CHAPTER XIV.

THE HAUNTED VALLEY

Prone upon a high crag Danbazzar lay, watching a horseman making his

way down the slope of a distant valley and heading in the direction of

the Nile. At last:

“He’s gone!” he said, and looked back over his shoulder.

John Cumberland heaved a great sigh of relief and, standing, stretched

his cramped limbs. One long last look Danbazzar took at the receding

figure, and then the two climbed down to the path below where

Professor Blackwell and Barry awaited them.

“Do you think I got away with it?” the latter asked.

“No!” Danbazzar said promptly--“not entirely. Your explanation that we

had gone out for jackal was good.”

“Excellent, in my opinion!” Professor Blackwell murmured. “You are

really an accomplished liar, Barry.”

“Well,” Barry explained, laughing, “I knew we shouldn’t find you in

the camp, and some sort of explanation had to be offered. I spoke

loudly enough for you to hear me behind the screen, so that if he

insisted upon staying till you returned, your story would correspond

with mine.”

“Unfortunately,” said John Cumberland, “he must have heard the

whistle.”

“He did!” declared the Professor--“although he never once mentioned

it.”

“That is why I know he didn’t believe you,” Danbazzar added. “I shall

go into Luxor on Monday and talk business to Mr. Tawwab.” He turned to

Barry. “You haven’t heard the good news yet! Can you imagine that I

was forced to stop work last year within a matter of hours of breaking

through that portcullis?”

“What do you mean?” Barry cried.

“They cleared the entrance,” his father replied excitedly, “which

Danbazzar had reclosed, without difficulty. You see, Barry, we are

provided with the very best and latest gear. They set about the

portcullis, and Hassan found a flaw in the rock itself beside this

otherwise immovable stone door.”

“Why didn’t we find it last year!” boomed Danbazzar. “I figured that

portcullis was a long, tough job!”

“They worked on it all night,” John Cumberland went on, “enlarging

it----”

“Have you actually been in!” cried Barry.

“No,” was the reply; “the opening isn’t big enough. But Danbazzar and

I were looking along the passage when we heard the whistle!”

“Hassan has been down,” said Danbazzar. “There’s an obstruction twenty

feet below, but he reports the air is fairly good.”

“But what’s the obstruction?” Barry asked.

“I fear another portcullis,” said Danbazzar. “But the roof of the

shaft seems to have collapsed at this point, or partly collapsed, and

Hassan is uncertain whether there’s another portcullis or not. It may

be a month’s work, or our job may be nearly finished. Remembering the

purpose for which it was constructed, I look for a simple tomb. I

should be surprised to find wells or dummy passages.”

“Could I possibly get through?”

Danbazzar looked him over briefly; and:

“No!” he replied, “but we have dropped a light into the shaft and you

can look down. The men are at work again now.”

Excitement rose to fever pitch. Constant relays of skilled excavators

could not work fast enough for John Cumberland or for Barry. By

nightfall, the hole beside the mighty stone door which closed the

passage had been appreciably enlarged. But whereas their first success

had been due principally to a flaw in the rock tunnel itself, progress

beyond this stage was a matter of patient drilling and chipping.

Danbazzar’s optimism was shown to have been excessive. Hours went by

in constant work; blazing days and nights of ceaseless toil; but still

the great portcullis defied them. Hassan es-Sugra, with the smallest

men of the party, had attacked the lower obstruction. But conditions

were bad. Both air and proper light were lacking. Since they could not

be relieved, their progress was necessarily slow. And, meanwhile, the

main gang chipped and chipped patiently at the rock tunnel surrounding

the stone door.

By Monday success seemed to be in sight; and as Danbazzar set out for

Luxor to interview Mr. Tawwab, he gave orders touching the work on the

lower passage. And so, this day, which it was written should be a

memorable one, wore on.

When the wonderful curtain of dusk was drawn over the valley,

Danbazzar had not returned from his interview with Mr. Tawwab. Barry

pictured him patiently drinking numberless cups of coffee and smoking

scores of cigarettes.

Mahmoud had been out for quail in the morning, and the savoury odour

of his cooking increased the appetite of the party, already keen

enough at the end of an arduous and exciting day. Having performed

their somewhat limited ablutions, they assembled in the tent over a

surreptitious cocktail, perforce without ice.

“It seems to me,” said John Cumberland, “that this thing has developed

into a race. The man Tawwab is out for blackmail. That’s clear.”

“Can we keep him off until we succeed, or will he hold us up?”

murmured Professor Blackwell. “Success might come almost any day. What

is beyond that further obstruction no one can pretend to guess. But as

to what it _is_, from my scanty observations--for the light was very

bad--I have formed a theory.”

“What’s your theory, Blackwell?” John Cumberland asked.

“It is this,” the Professor continued: “That first portcullis blocking

the passage was built to be raised--I am sure of it.”

“I believe you are right,” said Barry; “and it worked in deep

grooves.”

“Quite! Quite!” The Professor nodded. “By what means such a vast lump

of rock was lifted, I leave to the greater knowledge of Danbazzar to

explain. I am no Egyptologist. But I think the obstruction twenty feet

down, from what I can see of it, is, or was, a second portcullis. The

broken pieces look of about the same thickness as that at the top.”

“But why should the second be broken and not the first?” Barry

demanded.

“Which brings me to my theory,” the Professor continued. “I think the

second portcullis, at some time when it was raised, fell and was

shattered.”

“By Jove!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “You may be right!”

“I am almost sure I am,” the Professor said. “I think I can see one of

the deep grooves it worked in. If this is so, it should be fairly easy

to clear the débris, and, unless there is a third portcullis, intact,

why should we not then find ourselves in the actual burial chamber?”

“It’s possible,” his friend admitted. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

“There are no inscriptions to be seen on the walls of the passage,”

Barry remarked.

“No,” said the Professor; “but I understand that this is usual. Am I

right, Cumberland?”

“Quite right. But we may look for something very _un_usual in the

chamber itself.”

They were all feverishly restless, but as their presence at the

excavation merely interfered with the work, for this restlessness

there was no proper outlet.

Dinner concluded, and Mahmoud having cleared the table, the Professor

and John Cumberland, shirt sleeves rolled up and cigars lighted,

settled down to poker. Barry, pipe in mouth, sauntered out into the

_wâdi_, vaguely wondering why Danbazzar had not returned.

Without consciously intending to do so, he found himself following the

familiar path, to which he no longer required a guide. On he went and

down, until he came to that little ravine which opened into the valley

just above the tomb. In the nick of time he remembered the usual

routine and clapped his hands sharply three times.

Had he forgotten, the result would have been a blast of a police

whistle and the suspension of operations!

The ingeniously screened working lay in deep shadow. He could see

neither of the guards, but, standing there, silent, he could hear

vaguely, deep in the heart of the rock, a sound of regular muffled

blows. He was tempted to open the sand trap and to penetrate to the

scene of activity, but overcame the impulse and turned right, walking

up the valley to where it came out on the shoulder of a hill. Here,

squatting under a curious mass of rock roughly resembling a giant

skull, was one of the guards, who stood up as Barry approached.

“_Lêltak sa’ îda!_” said the man, saluting him.

Barry echoed the words, to which he was now becoming accustomed, and

passed on. The guard reseated himself under the rock.

He determined to walk up as far as the ancient caravan road which

crossed the crest above, a spot from which, Danbazzar had informed

him, the view by moonlight was remarkable. He had counted, however,

without the natural difficulties of the route. The path which he had

intended to follow disappeared into midnight gullies and twined about

upstanding crags. The shadowy places might be full of pitfalls. Barry

paused, looking up at the ridge sharply outlined against the clear

blue of the sky.

Perhaps, after all, discretion was the better part of valour. He might

quite easily break his neck if he attempted this climb in the

darkness. He stood there for a while looking about him, and knocking

out his pipe upon the heel of his bass-soled shoe.

These slopes above and below he knew to be literally honeycombed. This

weird place, almost unreal in its colouring under the moon, was no

more than a vast necropolis. A month before, with New York’s life

pulsing around him, the thought of this desolation and of being lonely

amid it would have been appalling. Yet so adaptable is human nature

that already he was growing accustomed to these haunted solitudes.

He began to refill his pipe. Upon a ridge fifty yards away, sharply

outlined in the moonlight, a slinking shape appeared for a moment and

as quickly disappeared. A jackal! Only the night before one had

visited Mahmoud’s pantry, had succeeded in some mysterious fashion in

opening the door, and had absconded with a cold chicken, a portion of

a tin of sardines, and a piece of cheese. Another, even more original

in his tastes, had stolen one of Professor Blackwell’s slippers.

Barry determined to return to the camp by a circuitous route which he

knew, and which would bring him out at the lower end of the _wâdi_.

Having satisfactorily lighted his briar, he set out, now walking more

briskly and wondering if the night shift at work in the tomb of

Zalithea had succeeded in penetrating to the second portcullis.

Danbazzar, an old hand at the business, had arranged a sort of bonus

system which was a constant urge to the men, and effectively abolished

any possibility of slacking. If the shift which changed at twelve

o’clock or that which changed at four should be in a position to

report that their immediate objective had been gained, they were

instructed to awaken Danbazzar, or in his absence John Cumberland.

Barry, stepping out briskly upon the comparatively clear path which he

had chosen, conjured up a vision of the chamber in which, if their

hopes should be realized, they would find Zalithea.

Prior to their final departure from Luxor he had visited several

characteristic tombs under the guidance of Hassan es-Sugra. He

imagined that the chamber of the sleeping princess would be different

from any of these. His impatience was so great that he could scarcely

contain himself. He doubted if even his father’s enthusiasm was

greater than his own. Danbazzar, whatever he felt, revealed little.

Hassan es-Sugra seemed to be removed from all human emotions.

Coming to the lowest point in his descent, about half a mile below the

excavation, he paused, looking about him.

By moonlight the place was different. But he recalled that it did not

matter which of the several paths to the left he took, since any of

them would ultimately bring him to his destination, and if one should

prove impassable he could always return. Crossing a flat-topped mound,

he descended the slope beyond and saw beneath him a rugged bowl dotted

with minor ruins, probably of those stone huts which occurred in the

Valley of the Kings. He stood looking down. It might be wise to avoid

this valley, which no doubt contained pitfalls and across which he

would have to climb rather than walk.

Then, as he hesitated, suddenly he saw something--something that

caused him to shrink back, to inhale sharply--to wish he were not

alone.

A figure was moving in the deep shadows of the hollow--a figure

definitely horrible in such a place at that hour. It presented the

appearance of a tall, gaunt man! There was a faint light, too, a

fitful, elfin light which rose and fell--rose and fell--among the

ruins!

All the old confidence with which Barry had walked through this place

of the dead now deserted him. He recognized that he was afraid--and

was ashamed of the recognition. But he retraced his steps swiftly,

never pausing or glancing back until he had regained the main path.

Then, from behind him, far behind him, came a sound.…

Someone or something was climbing up from the bowl of the little

valley!

In the profound silence of that place the noise was clearly audible. A

jackal was out of the question; for no four-footed creature is more

silent than a jackal in its comings and goings. He stood still,

listening intently. Footsteps!--unmistakably those of a man and not of

any four-footed beast!

Immediately facing him where he stood was an irregular mound of rock

and sand, outlined on the right by the silver of the moon, but a place

of ebony shadows on the left. He crossed into the shadow and waited.

Nearer and nearer came the approaching footsteps. Whoever was coming

up from the valley of the ruined huts was about to enter that narrow

gully through which Barry had walked!

Half a dozen reasonable explanations presented themselves, but his

mind rejected them one after another. Eeriness touched him with a cold

finger. He watched the vague slash in a wall of darkness, which, from

his present position, represented the entrance to the gully. Now, the

one who approached was coming along it. In another moment he would be

out. Three more paces must bring him into the light.

Barry’s heart was beating rapidly. He was afraid--and did not know of

_what_ he was afraid.

And now he realized that the one who walked had cleared the gap,

although he could not yet see any movement in the shadow. A

second--two seconds--three seconds elapsed… and a man came out into

the moonlight.

It was Danbazzar!