CHAPTER XII.

THE CAMP IN THE DESERT

Barry now entered upon a period of existence widely different from

any he had known. Danbazzar’s camp was in the neck of a _wâdi_ on the

north of the caravan route from Thebes to Farshût. Further north, and

visible from the tents, on the summit of a mountain stood an ancient

watchtower, used in the days of the Pharaohs by the tomb guard. All

about were remains of stone huts which had probably been the quarters

of these guards. On the right, above terraced, desolate hills covered

with débris of abandoned excavations, rose the stately mass of El

Kurn, the Horn.

Here in this weird quarry to which no one ever penetrated, they had

their base of operations. The native excavators, in charge of a

headman who proved to be one of the group that had been seated outside

the Luxor café, had their quarters several miles distant, in a sort

of tumbledown village principally inhabited by dogs. Native life in

the towns had offered novel features, but the conditions prevailing in

this desert village surpassed anything Barry could have imagined. An

entire absence of sanitary arrangements was the outstanding novelty;

next to which he never got used to the spectacle of a considerable

family, a number of dogs, chickens, and sometimes a donkey, residing

happily together in one apartment which could have been covered by a

full-sized dining table.

They reached camp at dusk, although they had crossed the river in the

morning, having travelled by a circuitous route over high ridges and

through gloomy passes, to find that a native cook had prepared dinner

and that Hassan es-Sugra, who had gone ahead, was waiting to receive

them.

Before attacking the meal, Barry, tired though he was, climbed the

side of the _wâdi_ and stood on the edge of a small plateau, looking

out to the rosy haze that marked the course of old, distant Nile. The

unforgettable dusk of Egypt was falling. Rocks showed like black

smudges on a gray canvas, and the sky was passing through an amazing

transformation of delicate blue to shell pink, which, by some natural

magic, combined to form the violet afterglow which is not the least of

this country’s beauties.

From below came a faint clattering of cooking utensils, and a dog was

howling somewhere, probably in the village where the workmen were

quartered. The great adventure had begun. To-night he was to see for

the first time the tomb of Princess Zalithea!

He uttered a deep sigh, which was a sigh of contentment, and climbed

down the steep descent again to the camp.

They dined inside one of the tents, Danbazzar deeming it unwise to

court attention from any chance travellers upon the ridge above.

Barry stooped and entered the little canvas dwelling which was to be

his home for some time to come. It presented a spectacle, on that

first night, which was always to remain with him as an odd memory.

Plates of steaming tomato soup (Heinz tinned variety) were set upon

the small square table, which even boasted a white cloth. The cook, a

big, bearded fellow from the Fayyum, his magnificent teeth revealed in

a constant grin, was just placing loaves and a pitcher of water upon

the hospitable board.

Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches,

and gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin

had assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an

unspoken retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn

farce--a dream from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland,

also coatless, sat on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and

began to carve it vigorously, looking up as Barry entered.

It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this

sun-baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out

of place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the

table. He wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun

helmet. He was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the

_Scarabæus_ family which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his

soup.

“Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our

new quarters?”

“First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair.

“If we go on in this style we shan’t starve.”

Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and:

“There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these

fellows are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so

Danbazzar informs me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than

water.”

The soup dispatched:

“Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,”

said John Cumberland.

Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen

had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the _wâdi_,

suspiciously like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The

glistening, smiling face of Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected

light. He smiled as he cooked and sang soft Arab love songs.

Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony

cane, Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of

the chef. At the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a

great distance it seemed to come--above and beyond--a rhythmic,

silvery jingling. He had just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,”

when Hassan turned toward him and raised his hand in warning.

Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly.

Ebon shadows lay in the _wâdi_; above, on crags and terraces of the

mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical

sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been

justified.

Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry

stood, silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel

bells! High above on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its

way from Thebes to Farshût.…

After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of

war, seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan

es-Sugra attended.

“Although no precautions have been neglected,” said Danbazzar, “there

appears to be suspicion about the object of our journey in certain

quarters. I had an interview yesterday with the secretary of Mudîr of

Luxor. We have known each other for some years, and he gave me a big

dose of advice about the route beyond El Kharga.”

Danbazzar paused, tensing his lips so that his abbreviated beard stuck

out truculently, a peculiar mannerism which Barry had noted before.

Then:

“The Mudîr’s secretary was most hospitable,” he went on, “and so

anxious for our comfort that I’m dead sure he knew I was lying. He

knew we had no more intention of visiting the oasis than he has.”

“But how could the truth have leaked out?” John Cumberland asked.

“What about these people in the village,” Barry suggested, “where the

men are quartered?”

Hassan es-Sugra extended his palms and softly intruded with a remark.

“They are of the Hawwara,” he explained, “or claim to be. They owe

allegiance to their own sheik, and he is my friend. No, it will be

some of the workmen, while in Luxor, who have been talking.”

“Then what can we do?” John Cumberland demanded.

“I could thrash two or three of the men,” Hassan suggested gently,

“until I found one to speak the truth.”

Barry stared in amazement at the æsthetic face of the speaker,

thinking that he jested; but no smile appeared. This was apparently a

firm offer.

“No!” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “It would do no good. If this

fellow Tawwab suspects anything----”

“Exactly,” said Professor Blackwell uneasily; “that is just what I am

wondering. If he suspects anything, what will he do? Inform the

Inspector of Antiquities?”

Danbazzar knocked ash from his cigar. The scarab ring upon his finger

twinkled in the lamplight. He stared fixed at the Professor; then:

“He is an Egyptian,” he replied. “What would he gain by that?”

“Ah!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “_Gain!_ That’s the

answer--_bakhshish!_”

“Under the present government,” said Danbazzar gravely, “always!”

“Well!” Cumberland shrugged his shoulders. “I came prepared to pay! Is

it safe to start?”

“I was about to ask the same question,” declared Professor Blackwell,

raising his gaunt and ungainly form from the low camp chair in which

he was seated.

“Yes.”

Danbazzar spoke deliberately, and without betraying any of the

excitement which the Professor had been unable to conceal, which

obviously possessed John Cumberland, and to which Barry was a restless

prey. He turned to Hassan es-Sugra.

“Hassan,” he directed, “make sure that all’s clear.”

Hassan saluted deeply and went out of the tent.

“It’s a bit of a scramble,” Danbazzar warned. “Everybody in fibre

shoes, and don’t forget your flasks.”

Their preparations were complete when Hassan returned with the news

that the road was clear; whereupon, they set out.

The route they followed was merely a native path and not one of the

roads ordinarily used. For a goat or a barefooted Egyptian it was

navigable enough, but what with leaping over chasms of unknown depth

and scrambling up narrow funnels composed of crumbling rock, brittle

as a cracker, it was not all that might have been desired by a party

of townsmen out for an evening stroll.

At last they came out on the hummock of a hill, and below them,

magnificently outlined in shadow, lay the Valley of the Queens. Above

towered that strangely shaped mountain once sacred to the goddess

Hathor. Breathless, Barry leaned upon a block of stone, listening to a

duet in hard breathing contributed by his father and Professor

Blackwell. Danbazzar’s cigar glowed in the shadows of a neighbouring

rock, and Hassan es-Sugra exhibited no evidence of fatigue.

Awhile they paused there, and then set out again, Danbazzar and Hassan

leading, John Cumberland and the Professor following, Barry bringing

up the rear. Thus they went, except where broken formation of the

ground necessitated single file.

By what sailing marks the pilots traced their course was not apparent.

But through the desolation of this land of tombs they passed, the way

twisting and turning, their route being sometimes upward and sometimes

downward, until at last:

“Here it is!” said Danbazzar.

Barry’s weariness departed; his heart leaped.

They stood before a sheer rock face, its irregular surface pitted with

openings. Above a mound of drift, Hassan es-Sugra began to dig with

his stick, clearing sand and rubbish away. Barry watched him

abstractedly: he was fighting to conquer the reality.

Somewhere here, deep in the heart of this rock, she lay, the princess

of long ago! She whose picture, portrayed in the papyrus, was a vivid

representation of the girl he had seen on that balcony in faraway New

Jersey! Here! somewhere in this ancient mountain where she had lain

for thousands of years!

What was the link? What did it mean? Useless! His mind refused to

grapple with so monstrous a problem.

“See!” Hassan es-Sugra turned, extending his palms. “The cartouche,

sirs! As I found it a year ago!”

A ray from Danbazzar’s electric torch shone on to the rock. All bent

forward eagerly.

“Quite! Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Yes, it is the same,

unmistakably!”

Deeply carved in the surface, it was there for all to see--the curious

sign which translated, meant: “She Who Sleeps but Will Awaken.”