately. Six huge bronze
bolts, working upon springs, were ranged along its edge, and the single
hinge was of enormous size and likewise composed of solid bronze. But he
could see no keyhole nor lever by means of which the door had been
opened. The outer surface was an irregular rock, harmonizing with the
side of the passage, but the edges and the inner surface were carefully
dressed with chisels. An examination of the casing showed bronze sockets
for the bolts securely embedded in the cliff, and he could understand
that when the door was closed the bolts fastened themselves
automatically. But how had it been opened? That was a mystery he could
not penetrate; for Kāra, after unlocking the door, had inadvertently
withdrawn the dagger from the secret orifice and carried it with him
into the tomb. It was a foolhardy proceeding, for if by chance he
dropped the dagger inside the passage, he would forever afterward be
powerless to enter the tomb again, since it was the only key to the
treasure-chamber in existence. Besides, the removal of the dagger from
the orifice was useless; for, as Hatatcha had once explained to Kāra,
the door could not be opened from the inside.

Consinor felt convinced that the Egyptian must have gone through this
passage, so he cautiously entered the doorway. It was a long, straight
way, slanting downward, and before he had proceeded far, the atmosphere
became dense and stifling. Still, he decided that where Kāra had gone he
also could go, and so persevered, holding the candle above his head and
walking as swiftly as he dared.

Meantime the Egyptian had penetrated to the vast mummy chamber, where,
because of his haste, he neglected to light any of the bronze lamps,
depending alone upon the dim illumination which the flickering wick of
his small lamp afforded. He passed the bodies of Hatatcha and Thi-Aten,
with scarcely a glance in their direction, and hastened between the rows
of mummy cases toward the upper end of the room. Here, majestically
imposing, stood the great sarcophagus of Ahtka-Rā, its thousand jewels
glittering wierdly in the fitful glare of the floating wick, as Kāra
held the lamp close to its side to detect the secret spring in the
malachite slab that opened the way to the treasure-chamber.

The stone slid back with a sound that seemed like a moan of protest, and
the Egyptian gave a nervous start as, for the first time, a realization
of his dread surroundings flashed upon him.

But he controlled himself and muttered: “Perhaps it is the ghost of my
great ancestor, bewailing the loss of his talisman. If his spirit could
creep back from the far nether world, it would doubtless demand of me
the return of the Stone of Fortune.... Not yet, Ahtka-Rā!” he called
aloud, mockingly; “save your curse for a year longer, and it will not be
required. Just now I have more need of the talisman than you have!”

With these words he crawled into the aperture and descended the steps to
the room below. He had brought with him two canvas sacks, one of which
he proceeded to fill with the poorest and least valuable of the
ornaments that littered the place. Even then the tribute to Sheik Antar
was far in excess of the value of his services, and Kāra groaned at the
necessity of bribing the crafty Arab so heavily.

The other sack was to contain his own treasure, and that he might avoid
frequent visits to this gloomy place, which he began to dread, he
selected the rarest of the great gems and the richest golden jewelry for
himself, tumbling all together into the receptacle until it was full to
overflowing and could only be tied at the neck by shaking down the
contents.

The two sacks were heavy when he picked them up to carry them away. He
suspended the bronze lamp in front of him by attaching its chain to a
button of his gray coat. Then, a burden under either arm, he ascended
the stairs and stepped from the orifice into the chamber above.

As he did this, the weight of the treasure shifted, and he stumbled and
fell heavily against the massive sarcophagus of Ahtka-Rā. The jar of the
impact was enough to send the golden bust of Isis toppling from its
place. It struck Kāra in the breast, upsetting the lamp and leaving him
in total darkness. Then it rebounded and caught his hand, crushing it
against the marble side of the tomb. The sharp pain caused by this made
him cry out and cling, faint and ill, to the stones of the sarcophagus.
There, motionless, he stood in the dark and listened while the bust fell
into the opening at his feet, and slowly rolled, step by step, into the
treasure-chamber beneath, finally adding itself with a hollow crash to
the rich hoard the ages had accumulated therein.

Kāra shuddered. The awful incident, the blackness that enveloped him,
the clamor of noise in that silent place and the quiet suspense
succeeding it, all conspired to unnerve him and fill his heart with
consternation. The sacks had fallen from his grasp. He raised his
injured hand, felt it, and gave a sudden cry of terror. The ring
containing his ancestor’s precious Stone of Fortune had been broken by
the blow and the talisman was gone.

Gone! Then the curse had fallen. It was upon him even now, and perhaps
at his side stood the grim spirit of Ahtka-Rā, leering at him through
the darkness and exulting in his discomfiture.

Trembling in every limb, the Egyptian fell upon his knees and began
creeping here and there upon the clammy stones, his eyes staring into
the gloom and his fingers clutching at every slight protuberance in the
hope of finding again the wonderful stone that could alone protect him
in his extremity. The curse was upon him, but he would resist its awful
power. He _must_ resist; for if he succumbed now, there would be no
future escape from his fate. The stone--he must find the stone!
Somewhere in that vast chamber of death it lay, slyly waiting for him to
reclaim it.

The cold indifference that was an integral part of Kāra’s nature had
completely deserted him. The superstitious fear inherited by him from
the centuries had gripped his heart securely and made him its bond-man.
He mumbled incoherently as, prone upon all fours, he shuffled hither and
thither in his vain search. The words of warning contained in the tiny
parchment, the solemn curse of his ancestor upon any who deprived him
of the talisman of fortune, seemed alone to occupy a mind suddenly
rendered witless and unruly by the calamity of the moment.

The darkness was oppressive. There was no sound since the golden bust
had bumped its way into the treasure-chamber. The atmosphere, although
fed and restored from some hidden conduit, seemed stagnant and full of
the bituminous stench of the mummies. Kāra drew his quaking body about
with an effort, feeling that the silence, the dead air and the blackness
were conspiring to stifle him. He found the lamp presently, but the oil
was spilled and the wick gone. It did not occur to him to strike a
match.

“If the stone is here,” he thought, “I shall see its flaming tongues
even through the darkness. It cannot escape me. I must seek until I find
it.”

Twice he crept around the colossal sarcophagus of Ahtka-Rā, feeling his
way cautiously and glaring into the darkness with distended eyeballs;
and then came his reward. A streak of fire darted before his eyes and
vanished. Another succeeded it. He paused and watched intently. A faint
blue cloud appeared, whence the flames radiated. Sometimes they were
crimson; then a sulphurous yellow; then pure white in color. But they
always darted fiercely from the central cloud, which gradually took form
and outlined the irregular oblong of the wonderful stone.

The radiance positively grew; the tongues of flame darted swifter and
more brilliantly; they lighted the surrounding space and brought into
relief the glistening end of Ahtka-Rā’s tomb.

Kāra stared with an amazement akin to fear; for the talisman lay upon
the floor just beneath the triple circlet of gold whence he had pried it
with his dagger. It had not only escaped from its unlawful possessor,
but had returned to where the ancient Egyptian had originally placed it;
and now it mocked him with its magical brilliance.

He could have reached out a hand and seized it in his grasp; but so
great was his horror of the curse of Ahtka-Rā that his impulse was
rather to shrink from the demoniacal gem.

How wonderful was its brilliance! It lighted the sarcophagus and the
wall beyond. It lighted the floor with a broad streak of yellow light.
It lighted even Kāra himself, groveling before it on hands and knees. No
ordinary gem could do this. It was sorcery, it was--

He uttered a scream that echoed horribly through the vault and sprang to
his feet; for a glance over his shoulder had betrayed the secret of the
strange illumination.

At the lower end of the room stood a man holding above his head a
lighted candle. He was motionless, gazing curiously at the prone form of
the Egyptian wallowing before a tomb encrusted with precious stones.

But now he returned Kāra’s scream with a startled cry, and turned
involuntarily as if to fly, when the other sprang up and advanced
rapidly toward him.

Down past the rows of silent mummies sped the Egyptian, while Consinor
awaited him in a stupor of indecision. Then, finally realizing his
danger, he dashed the candle to the ground and ran up the passage as
fast as he could go.

Kāra, although once more plunged into darkness by this action, knew the
way much better than the Englishman, and did not for an instant hesitate
to follow him. The curse of Ahtka-Rā was now forgotten--the talisman
forgotten. Kāra realized that another had discovered his secret, and the
safety of the treasure demanded that the intruder should not be
permitted to leave the tomb alive.

Consinor, on his part, was slower to comprehend the situation; yet there
was no doubt the Egyptian meant mischief, and the only means of escape
lay up the long, narrow passage. As he fled he collided with the huge
pillar that divided the library from the mummy chamber and rebounded
against the wall of the gallery, falling heavily to the ground.

In an instant Kāra was upon him, his knee pressing the viscount’s
breast, his slender, talon-like fingers twined around his enemy’s
throat.

But when it came to wrestling, the Englishman was no mean antagonist. As
the native released one hand to search in his bosom for the bronze
dagger, Consinor suddenly grasped him around the middle and easily threw
him over, reversing their positions, his body resting upon and weighing
down that of the slighter Egyptian. Failing to find the knife, Kāra
again gripped the other’s throat with his powerful fingers.

There was but one thing to do in this desperate emergency. Consinor
raised his enemy’s head and dashed it against the stone floor. The
Egyptian’s grasp relaxed; he lost consciousness, and, tearing himself
from the fatal embrace, the viscount rose slowly to his feet, his brain
reeling, his breath gradually returning to him in short gasps.

For a few moments he leaned against the wall for support; then, rousing
himself to action, he tottered slowly along the passage, feeling his way
by keeping one hand against the wall of rock.

He had not proceeded far, however, when a rustling sound warned him that
Kāra had returned to life. His ears, rendered sensitive by his fearful
plight, told him that his enemy had arisen, and he heard the fall of
footsteps pursuing him.

But Consinor was already retreating as rapidly as possible, impelled to
swiftness by the spur of fear. Proceeding through the intense darkness,
at times he struck the sides of the rocky gallery with a force that
nearly knocked him off his feet; but in the main it was a smooth and
straight way, and the Egyptian did not seem to gain perceptibly upon
him, being evidently as dazed by the blow upon his head as was the
Englishman by the throttling he had endured.

And so they pressed on, panting along through the stifling atmosphere,
until suddenly Consinor ran full against the rocky end of the passage
and fell half stunned upon the floor. He heard the pattering of Kāra’s
footsteps, the sound indicating that the Egyptian was gradually drawing
nearer, and, dazed as he was, realized that sudden death menaced him.
With a final effort he sprang to his feet, tumbled through the circular
opening, and slammed the door into place with all his remaining
strength.

He heard the sharp click of the bolts as they shot into their sockets,
and the muffled cry of terror from the imprisoned Kāra.

Thoroughly appalled at what he had done, he again arose to his feet and
moved rapidly along toward the entrance to the outer corridor.

For a certain distance the floor of this natural passage was as smooth
as that of the artificial one, and before he came to the rougher
portion, Consinor saw a dim light ahead that came from the opening in
the wall of the room.

All semblance of composure had now deserted him. His cowardice fully
manifested itself at his first discovery, and he was not sure, even now
that the bronze bolts shut in his enemy, that he was safe from pursuit.
With Kāra’s despairing cry still ringing in his ears, he reached the
wall, passed through the opening, drew the stone into place behind him
as a further precaution, and then sped in a panic across the room.

Nephthys heard him coming and thought it was Kāra. As he tore down the
matting and dashed through the arch, the girl rose to her feet and
viciously thrust out her hand.

Consinor fell with a moan at her feet, drenching the hard ground with a
stream of blood. By the time Tadros had rushed to his assistance he was
dead.

The dragoman, on ascertaining that the victim was his accomplice, was
frantic with despair. He rushed into the dwelling and gazed around him
anxiously. The room appeared to his eyes just as it had a hundred times
before. Kāra was nowhere to be seen, and the secret that Tadros had
plotted so artfully to discover was lost to him forever.

“Confound you, Nephthys!” he cried, returning to the archway, “you’ve
killed the wrong man and eternally ruined my fortunes!”

But the girl had disappeared. In her mother’s hut she had quietly seated
herself at the loom and resumed her work at the shuttle.

[Illustration: Consinor fell with a moan at her feet, drenching the hard
earth with a stream of blood]




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DRAGOMAN WINS.


Antar, the sheik, waited for Kāra until his patience was exhausted; then
he left the dahabeah and came up through the sands to Fedah to discover,
if possible, what had delayed the prince from returning with his
promised reward. To Antar this cluster of hovels seemed mean and
unattractive when compared with his own village, and these hills were
not likely places for treasure tombs. He knew that the French and
Italian excavators had been all over them, and found only some crocodile
mummy pits.

The sheik grew suddenly suspicious. Kāra’s promises were too extravagant
to be genuine; doubtless he had deceived Antar from the first, and
sought to obtain his services without payment. It was true that Kāra was
reputed in Cairo to be wealthy, but he might easily have squandered his
inheritance long ago. One thing Antar was certain of--the Egyptian
prince must produce his treasure at once or the sheik, thinking he was
duped, would undertake to exact a bit of vengeance on his own account.

Thus musing, he turned the corner of the hill and came full upon Tadros,
who was expecting him. The dragoman’s thumbs were thrust into the
pockets of his gorgeous silver and blue vest. He stood with his feet
spread well apart, in an attitude of dejection; his countenance was
sorrowful and discontented.

“Ah,” growled the sheik, “this is the man Kāra requested me to kill!”

“I do not doubt it,” returned Tadros, meekly. “It is so much easier to
kill one than to pay him the wages he has earned.”

“Does he owe you money?” demanded Antar, sharply.

“Yes; and now I shall never get it.”

“Why not?”

“Have you not heard? Prince Kāra came to this village a few hours ago
and was met by a captain of police, who wants him in Cairo for more than
a dozen crimes.”

“What! Have you brought the police upon us?” exclaimed Antar, angrily.

“I? How absurd! I came here to get my money; but they have taken Kāra
south to meet a detachment of soldiers who are coming from Assyut.
Presently they will return here in force to rescue Winston Bey, who is
in some trouble through Kāra’s actions.”

“You are lying to me,” declared the sheik. “It is you who have set the
officers upon us. You are a traitor!”

Tadros appeared distressed.

“You have known me long, my sheik,” said he, “and have always found me
an honest man. Never have I mixed with the police in any way. But do
you imagine the Government will neglect to watch over Winston Bey and
protect him from his enemies? Ask the captain when he returns with the
soldiers and Kāra. He will be here very soon now, and he will tell you
that Tadros the dragoman had nothing to do with his coming here.”

The sheik glanced around nervously.

“You say he will be here soon?”

“At any moment. Something has gone wrong with Winston Bey’s dahabeah, it
seems, and the soldiers are to put things right.”

Antar fell into the trap. In common with most natives, he greatly feared
the mounted police, and had no inclination to face a company of them.
Quickly he ran to the end of the hill overlooking the river, and blew a
shrill blast between his fingers as a signal to his comrades.

Instantly his men swarmed from the distant boat and sped over the sands
toward him. The sheik met them and the whole band turned toward the
north, quickly disappearing among the rugged crags of the mountains.

Tadros, convulsed with laughter at his easy victory, watched until the
last Arab was out of sight. Then he walked down to the dahabeah, where,
in the gathering twilight, he cut the bonds of the prisoners, assuring
Winston Bey and his party, with many bombastic words, that he had
vanquished their enemies and they owed their lives to his shrewdness and
valor.

“You are free as the air,” said he. “Fear nothing hereafter, for I will
now remain with you.”

“Where is Kāra?” asked Winston.

Tadros did not know; but he suspected that Consinor, before returning
from the interior of the treasure-chamber, had murdered the Egyptian,
whose mysterious disappearance could in no other way be explained. Not
wishing to mention the viscount’s name, whose murder might involve both
Nephthys and himself in trouble, he stuck to his original lie.

“Kāra is fleeing in one direction and the Arabs in another,” he said,
pompously. “I am too modest to relate how I have accomplished this
remarkable feat; but you must admit I have been wonderfully clever and
successful, and by remaining faithful to your interests, have saved you
from a terrible fate.”

Winston did not answer, for he was just then engaged in holding Aneth in
a close embrace, while Mrs. Everingham looked upon the happy pair with
moist eyes and smiling lips.

But old Lord Roane felt that their rescuer merited more tangible
acknowledgment of his services.

“You are a brave man, Tadros,” he said.

“I am, indeed, sir,” agreed the dragoman, earnestly.

“When we return to Cairo I will see that you are properly rewarded.”

Tadros smiled with pleasure.

“Thank you, my lord,” said he; “it is no more than I deserve.”

“Just now,” continued his lordship, “we are bound for Luxor to celebrate
a wedding.”

“With Tadros for dragoman,” remarked the Egyptian, calmly lighting a
cigarette, “all things are possible.”